Category Archives: Non-fiction

Straddling Between Two Worlds

A few months after I took my first unassisted steps, my father’s unending desire to escape the shackles that imprisoned his body, mind and soul forced him to abandon his homeland in search of freedom.

My story is no different than the stories told by other immigrant daughters who find themselves straddling between two worlds, the world they know and remember and the world they imagine only through stories. I do not remember Varadero Beach, the sand or the pine trees that lined the coast. I do, however, remember my first day of school, my brother’s first appearance in my life after coming home from the hospital and our two story home in New Orleans, the only first home I remember and the one my parents purchased with great sacrifice just a couple of years after arriving in the United States. The three cement steps leading up to the covered porch, the grand staircase, the small backyard…all of these images remain fresh on my mind. But of my birthplace there are no memories only fragmented stories with an array of indistinguishable characters, questionable plots, and obscure settings that I find difficult to grasp or comprehend.

There is one story, one of the very few stories told by my father on more than one occasion, that plays in my mind like a silent black and white movie. He rarely spoke of his country, what he had, what and who he lost or how he had suffered. Any information I gathered about my parents’ ordeals came from distant relatives I met later on in life. However, this one story was very important to my father, and so he found it necessary to occasionally remind me of our farewell visit to the beach before leaving the island where he took my shoes off while my mother complained and worried about the fate of my recently starched and ironed dress. He, of course, paid no attention to her and insisted on dipping my small feet in the water as the waves gently crossed our path. At this point in his story, he always seemed proud, elated in fact as if reliving the entire moment. Yet, soon a cynical grin would replace his smile and as he lowered his head, he pretended to give his next chapter little importance. Before walking away, he would end with “I knew we would never return.” He was right.

Making a pilgrimage to this foreign place almost seems impossible for me. I admit the idea of traveling there rarely crosses my mind, yet I know the day shall come when I must return to that beach if not for myself then for my father, for I know that although he never spoke the words or perhaps allowed himself to dream in color, deep in his soul hidden perhaps even from his own consciousness, he yearned for home.

The Immigrants' Daughter by Mary Terzian

“Where do you come from?” asks the teacher of the adult class in Leopoldville, where I am registered for a course in Lingala. I hesitate.

It is a simple query that puts me in a quandary. Should I state my origins, nationality or citizenship?

“From my mother’s womb,” I want to tell him in short, but resist the urge.

Nobody asked me that kind of question in Cairo where I grew up. We were a known minority. The usual question was, “Are you Greek?” “Italian?” “Armenian?” or “What nationality are you?” if my name had not given it away already.

Now in Leopoldville, on an expatriate assignment with the United Nations, I stand out with my foreign accent, wavy hair, and possibly body language, gestures and all.

“From Egypt,” I mutter, to keep the conversation short. I wonder why he doesn’t ask the same question of the other students in class – half a dozen from the United Nations, five from the Swiss Red Cross and two businessmen.

“Egypt! C’est vrai?” he exclaims in French. “I thought they were all black!”

I feel uncomfortable in my skin but remain silent.

“Is your husband Egyptian too?”

“I don’t have a husband,” I blurt out, embarrassed to my core. At the ripe old age of thirty I am shelved as an old maid, all hopes gone.

“I want to show you to my friend. He has never seen an Egyptian.”

My cheeks burn. Am I the first Egyptian in town, the discovery of the century, or an antique from Pharaoh’s tombs? Should I be put on display with a distinct label slapped at my feet, “Imported African. Rare species. Handle with care”? How can I explain to my Congolese teacher that I am not a real specimen?

More than three thousand years of history define me as an Armenian, a descendant from the people living at the foot of Mount Ararat where Noah’s Ark settled. The mountain was in Armenian territory for centuries. Politics moved it beyond the national boundaries and we became immigrants. How shall I explain that the DNA in my Armenian blood will survive forever, irrespective of the citizenship I have?

“I’m . . . not a real Egyptian,” I mumble, trying to avert a misconception.

Fourteen pairs of eyes stare at me as if I have just come out of ghost town.

I look at them and shrink at the task ahead of me. How will Idefine in two sentences our family history? My parents are survivors ofthe waves of “ethnic cleansing” that swept the Ottoman Empire fromthe 1890s through the 1920s. Under the pressure of reform, demanded by the foreign powers to improve the lot of minorities, the OttomanGovernment “solved” the problem by reducing them in massive, harrowing, so- called “displacements” into the Arabian deserts of the Middle East. Thus, the “starving Armenians” came into existence – skeletal, homeless, wandering survivors seeking refuge wherever acountry offered asylum. Thanks to this “solution,” half the nation now lives in countries around the world, constituting the Armenian Diaspora.

“Who remembers the Armenians?” exclaimed Adolph Hitler to his officers on the eve of his invasion to Poland. We, and the membersof my parents’ generation do, suffering in silence. The effects of genocide were present in my mother’s glassy eyes and in my father’s angry temper. It affected us all and will probably have its effect on a few more generations. We are the extra- uterine children of Motherland with different citizenships. Once transplanted, always a foreigner. Migration is not our family business, nor is it a national pastime, but circumstances forced us abroad to create a safe haven elsewhere. Icannot explain all this in two sentences. Nobody will understand my dilemma.

“Not a real Egyptian? What do you mean? Where do yourparents come from?” asks a man who eyes me curiously, taking over the queries from the teacher. The determination of my nationality takesprecedence over Lingala. “They come from Turkey.”

“Are you Turkish?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what do you consider yourself?”

Good question. I have been a floater all my life, a thin cloud flirting with the sun, daring it rather to disperse me. How can I explain my ethnic longevity? “Armenian,” I say, with a smirk. I know it will not register.

“Armenian? With an Egyptian passport?”

“It’s complicated. I’ll explain after class.”

The teacher takes over. We start the first lesson in Lingala. I sit there like a freak of nature. How did I end up here?

I am going through a period of adjustment in Leopoldville and an intense degree of cultural shock, coming from a conservative country. I am lost in this Babylon of United Nations. Last week I invited two compatriots from Egypt to lunch as a payback for their courtesy on my arrival. In this remote city of Leopoldville, one suddenly becomes friends with strangers holding similar passports. They treated me likek kin, even though I do not speak Arabic well. They advised me that life in Leo is built around entertainment, to escape boredom. So it was my turn. We walked home at noon, all three of us, from across the street, the United Nations headquarters, to find my meticulously prepared hot lunch in the refrigerator! I was indignant beyond control.

“Why didn’t you cook it?” I hollered at M’bala, the houseboy.

“You say one o’clock!” M’bala shot back angrily, showing his index and grumbling in an incomprehensible language. My instructions were to cook for one hour.

I joined this class as a last ditch effort to communicate with him and other locals. Sometimes, in my ivory tower of despair, I question myself: is this the expatriate experience I dreamed about? Have I done the right thing by changing the course of my destiny?

Living alone should not be a problem, I thought, before setting out on this journey. I lived in Alexandria on my own, about three hours away from home. Working with the United Nations was an honorable solution to leaving the parental roof. I didn’t care for Father’s iron rules but I missed my conversations with Berj, my younger brother. The older one, Kev, had repatriated to Armenia, fifteen years ago. He was only eighteen then. He hoped to find a better life in Motherland and meet our Aunt Ebrouk there, Mama’s much-talked-about sister, who repatriated from Lebanon. Was he looking for the same thing I was – a place to fit in?

Now it looked as if f I had left my identity behind and more than that. Old friendships, community presence, extended family, and a world of minor pleasures taken for granted, like a handshake, a nod of recognition, eye contact with an acquaintance, a smile from across the street, or a hug from a friend had disappeared. Did anybody miss me? Was I already forgotten? Perhaps I should not mention my origins at all, but then I don’t want to mislead this man who wants to show me around as an Egyptian. I know some of my new classmates will corner me with more questions by the end of class. I am not mistaken.

“That’s interesting,” says Walter, the Swiss gentleman sitting to my left, engaging me in conversation as class disperses. He is intent on finding out who I am. Fair hair, blue eyes, five foot eight in height, strong muscular build, he is attractive enough to shake my soul. “How can you be Armenian when you’re Egyptian?”

“Have you heard of Armenians?” I ask.

“Yes, vaguely. I really don’t know who they are.”

“Armenia is in Asia Minor, right below the Caucasus, but we live all over the world.” While I wait for the information to gel, I add, to ease the process. “It’s part of the Soviet Union, you know.”

An eerie silence hangs in the air for a moment:

“Are you a communist?”

“No, for heaven’s sake.”

“I still don’t understand. What’s Armenia like?”

“I don’t know. I never lived there.” “Then where did you grow up?”

“In Cairo.”

“How was it growing up in Cairo?” “We had pharaohs for teachers and rode camels to school.”

Walter’s hearty laughter eases my tensions. I can’t imagine that working for good grades, fighting with siblings, rebelling against parents, and waiting for a knight in shining armor is any different elsewhere. Am I mistaken? For the first time in my life, I feel like a hybrid, not knowing exactly what the Motherland looks like, what our original traditions are and what superimposed customs have seeped into our culture. This class teaches me more than Lingala – the need to redefine myself.

One of the independent businessmen has heard our conversation.

“Did you say Rumanian? I didn’t really catch it,” he butts in.

“No, Armenian.”

Good Lord! With such titans as politician Anastase Mikoyan, composer Aram Khatchatourian, and writer William Saroyan, Armenians should have carved a page in history, but they haven’t. Raised eyebrows size me up. I realize that if I make a wrong move now all other Armenians around the globe will be judged by my behavior. I may not be a chip off the old block. In fact, I may even be the black sheep of my community, but, to the uninitiated, I am now the single specimen that represents the mass. This “where do you come from?” scenario follows me during my vagaries, from the Congo through travels in Europe, my transfer to Togo, my attempted stay in Lebanon, and to my permanent residence in the United States.

As an immigrant, I am the suspicious new strain of virus wherever I settle. The immunization system of the local community produces antibodies to arrest the spread of invasive elements of my type. Landlords look for the transient in me. Educational institutions detect an accent and frown upon certificates earned abroad. They devise elaborate schemes to deny me college entrance, but they don’t know how stubborn and persistent this strain of virus can be. Employment agencies shrug off my international experience as they give me an obscure slot. To preserve dignity, I hoist my ethnic pride and pray. Will I ever be accepted as an integral part of the local community where I will feel comfortable in my skin?

“Why can’t you give up being Armenian?” Caroline, a roommate in my migrant life, asks. Like my classmates in the Congo she is puzzled.

“How can I?” I reply. “My forefathers were massacred for their Christian faith and identity. I can’t betray them.”

I wonder if she understands what it is like. Can one expect pears from a transplanted apple tree? Heritage runs in my DNA. It squats in my womb. I need to keep language and ethnicity intact in order to keep the communication lines open with my extended familyand between the generations strewn across the world.

“My best friend never invites me to her Armenian Club,” acolleague complains. “She’s so clannish!” “She’s doing you a favor,” I offer, “do you blame her?” “How’s that? I find it rude.” “Wouldn’t you feel left out in a community where everybodyspeaks his ethnic language, down to the dialect? Most know each otheranyway.” “I never thought of that.” Should I mention that we treat the seventh generation still asfamily? That nobody is once or twice removed? That our theory ofrelativity is more complex than Einstein’s? Where does all this leave me? Like all children born in theDiaspora I persist on foreign soil by standing close to the local ethnicoasis, the expatriate Motherland, where I feel safe and secure in beingme, while making forays into the local culture. We cajole our parents,but keep pace with the world. We end up living a double life,externally the law-abiding citizen, internally the conservativetraditionalist. No wonder the question “Where do you come from?”follows me from the Congo to California, where I have lived longerthan in Egypt. This book defines my roots and perhaps will help promoteawareness of the problems of many immigrants like me who, forvarious reasons – ethnic cleansing, political dissidence, unfamiliarreligious practice, or, simply, lust for the unknown – travel the world insearch of a haven where they keep their splintered souls together.

Read more…Mary Terzian
website: www.maryterzian.com
Author: The Immigrants’ Daughter
Winner: Best Books 2006 Award
Finalist: National Indie Excellence 2007 Book Award, both in multicultural, non-fiction category

"Age of Entitlement and Expectation" – Introduction

“Age of Entitlement and Expectation”
-The Introduction-
Authors: Karen and Robert Palumbo

I would like to say a few words about this “Age of Entitlement and Expectation”. Does anyone really know what it even means in today’s world? Exactly what it is? It has occurred to me that we are all surrounded with it every waking moment of our lives, every day. How did we ever evolve to this point? What ever happened to independence and self-reliance?

Could it be that if someone wants something that you might have, it give him or her the right to just take it? We used to call that inappropriate behavior, jealousy, envy and at a stretch stealing. I say stealing because logic dictates that if someone else wants what you already have and they cross the line and take it, what else would you call it?

Have we reached a point in our society that everyone must be a clone of the next? Do we all laugh at the same jokes? Do we all dress identically? Well, in some schools yes. We call that a dress code, or in private schools we call them uniforms.

Is it wrong to be an individual in this day and age when instead we have groups that speak for us? Personally, I have always preferred to speak for myself. I figure that I can explain myself better than anyone else. After all, who knows me better than me? Is there any way to put a stop to it?

This new found attitude has encompassed itself in all of our lives and from the looks of it, it sort of just snuck in when no one was paying any attention. Could this “Age of Entitlement and Expectation” really be jealousy or envy or is it really greed? It just seems a little odd to me how it could have snuck in.

Perhaps we as a society just turned a blind eye and allowed it to happen to all of us. I am not really sure, but I can remember what life was like before it.

It was not always pleasant, but there was always an innocent king of “take it for granted” attitude or hope, as I like to refer to it as, that existed that does not seem to exist at the moment. Where did it go? How can we get it back?

Have we all forgotten how beautiful and wonderful life used to be when we were all independent and self reliant? Have we forgotten about all the freedoms that we allowed to slip through our fingers because we turned a deaf ear? It is time that we begin to pay attention again before we are left without anything.

What will we have to pass on to our children? You know, the next and up coming generation. Humanities gift to humanity. Each individual born is his or her own person. Would you want it any other way?

It really is up to us to teach our children to stand on their own two feet, not to lean on the person next to them. You see, to lean on someone else once in a while is okay, but to indulge in this type of behavior is dependency and that is not okay.

I have always liked independence and self reliance, at least it is a preference of mine. If we do not teach our children independence and self reliance how will they ever learn to stand up on their own two feet and speak for themselves?

What I hear about and even sometimes read in the local newspaper is how it takes an entire community collectively to raise children in today’s society. Again I beg to differ with this opinion because I am still of the belief that child rearing begins with the parents, not the community.

As parents, do you continuously over indulge your children with anything they may want? Do you go broke trying to please them? Do you find no matter what you do for them or what you give to them it is never enough? Try saying no. Try telling your children that if they want something they will actually have to work for it.

If we do not we will be doing a disservice no only to our children, but to ourselves too. We will be raising a generation of human beings that believe that the entire universe revolves around what they want only. Is that really what we all want?

We are beginning to have this already. I see it every time that I venture out, whether traveling locally or long distance traveling. Most people today do not even use the words than you, please and excuse me. It is like these words have been erased from everyone’s vocabulary. Whenever I should come across someone who actually uses these words I am always quite surprised. That is when I see that little ray of hope all over again.

Reviews – THE SHORES OF WISDOM, The Story of the Ancient Library of Alexandria

In “The Shores of Wisdom”, Derek Adie Flower gives a delightful story of the rise and fall of the Ancient Library of Alexandria – the world’s power of knowledge and culture twenty-three centuries ago. Flower tells the story with a unique style, giving us glimpses of the forces which made the place prosper with great philosophers and scientists (Euclid, Archimedes, Eratosthenes…) and the causes of decline when politics and religion became in conflict with rationality… The book is indeed an enjoyable piece to read.

Prof. Ahmed H. Zewail 1998 Nobel Prize for Chemistry. Egypt

 

                   

There is tantalisingly little known about the great library of Alexandria. The writers, philosophers and historians who used it, and whose works filled its shelves, were the founding fathers of Western civilisation…..Derek Flower was moved to write this book by the romantic project of recreating the library of Alexandria…. He tells the tale in rollicking style, with many entertaining anecdotes.….

Michael Borrie  Literary Review. UK

 

 

…. Much of Flower’s book consists of brief biographies of the brilliant men attracted to Alexandria by the library, a roll call of those who laid the foundation of our civilisation: Euclid, Archimedes, Eratosthenes, Strabo and Galen and, in due course, the philosophers who shaped the dogma of the Christian religion….

 

Russell Chamberlin’s.  Monacle UK

The Universe – Solved! by Jim Elvidge

Did you know that it is impossible to tell the difference between reality and an illusion?

Did you know that it is impossible to tell the difference between “the past” and implanted memories?

Did you you know that we are only 30 years away from technologies that could completely fool us through implanted memories and full-scale total-immersion reality simulations?

So how do we know we’re not already there???

Many of us have seen movies like “The Matrix” or “The 13th Floor”, or have read works of Science Fiction that explore alternative views of reality, so these concepts are not new. However, what might be surprising is that the evidence is overwhelming that we already live in a programmed reality! The Universe - Solved!

Although my career has consisted mostly of various positions in the high tech corporate world, punctuated by the occasional entrepreneurial venture, I have always been fascinated by physics and cosmology. I seem to be driven by the need to understand what makes the world tick, both on a subatomic scale as well as a cosmological scale. A few years ago, while doing research for my original concept for a book (which had more to do with Einstein’s relativity), I was struck by the similarity between the discrete nature of reality (according to quantum physics) and the structure of a computer-generated online virtual realty game, aka Massively Multi-player Online Role Playing Game, or MMORPG.

It takes an infinite amount of resources to create a continuous reality, but a finite amount to create a quantized reality. The very nature of the computational mechanisms of a computer are essentially the same as Quantum Mechanics – a sequence of states, with nothing existing or happening between the states. The resolution of any program is analogous to the spatial resolution of our reality, just at a different level. And actually, given Moore’s law and the limitations of “observational reality”, we should be able to create Virtual Realities that are indistinguishable from our current reality within 30 years or so. The very fact that our reality is quantized may be considered strong evidence that reality is programmed.

But there is much more. Logical arguments from the field of philosophy imply that we are most certainly living in a simulation. The incredibly fine-tuned nature of the universe suggests an underlying well-designed construct, which is a far simpler solution than the scientific status quo explanation. And then there is a huge set of scientific and metaphysical anomalies, all of which can be explained by this model, the only model to be able to do so. Not to mention direct experience by shamans and alternative reality experiencers throughout the world and history.

I wrote the book for the general audience, for anyone who is curious to explore theories of reality, theories of the universe, altered states, life’s little anomalies, coincidences, the feeling that someone is watching over us, multiverses, higher dimensions, artificial intelligence, and the upcoming merge with machines.

The evidence is actually all around us, within us, and present in every decision we make. This book may completely change the way you look at your world, your life, your friends and family, and the PC on your desk.

My website, http://www.theuniversesolved.com, provides a forum for exploration, for people to share their ideas, to interact with AI, and to discover the dimensions of our world. Hope to see you there!

The book is published by AT Press.

EUGÈNE MARAIS: BABOONS, TERMITES, AND THE EVOLUTION OF THE HUMAN PSYCHE

EUGÈNE MARAIS: BABOONS, TERMITES, AND THE EVOLUTION OF THE HUMAN PSYCHE

Where is the soul of a termite, or that of a man?

“Someone once said that all behaviourism in nature could be referred to as hunger. This saying has been repeated thousands of times yet is false. Hunger itself is pain – the most severe pain in its later stages that the body knows except thirst, which is even worse. Love may be regarded as a hunger, but it is not pain.

“What protects animals, what enables them to continue living, what assures the propagation of race? A certain attribute of organic matter. As soon as one finds life, one finds this attribute. It is inherent in life; like most natural phenomena it is polarised, there is a negative and a positive pole. The negative pole is pain; the positive pole is sex. This attribute may be called the saving attribute of life; and it is here where one comes closest to what appears like a common purpose beyond nature.” (Eugène Marais, The Soul of the White Ant, 1989:261)

Eugène Nielen Marais[1] (1871-1936) was a South African lawyer, naturalist, poet, and writer. Although Marais is remembered by South Africans more for his contribution to Afrikaans literature than for science, he has been described as being a scientist far ahead of his time.

He began life after leaving college as a journalist, then studied medicine for four years, but eventually took up law and was called to the bar by the Inner Temple. He was a scholar and a man of culture.

However, it was not only as jurist that Marais distinguished himself as a brilliant (yet eccentric) character in South African history. He has been described as “… a human community in one man. He was a poet, an advocate, a journalist, a story-teller, a drug-addict, a psychologist, a natural scientist.”

In 1910, he abandoned his law practice and retreated to the remote Waterberg (‘Water Mountain’) – the mountain area north-west of Pretoria. Here he studied two creatures – termites and baboons that, on the face of it, had nothing in common. Both fascinated him, as did all wild creatures.

Settling near a large group of chacma baboons, he became the first man to conduct a prolonged study of primates in the wild. It was in this period that he produced My Friends the Baboons and provided the major inspiration for The Soul of the Ape.

His studies of termites led him to the conclusion that the colony should be considered as a single organism. Although Marais could not have known it, he was anticipating some of the ideas of Richard Dawkins (1941- ). He also observed chacma baboons at length and he was the father of the scientific study of the behaviour of primates. Because Marais refused to translate his works into English, they remained almost unknown outside of southern Africa, which is the only place in the world where Afrikaans is spoken to any degree.

Termites are social insects and are most closely related to the cockroaches with which they share a close common ancestor (?). They are among the most important groups of animals on land because they play a vital role in breaking down dead plant material. They have symbiotic flagellates or bacteria in their hindguts that are able to break down plant cellulose to a digestible form and in the subfamily Macrotermitinae the termites culture and eat fungi in their nests using dead plant material.

Ants (order: Hymenoptera; family: Formicidae) are often confused with termites because they are also social, and termites are sometimes called ‘white ants’ (a confusing term). Ants, like wasps (from which they evolved (?)), have a constriction half way down their body whereas in termites the body is uniformly broad. The prominent mounds you see in the South African countryside are made by termites not ants. Whereas ant workers are all females, in termites, workers can be both male and female. In ants, mating occurs before the nest is founded and the male dies after mating – he does not become a king, and live and mate with the queen in the new colony, as in termites.

Marais published his conclusions about termites as a series of speculative articles, written entirely in Afrikaans and appearing only in local newspapers, as The Soul of the White Ant. While observing the natural behaviour of these creatures, he noticed that firstly, the whole termitary (a termite nest) had to be considered as a single organism whose organs work like those of a human being.

Termitaries, as one sees them so frequently in Central and Southern Africa, are tall, compacted columns of earth sometimes four to five metres high. Within the terminary lives the society, with its castes and its ranks, in countless numbers.

Marais concluded that all members of the colony and the terminary itself form what is essentially a single living organism. The terminary itself is the body. The various castes in the society have the functions of the body’s organs, with fungus gardens contributing the digestive tract, soldiers and workers the cells of the blood stream, the queen the brain as well as the reproductive organs, and even the sexual flight executing the function of sperm and eggs. How all communicate (pheromones, telepathy?) we do not know, but the ‘soul’ of the termite – the psyche, we should say – is the property of the entire society. He concluded secondly that the actions within the termitary were completely, instinctive.

His work on termites led him to a series of stunning discoveries. He developed a fresh and radically different view of how a termite colony works, and indeed, of what a termite colony is. This was far in advance of any contemporary work. In 1923, he began writing a series of popular articles on termites for the Afrikaans press and in 1925; he published a major article summing up his work in the Afrikaans magazine Die Huisgenoot.

He published The Soul of the White Ant (1937) and then My Friends the Baboons (1939) which was posthumously published after he had taken his life.

His book Die Siel van die Mier (The Soul of the Ant, but usually given in English as The Soul of the White Ant) was plagiarised by Nobel Laureate Maurice Maeterlinck, who published The Life of the White Ant in 1926, falsely claiming many of Marais’ revolutionary ideas as his own. Maeterlinck was able to do this because he was Flemish and therefore understood Dutch, from which Afrikaans was derived. Maeterlinck was as a consequence one of the few people in Europe who had read Marais’ original texts.

Maurice Maeterlinck (1862-1949) was a leading literary figure of the time. In 1911, he won the Nobel Prize for literature following the success of his play The Bluebird. In 1901, he had written The Life of the Bee, a mixture of natural history and philosophy, but he was a dramatist and a poet, not a scientist.

In 1926, one year after Die Huisgenoot published Marais’ article, Maeterlinck stole Marais’ work and published it under his own name, without acknowledgement, in a book titled The Life of the White Ant, first published in French and soon afterwards in English and several other languages.

Maeterlinck’s book was met with outrage in South Africa. Later, in 1935, Marais wrote to Dr Winifred de Kok in London. She was beginning her English translation of The Soul of the White Ant, “You must understand that it was a theory which was not only new to science but which no man born of woman could have arrived at without a knowledge of all the facts on which it was based; and these Maeterlinck quite obviously did not possess. He even committed the faux pas of taking certain Latin scientific words invented by me to be current and generally accepted Latin terms.

“The publishers in South Africa started crying to high heaven and endeavoured to induce me to take legal action in Europe, a step for which I possessed neither the means nor inclination. The press in South Africa, however, quite valorously waved the cudgels in my behalf. The Johannesburg Star [South Africa’s biggest English-speaking daily newspaper] published plagiarised portions that left nothing to the imagination of readers.

“The Afrikaans publishers of the original articles communicated the facts to one of our ambassadorial representatives in Europe and suggested that Maeterlinck be approached. Whether or not this was done, I never ascertained. In any case, Maeterlinck, like other great ones on Olympus, maintained a mighty and dignified silence.”

Marais took legal action against Maeterlinck but gained little satisfaction.

Marais began writing Soul of the Ape in 1916, but never finished it. It was published posthumously years later. His theory was that, unlike termites, baboons – and by extension all primates – had the ability to memorise the relationship between cause and effect. They could therefore vary their behaviour voluntarily. While termites were instinctive, the mind of baboons was based on ‘causal memory’.

The reason for this difference, according to Marais, was natural selection. According to him, natural selection was not, as Darwin had insisted, ‘the survival of the fittest’, but rather ‘the line of least resistance’. Those species best able to adapt to their specific environment survived, while those not able to, would become extinct. Natural selection, therefore, had the tendency to both localise and specialise species.

The conclusions to which he came were new and radical and might well have had an influence in Europe. However, Marais was half a hemisphere away, half a century too soon and writing in a language no one could understand.

The Soul of the White Ant was brought under the attention of the world only by being seemingly plagiarised by a Belgian Nobel prize laureate, Maurice Maeterlinck. The Soul of the Ape was incomplete and originally only published in South Africa.

Maeterlinck’s The Life of the White Ant, in which he describes the organic unity of the termitary and compares it with the human body. This theory aroused great interest at the time and was generally accepted as an original one formulated by Maeterlinck. The fact that an unknown South African observer had developed the theory after many years of indefatigable labour was not generally known in Europe.

The 1927 files at The Star to which Marais referred were checked and confirmed by American author and social anthropologist Robert Ardrey (1908-1980) forty years later. “Maeterlinck’s guilt is clear”, Ardrey wrote. It is easily confirmed by a comparison of the two books. Marais’ point is indisputable: his picture of the termitary is startlingly original, it could not possibly have been hypothesised or inferred without a great deal of original research, at the very least – and yet there it is in Maeterlinck’s book.

Yet it is impossible to ignore the fact that Marais’ work is revolutionary, especially if one takes into account the time and place in which it was written. Robert Ardrey says in his introduction to Marais’ work on ants and baboons published in 1973, “As a scientist he was unique, supreme in his time, yet a worker in a science unborn.”

He was master of a science that was only invented fifty years later (ethology). It was sixty years before anyone else attempted to study what he had studied (ape societies in the wild). He described natural mechanisms and systems that were not identified by mainstream science until forty years later (pheromones), and neither science nor society has yet caught up with many of his findings and conclusions. Marais made no direct contribution to entomology, but his ghost continues to haunt the discipline.

His fourth book, The Soul of the Ape, completed in 1919, might just have made him world famous if it had been published then, but in fact half a century was to pass before it appeared in book form in 1969, thirty-three years after his death.

Their observations and the insights Marais gained from them formed the basis of a serious work later to be called The Soul of the Ape.

They also led to a more popular work, Burgers van die Berge (Citizens of the Mountains, translated as My Friends the Baboons), first published in book form in 1938, two years after Marais’ death.

In 1948, twelve years after Marais’ death, Nikolaas Tinbergen[2] (1907-1988) reformulated Marais’ extremely important concept of the phyletic (inborn) and causal (acquired) memory.

Thirteen years later, in 1961, Washburn and De Vore[3] published a lengthy article, ‘The Social Life of Baboons’, in the Scientific American. Though some of their observations were contested, they were seen as the first serious observers of baboons in the wild (meaning not in captivity), a title which surely Marais had earned fifty years before. His notes on baboon behaviour in The Soul of the Ape are regarded as honest and reliable by modern ethologists.

When The Soul of the Ape was finally published in 1969, it was too late.

As a scientist, it was ‘the mind of man’ – the human psyche – that preoccupied Marais, and to find the key to its nature it was to nature that he turned to, rather than to humans. He followed two parallel paths, the study of the animals most like humans, the primates, and the study of creatures that could hardly be more alien to us, the social insects – termites, known in his day as white ants. In both fields, his findings were revolutionary.

Years later, he wrote in a letter, “No other worker in the field ever had the opportunities I had of studying primates under perfectly natural conditions. In other countries, you are lucky if you catch a glimpse of the same troop twice in a day. I lived among a troop of wild baboons for three years.

“I followed them on their daily excursions; slept among them; fed them night and morning on mealies (corn); learned to know each one individually; taught them to trust and to love me – and also, to hate me so vehemently that my life was several times in danger. So uncertain was their affection that I had always to go armed with a Mauser automatic under the left armpit like the American gangster!

“But I learned the innermost secrets of their lives. You will be surprised to learn of the dim and remote regions of the mind into which it led me. I think I discovered the real place in nature of the hypnotic condition in the lower animals and men. I have an entirely new explanation of the so-called subconscious mind and the reason for its survival in man.

“I think that I can prove that Freud’s entire conception is based on a fabric of fallacy. No man can ever attain to anywhere near a true conception of the subconscious in man who does not know the primates under natural conditions.”

Robert Ardrey quotes as follow from Marais, “Phyletic memory forms the unconscious portion of the baboon psyche. Causal memory is the conscious portion, the learned portion, the portion springing from experiences within the baboon’s lifetime. As Marais saw them, the two exist side by side, or, more accurately, the old beneath the new.

“And the story of psychic evolution has been the gradual ascendancy of causal memory over phyletic. Yet never does the one wholly succeed the other.

“Turning to Marais’ investigation of the phyletic memory in man, the startled reader may be wary of conclusions drawn from hypnosis. But we must recall that Freud too used hypnosis as a technique in his discovery of the unconscious mind.

“Phyletic memory is Marais’ term for what we should call instinct. Yet the word instinct is too loose, so difficult to explain or define, so surrounded by controversy, and so subject to manipulation by those who would justify the worst or the best in human behaviour as instinctive, that many authorities refuse to use it.

“Marais, it seems to me, has provided us with a superior term for the quality in life, which if we cannot explain, we still cannot deny. With his phyletic memory and his causal memory, he described two psychic forces cleanly and with sufficient definition to permit his investigation of the evolutionary origins of the conscious and unconscious minds.” (Marais, 1989:44-46)

The planned companion volume on the psyche of the baboon, The Soul of the Ape, was never finished. Several excerpts were published in Afrikaans, but the book itself never appeared.

A further work summing up and integrating his findings and conclusions in the two branches of his investigations should have followed, but it did not.

Soon after Marais’ death in 1936, Dr Winifred de Kok wrote to Marais’ son asking about his father’s papers, and especially about the manuscript of the unfinished and unpublished The Soul of the Ape, which Marais had discussed with her a few months before his death. The son responded: “There is no sign of a manuscript and no notes.”

In 1968, 32 years later, without explanation, the son handed the unfinished manuscript of The Soul of the Ape to Marais’ old publishers in Cape Town, handwritten in Marais’ hand, in English, and, at last, it was published.

It is a flawed work, and Marais knew it, as his letters make clear. Maybe before his death he told his son that, or maybe the son decided it for himself.

One flaw is that it is definitely not finished – suddenly it just stops. There is also unevenness to it, and in the sense, that informs it. The Marais of The Soul of the White Ant is a charming and engaging fellow, a thoroughly good companion, but in The Soul of the Ape another Marais seems occasionally to intrude, perhaps the ‘sombre side’ his friends sometimes alluded to, that his children friends never saw in their Pied Piper.

The book is still highly readable nonetheless. Marais’ work and his findings shine through – and profound they are, as pertinent today as they were then, or more so. Moreover, the more welcome for having been thought lost forever.

Nevertheless, there should have been more, the work should have been finished, it could and should have been rounded off with so much more of the fruits of Marais’ copious fieldwork and his extraordinarily clear insight. Maybe it had to be approached with a sense of joy in nature that Marais could no longer muster. If so, much of the blame for that is to be laid at the door of Maurice Maeterlinck, plagiarist, who left nothing remotely comparable in his own work by way of compensation.

Willie Maartens

http://www.authorsden.com/williemaartens


[1] See:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eugene_Marais>

<http://www.encounter.co.za/article/140.html>

<http://www.sundaytimes.co.za/2000/09/24/lifestyle/travel/travel01.htm>

<http://www.soilandhealth.org/03sov/0302hsted/030213marais/The%20Soul%20of%20the%20White%20Ant%20-%20Marais%20-%20ToC.htm>

[2] Tinbergen was the Dutch-born British zoologist and ethologist (specialist in animal behaviour) who, with Konrad Lorenz and Karl von Frisch, received the Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine in 1973. (EB) Von Frisch, Lorenz and Tinbergen shared the Nobel Prize for medicine and physiology for having opened a new field of science, ethology. The name of Eugène Marais, pioneering ethologist, was not mentioned.

[3] See also: Washburn, JL & De Vore, I. 1962. ‘Social behavior of Baboons and early man.’ In Washburn JL (Ed.), Social life of early Man. London: Methuen.

Ending to "Mindless Stupor"

THE END IS NEAR, unless you fight your own battle. Everything I have shared with you was written from my heart and soul, as I have done with all my manuscripts. Sincerity runs throughout the text of my books, like blood circulating through my veins and arteries. I hope you will pick up on something that will help you realize what your life is all about and aware of the dangers ahead. Today, there’s no possibility for me to immediately impress upon you the importance of your saying “No” to drugs. Perhaps you now have a dear friend or a member of your family involved some way with addiction. Help them, please. There are then two paths for you to travel. You may either shape up or ship out.

*You can be butt-headed and test the waters to see how you too can go have fun, which is more appealing, but your days will be numbered.

* Or you can join in my fight against substance abuse, since you might have lost a dear friend, a member of your family like Jeff the nine-year-old boy whose father and mother will never be the same, or the gentleman who shared his teary-eyed story about his grandson whose life was snatched away from his wonderful family.

     One after another, we will hear more and more about teenage deaths caused by drugs.

     Overdoses overcome the Youth of America, and unless you fight back, your heritage will slide away from the mountains and the shorelines out to sea. You will be in the combat zone, not me.

     The real weapons of mass destruction are spreading across our national territory like we are told about global warming. I am not too wise about the warming issue, but drugs have been my life across the counters for many years.

     Every country in the world is preying on America because we have so much money to squander. Enticement with addiction is spreading the word.

     We are all vulnerable and rapidly losing the battle, proving that addiction plus abuse does precipitate poverty.

     You don’t have to travel away from home; those weapons of mass destruction are in your neighborhood. Take a good look at the way drugs are gift-wrapped to arrive in America. They are coming by boat, planes, underground and even UPS and the US Postal Service. Who knows what’s in that box?

     Look at the web sites selling drugs to everyone of all ages. I have no idea of the lowest aged child who might be smart enough to use a parent’s credit card to make a purchase of addictive drugs but it really is happening.

     I knew when I gave up my retirement that I had a lot to give back, where I was going, who I must share with, and how substance abuse will take you for a ride.

     This is my gift to you—my hours at the keyboard and coming out of my retirement. It ate up eight years of my life to create one hundred and thirty thousand words for the two books on substance abuse. I typed with only one finger on each hand during my writing of Fatal Addiction and Mindless Stupor. I never studied one day of typing, but I made do with what I had.

     In response, I hope you will give me a moment of your time to reciprocate and see why I think it all will be worth it. If I am told that I have saved only one of your young lives, then it will be worth all of my sacrifices.

We are so busy no one is paying attention to the facts. In God We Trust is rapidly fading away. Our American Heritage is floating like a river to the sea.

 

LET”S ALL FIGHT BACK BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE.       THERE IS A GOD WHO LOVES YOU, AND SO DO I.

 

– Posted on behalf of Everett Beal