bali, indonesia

premchandbali indonesia

premchandbali indonesia

the stars..........

in the paradise of bali...............

sunset at ocean beach......bali indonesia

bandung

ormai in italia è dittatura..........e le pecore si arrendono....

"SIGNOR PRESIDENTE...", CLAUDIO BIANZINO SCRIVE A NAPOLITANO 13/12/07 Nella notte tra il 13 e il 14 ottobre, due mesi fa, suo fratello Aldo (nella foto) moriva nel carcere di Capanne a Perugia. Morte controversa e piena di lati tutt'ora oscuri. Ma se sull'omicidio a luci rosse di Meredit Kercher sappiamo anche troppo, su quel caso è buio assoluto. Così il fratello minore di Aldo ha preso carta e penna è ha mandato una missiva al Quirinale

Emanuele Giordana
Giovedi' 13 Dicembre 2007

Sappiamo tutto dell'omicidio a luci rosse di cui è stata vittima la povera Meredith Kercher. “Tanto – commenta caustico un perugino – è tutta gente che viene da fuori”.
Ma sulla morte di Aldo Bianzino, un falegname di Pietralunga di 44 anni deceduto nel carcere di Pietralunga in circostanze e per motivi tuttora da accertare, a distanza di due mesi esatti, non si sa ancora nulla. Con la speranza di essere smentiti viene da chiedersi, come alcuni si chiedono nel perugino, come mai l'attività del Ris non abbia interessato la cella dove, tra la notte del 13 ottobre e la mattina del 14 Bianzino tirò il suo ultimo respiro. Come mai su quella cella non furono apposti sigilli e perché l'indagine per omicidio, aperta dallo stesso magistrato che di Bianzino aveva ordinato l'arresto, abbia sinora portato all'iscrizione nel registro delle indagini di una sola guardia penitenziaria, indagata per omissione di soccorso, che svolge ancora il suo lavoro nel carcere di Capanne. Anche il direttore del carcere è al suo posto e tutto sembra filar liscio come l'olio in questo caso fastidioso pieno zeppo di domande senza risposta ma sinora ritenuto poco interessante dalla stampa italiana e, fatta eccezione per il sottosegretario alla giustizia Manconi, che a pochi giorni dal decesso di Aldo andò a trovare in forma privata la compagna Roberta Radici, anche per una macchina giudiziaria straordinariamente lenta, almeno se paragonata all'efficienza dalla stessa dimostrata nel caso di Meredith.
Parecchie di queste domande se le è fatte anche Claudio Bianzino, fratello di Aldo, che ha deciso di prendere carta e penna e di mandare una lettera a Giorgio Napolitano. Che qualcuno si appelli al presidente come si faceva con i sovrani, in un paese dove sulla carte le garanzie ci son tutte, sembra un po' la dimostrazione che c'è qualcosa di ottocentesco in un sistema che si spende molto quando un fatto di cronaca diventa un “caso” strillato, e sembra investire assai meno quando si tratta di una morte talmente “ordinaria” da far insorgere più di un sospetto che, paradossalmente, meriterebbe per questo più attenzione e maggior efficenza.
“Signor presidente – scrive Claudio Bianzino- leggo sui giornali, con immensa gioia, che è stata finalmente presentata all’Onu la moratoria sulla pena di morte” ma “....in un Paese civile come il nostro, un Paese che diffonde democrazia, pace e giustizia in tutto il mondo” la giustizia in casa di strada sembra farne poca: “Ho la speranza, signor presidente, che un giorno qualche nazione, ancora più civile della nostra, vada all’Onu a chiedere che venga fatta piena luce sulle centinaia di morti che avvengono all’interno delle carceri italiane. Questo per sperare di poter vivere in un mondo un po’ più giusto, un po’ più libero, un po’ più vivibile. Così come avrebbe voluto anche quell’uomo. Quell’uomo che si chiamava Aldo. E che era mio fratello”.
Non sappiamo se il presidente ha già risposto.

Anche su il manifesto

some taken from Tadhkiratul-Awliya تذکره الاولیا of Attar)

(alcune tratte da Tadhkiratul-Awliya تذکره الاولیا di Attar)
« Non ho mai visto una luce più intensa della luce del silenzio. »
« Sono andato dove non vi è civiltà, è piovuto amore ed ha ricoperto la terra, i miei piedi affondavano nella neve, i miei piedi erano coperti da amore. »
« Sono stato con gli uomini pii, ma non ho fatto alcun progresso con loro. Sono stato con i guerrieri in nome dei principi, ma non sono progredito di un singolo passo con loro. Allora ho detto: "Dio, qual è la strada per raggiungerti?" e Dio mi ha detto: "Lascia te stesso, e vieni" »




some taken from Tadhkiratul-Awliya تذکره الاولیا of Attar)
"I've never seen a more intense light of the light of silence. "
"I went where there is civilization, it rained love and has held the ground, my feet sank into the snow, my feet were covered with love. "
"I have been with the pious, but I have not made any progress with them. I was with the warriors in the name of the principles, but are not advanced a single step with them. Then I said, 'God, what is the way to reach you? " and God told me, 'Leave yourself and come "»


(beberapa diambil dari Tadhkiratul-Awliya تذکره الاولیا dari Attar)
"Aku belum pernah melihat yang lebih intens cahaya cahaya keheningan."
"Aku pergi di mana ada peradaban, hujan turun cinta dan telah memegang tanah, kakiku tenggelam dalam salju, kakiku sudah ditutupi dengan cinta."
"Saya telah dengan saleh, tapi aku belum ada kemajuan dengan mereka. Aku bersama para prajurit atas nama prinsip-prinsip, tetapi tidak maju satu langkah dengan mereka. Lalu aku berkata," Tuhan, apa yang cara untuk menghubungi Anda? "dan Tuhan berkata padaku," Biarkan diri Anda dan datang "»

bandung

west java

premchandbali indonesia

on the road for herakhan.........

BOLE BABA KI JAI!

Chief Seattle Speech ~ Version 2

Chief Seattle Speech ~ Version 2

Brothers, that sky above us has pitied our fathers for many hundreds of years. To us it looks unchanging, but it may change. Today it is fair. Tomorrow it may be covered with cloud.

My words are like the stars. They do not set. What Seattle says, the great chief Washington can count on as surely as our white brothers can count on the return of the seasons.

The White Chief's son says his father send us words of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him, since we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many, like the grass that covers the plains. My people are few, like the trees scattered by the storms on the grasslands.

The great---and good, I believe---White Chief sends us word that he wants to buy our land. But he will reserve us enough so that we can live comfortable. This seems generous, since the red man no longer has rights he needs respect. It may also be wise, since we no longer need a large country. Once my people covered this land like a flood-tide moving with the wind across the shell-littered flats. But that time is gone, and with it the greatness of tribes now almost forgotten.

But I will not mourn the passing of my people. Nor do I blame our white brothers for causing it. We too were perhaps partly to blame. When our young men grow angry at some wrong, real or imagined, they make their faces ugly with black paint. Then their hearts too are ugly and black. They are hard and their cruelty knows no limits, and our old men cannot restrain them.

Let us hope that the wars between the red man and his white brothers will never come again. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Young men view revenge as gain, even when they lose their own lives. But the old men who stay behind in time of war, mothers with sons to lose -- they know better.

Our great father Washington---for he must be our father now as well as yours, since George has moved his boundary northward---our great and good father sends us word by his son, who is surely a great chief among his people, that he will protect us if we do what he wants. His brave soldiers will be a strong wall for my people, and his great warships will fill our harbors. Then our ancient enemies to the north---the Haidas and Tsimshiams----will no longer frighten our women and old men. Then he will be our father and we will be his children.

But can that ever be? Your God loves your people and hates mine. He puts his strong arm around the white man and leads him by the hand, as a father leads his little boy. He has abandoned his red children. He makes your people stronger every day. Soon they will flood all the land. But my people are an ebb-tide, we will never return. No, the white man's God cannot love his red children or he would protect them. Now we are orphans. There is no one to help us.

So how can we be brothers? How can your father be our father, and make us prosper and send us dreams of future greatness? Your God is prejudiced. He came to the white man. We never saw him, never even heard his voice. He gave the white man laws, but he had no word for his red children whose numbers once filled this land as the stars filled the sky.

No, we are two separate races, and we must stay separate. There is little in common between us.

To us the ashes of our fathers are sacred. Their graves are holy ground. But you are wanderers, you leave your fathers' graves behind you, and you do not care.

Your religion was written on tables of stone by the iron finger of an angry God, so you would not forget it. The red man could never understand it or remember it. Our religion is the ways of our forefathers, the dreams of our old men, sent them by the Great Spirit, and the visions of our sachems. And it is written in the hearts of our people.

Your dead forget you and the country of their birth as soon as they go beyond the grave and walk among the stars. They are quickly forgotten and they never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth. It is their mother. They always love and remember her rivers, her great mountains, her valleys. They long for the living, who are lonely too and who long for the dead. And their spirits often return to visit and console us.

No, day and night cannot live together.

The red man has always retread before the advancing white man, as the mist on the mountain slopes runs before the morning sun.

So your offer seems fair, and I think my people will accept it and go to the reservation you offer them. We will live apart, and in peace. For the words of the Great White Chief are like the words of nature speaking to my people out of great darkness---a darkness that gathers around us like the night fog moving inland from the sea.

It matters little where we pass the rest of our days. They are not many. The Indians's night will be dark. No bright star shines on his horizons. The wind is sad. Fate hunts the red man down. Wherever he goes, he will hear the approaching steps of his destroyer, and prepare to die, like the wounded doe who hears the steps of the hunter.

A few moons, a few more winters, and none of the children of the great tribes that once lived in this wide earth or that roam now in small bands in the woods will be left to mourn the graves of a people once as powerful and as hopeful as yours.

But why should I mourn the passing of my people? Tribes are made of men, nothing more. Men come and go, like the waves of the sea. A tear, a prayer to the Great Spirit, a dirge, and they are gone from our longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny.

We may be brothers after all. We shall see.

We will consider your offer. When we have decided, we will let you know. Should we accept, I here and now make this condition: we will never be denied the right to visit, at any time, the graves of our fathers and our friends.

Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every hillside, every valley, every clearing and wood, is holy in the memory and experience of my people. Even those unspeaking stones along the shore are loud with event and memories in the life of my people. The ground beneath your feet responds more lovingly to our steps than yours, because it is the ashes of our grandfathers. Our bare feet know the kindred touch. The earth is rich with the lives of our kin.

The young men, the mothers, and girls, the little children who once lived and were happy here, still love these lonely places. And at evening the forests are dark with the presence of the dead. When the last red man has vanished from this earth, and his memory is only a story among the whites, these shores will still swarm with the invisible dead of my people. And when you children's children think they are alone in the fields, the forests, the shops, the highways, or the quiet of the woods, they will not be alone. There is no place in this country where a man can be alone. At night when the streets of your towns and cities are quiet, and you think they are empty, they will throng with the returning spirits that once thronged them, and that still love these places. The white man will never be alone.

So let him be just and deal kindly with my people. The dead have power too.

premchandbalienung in indonesia

premchandbalienung in indonesia

premchandbali indonesia

"CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 ORATION" - ver . 1

AUTHENTIC TEXT OF CHIEF SEATTLE'S TREATY ORATION 1854
 Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.

 There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.

 Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.

Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.

 To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

 Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.

 Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

 It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

 A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

 We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

 Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.

premchandbali indonesia

on the road for herakhan.........

nepal & india

dreamland......bali

premchandbali indonesia

      

bali bali bali..........tanah lot.....temple

flowers & paradise

indonesia

indonesia

premchandbali indonesia

premchandbali indonesia

premchandbali

premchandbali

premchandbali indonesia

my way..............

my way..............

premchandbali indonesia

premchandbali indonesia

on the road of sunda.......