Pakistan

A recent move by the Pakistani government to curtail U.S. drone attacks highlights their problematic nature.

It was a cold winter evening in December 2009 when I reached Ziauddin, the father of Malala Yousafzai. I called him because I was doing a story about internally displaced children of Swat, a region of Pakistan that had recently witnessed intense fighting between the Taliban and the Pakistani army. He was running a private school, and he agreed to an interview.

The Pakistani government's official inquiry into the killing of Osama bin Laden makes for interesting reading. Leaked to Al Jazeera, it sheds some unflattering light on Pakistan's involvement with extremists.

The very place connected with Osama bin Laden's death offers us an alternative to his violent, nihilistic version of Islam.

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Ahmad has been called the "Bono of South Asia" and has been compared to Bob Marley and John Lennon for his social conscience.

If global warming is the culprit, we’ll need to send more than helicopters and international aid teams to Pakistan. We’ll need nothing less that “a sweeping ecological transformation of society.”

Shahzad is a disgrace to Pakistani-Americans, including a number of my friends. They now have to walk around under a pall of suspicion.

It was a good week for democracy. The fundamentalists were defeated, the general was humiliated, and the will of the people was clearly expressed. Even the imprisoned justices and lawyers may be soon released. As a Pakistani friend of mine e-mailed me joyously, the people of Pakistan said “a big NO to the mullahs and the military!!” The question now is: What next?

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Activists say no wall can be built that will keep them from standing together for immigration reform.

In this 1963 letter from his Birmingham jail cell Martin Luther King Jr. pushed back against the idea that civil...

From drone strikes against Americans overseas to broad surveillance powers to indefinite detention, Obama certainly...

By Wendell Berry

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more 
of everything ready made. Be afraid 
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery 
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card 
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something 
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know. 
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord. 
Love the world. Work for nothing. 
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. 
Denounce the government and embrace 
the flag. Hope to live in that free 
republic for which it stands. 
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man 
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers. 
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.


Say that the leaves are harvested 
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus 
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come. 
Expect the end of the world. Laugh. 
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. 
So long as women do not go cheap 
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy 
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep 
of a woman near to giving birth? 
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head 
in her lap. Swear allegiance 
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos 
can predict the motions of your mind, 
lose it. Leave it as a sign 
to mark the false trail, the way 
you didn’t go. Be like the fox 
who makes more tracks than necessary, 
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry is a poet, farmer, and environmentalist in Kentucky. This poem, first published in 1973, is reprinted by permission of the author and appears in his “New Collected Poems” (Counterpoint).


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