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TAMERA Manifesto - For a New Generation on Planet Earth

We greet the youth of the world. We greet all peace-activists and helpers in the crisis areas of the earth. We greet those who, often risking death, dedicate their lives to uphold human rights, for the protection of children and indigenous peoples, the protection of animals, the protection of oceans, trees and all co-creatures of the great family of life. We also greet those governments who still have the courage to stand up against worldwide globalisation and its methods. This is a manifesto for a young generation which no longer has a future in existing society, for those who are actively involved in the struggle for liberation, for the relatives of the victims, for the unbearably many people who can no longer see a way out and who have no perspective in the face of daily misery.

The world is in transition towards a new way to live on Earth. The old dictatorships and hierarchies cannot remain much longer. We are experiencing the collapse of the mega-systems. The revolution in the Arab countries, the youth rioting in the Western mega-cities, the world financial crisis and mass unemployment, the rise of wars and man-made natural catastrophes, the moral decline into squalor of most governments, the international plans for states of emergency and the underground bunkers for the wealthy are sure signs of the approaching end of a violent epoch. Behind the global violence, powers of a profound change of era are showing themselves. Those who stand against despotism today could witness a completely changed world tomorrow. We greet those who are preparing the new era on all continents today, often risking their lives. We greet the newly arising planetary community.

http://www.tamera.org/manifesto/

THE SECRET OF WATER AS A BASIS FOR THE NEW EARTH

Healing the Water Cycle through the Creation of Water Retention Landscapes

“Water, energy and food are freely available for the whole of humankind!”
Dieter Duhm, from the Tamera Manifesto for a New Generation on Planet Earth.
 

Study Text by Bernd Mueller, Free Download in five languages (PDF)

English: THE SECRET OF WATER AS A BASIS FOR THE NEW EARTH. Healing the Water Cycle through the Creation of Water Retention Landscapes: http://www.tamera.org/fileadmin/PDF/WasserSymposium_en.pdf

Espanol: EL SECRETO DEL AGUA COMO BASE PARA UNA NUEVA TIERRA. Sanando el Ciclo del Agua través de la Creación de Paisajes de Retención de Agua: 

http://www.tamera.org/fileadmin/PDF/WasserSymposium_es.pdf

Portugues: O SEGREDO DA ÁGUA – A BASE PARA UM NOVO MUNDO. Restabelecer o Ciclo Hidrológico através da Criação de Paisagens Aquática. 

http://www.tamera.org/fileadmin/PDF/WasserSymposium_pt.pdf

Deutsch: DAS WASSER-GEHEIMNIS ALS GRUNDLAGE DER NEUEN ERDE. Heilung des Wasserkreislaufs durch den Aufbau von „Retentionslandschaften. 

http://www.tamera.org/fileadmin/PDF/WasserSymposium_de.pdf

Greek: ΤΟ ΜΥΣΤΙΚΌΤΟΥ ΝΕΡΟΎΩΣ. ΑΠΑΡΑΊΤΗΤΟ ΣΥΣΤΑΤΙΚΌΤΗΣ ΝΈΑΣ ΓΗΣ. Θεραπεία της κυκλοφορίας του νερού με τη δημιουργία των τοπίων συγκράτησης. 

http://www.tamera.org/fileadmin/PDF/WasserSymposium_gr.pdf

Norwegian folktale

 Once on a time, but it was a long, long time ago, there were two brothers, one rich and one poor. Now, one Christmas Eve, the poor one hadn’t so much as a crumb in the house, either of meat or bread, so he went to his brother to ask him for something to keep Christmas with, in God’s name. It was not the first time his brother had been forced to help him, and you may fancy he wasn’t very glad to see his face, but he said —

“If you will do what I ask you to do, I’ll give you a whole flitch of bacon.”

So the poor brother said he would do anything, and was full of thanks.

“Well, here is the flitch,” said the rich brother, “and now go straight to Hell.”

“What I have given my word to do, I must stick to,” said the other; so he took the flitch and set off. He walked the whole day, and at dusk he came to a place where he saw a very bright light.

“Maybe this is the place,” said the man to himself. So he turned aside, and the first thing he saw was an old, old man, with a long white beard, who stood in a shed, hewing wood for the Christmas fire.

“Good even,” said the man with the flitch.

“The same to you; whither are you going so late?” said the man.

“Oh! I’m going to Hell, if I only knew the right way,” answered the poor man.

“Well, you’re not far wrong for this is Hell.” said the old man; “when you get inside they will be all for buying your flitch, for meat is scarce in Hell; but mind, you don’t sell it unless you get the hand-quern which stands behind the door for it. When you come out, I’ll teach you how to handle the quern, for it’s good to grind almost anything.”

So the man with the flitch thanked the other for his good advice, and gave a great knock at the Devi’s door.

When he got in, everything went just as the old man had said. All the devils, great and small, came swarming up to him like ants round an anthill, and each tried to outbid the other for the flitch.

“Well!” said the man, “by rights my old dame and I ought to have this flitch for our Christmas dinner; but since you have all set your hearts on it. I suppose I must give it up to you; but if I sell it at all, I’ll have for it that quern behind the door yonder.”

At first the Devil wouldn’t hear of such a bargain, and chaffered and haggled with the man: but he stuck to what he said, and at last the Devil had to part with his quern. When the man got out into the yard, he asked the old woodcutter how he was to handle the quern; and after he had learned how to use it, he thanked the old man and went off home as fast as he could, but still the clock had struck twelve on Christmas Eve before he reached his own door.

“Wherever in the world have you been?” said his old dame; “here have I sat hour after hour waiting and watching, without so much as two sticks to lay together under the Christmas brose*.”

“Oh!” said the old man. “I couldn’t get back before, for I had to go a long way first for one thing, and then for another; but now you shall see what you shall see.”

So he put the quern on the table, and bade it first of all grind lights, then a tablecloth, then meat, then ale, and so on till they had got everything that was nice for Christmas fare. He had only to speak the word, and the quern ground out what he wanted. The old dame stood by blessing her stars, and kept on asking where he had got this wonderful quern, but he wouldn’t tell her.

“It’s all one where I got it from; you see the quern is a good one, and the mill-stream never freezes, that’s enough.”

So he ground meat and drink and dainties enough to last out till Twelfth Day, and on the third day he asked all his friends and kin to his house, and gave a great feast. Now, when his rich brother saw all that was on the table, and all that was behind in the larder, he grew quite spiteful and wild, for he couldn’t bear that his brother should have anything.

‘“Twas only on Christmas Eve,” he said to the rest, “he was in such straits that he came and asked for a morsel of food in God’s name, and now he gives a feast as if he  were count or king”; and he turned to his brother and said —

“But whence, in Hell’s name, have you got all this wealth?”

“From behind the door,” answered the owner of the quern, for he didn’t care to let the cat out of the bag. But later on the evening, when he had got a drop too much, he could keep his secret no longer, and brought out the quern and said —

“There, you see what has gotten me all this wealth”; and so he made the quern grind all kinds of things. When his brother saw it, he set his heart on having the quern, and, after a deal of coaxing, he got it; but he had to pay three hundred dollars for it, and his brother bargained to keep it till hay harvest, for he thought, “If I keep it till then, I can make it grind meat and drink that will last for years.” So you may fancy the quern didn’t grow rusty for want of work, and when hay-harvest came, the rich brother got it, but the other took care not to teach him how to handle it.

It was evening when the rich brother got the quern home, and next morning he told his wife to go out into the hay field and toss, while the mowers cut the grass, and he would stay at home and get the dinner ready. So, when dinner-time drew near, he put the quern on the kitchen table and said, —

“Grind herrings and broth, and grind them good and fast.”

So the quern began to grind herrings and broth; first of all, all the dishes full, then all the tubs full, and so on till the kitchen floor was quite covered. Then the man twisted and twirled at the quern to get it to stop, but for all his twisting and fingering the quern went on grinding, and in a little while the broth rose so high that the man was like to drown. So he threw open the kitchen door and ran into the parlour, but it wasn’t long before the quern had ground the parlour full too, and it was only at the risk of his life that the man could get hold of the latch of the house door through the stream of broth. When he got the door open, he ran out and set off down the road, with the stream of herrings and broth at his heels, roaring like a waterfall over the whole farm.

Now, his old dame, who was in the field tossing hay, thought it a long time to dinner, and at last she said —

“Well! though the master doesn’t call us home, we may as well go. Maybe he finds it hard work to boil the broth, and will be glad of my help.”

The men were willing enough, so they sauntered homewards; but just as they had got a little way up the hill, what should they meet but herrings, and broth, and bread, all running and dashing, and splashing together in a stream, and the master himself running before them for his life, and as he passed them he bawled out, — “Would to heaven each of you had a hundred throats! But take care you’re not drowned in the broth.”

Away he went, as though the Evil One were at his heels, to his brother’s house, and begged him for God’s sake to take back the quern that instant; for, said he —

“If it grinds only one hour more, the whole parish will be swallowed up by herrings and broth.”

But his brother wouldn’t hear of taking it back till the other paid him down three hundred dollars more.

So the poor brother got both the money and the quern, and it wasn’t long before he set up a farmhouse far finer than the one in which his brother lived, and with the quern he ground so much gold that he covered it with plates of gold; and as the farm lay by the seaside, the golden house gleamed and glistened far away over the sea. All who sailed by put ashore to see the rich man in the golden house, and to see the wonderful quern, the fame of which spread far and wide, till there was nobody who hadn’t heard tell of it.

So one day there came a skipper who wanted to see the quern; and the first thing he asked was if it could grind salt.

“Grind salt!” said the owner; “I should just think it could. It can grind anything.”

When the skipper heard that, he said he must have the quern, cost what it would, for if he only had it, he thought he should be rid of his long voyages across stormy seas for a lading of salt. Well, at first the man wouldn’t hear of parting with the quern; but the skipper begged and prayed so hard, that at last he let him have it, but he had to pay many, many thousand dollars for it. Now, when the skipper had got the quern on his back, he soon made off with it, for he was afraid lest the man should change his mind; so he had no time to ask how to handle the quern, but got on board his ship as fast as he could, and set sail. When he had sailed a good way off, he brought the quern on deck and said—

“Grind salt, and grind both good and fast.”

Well, the quern began to grind salt so that it poured out like water; and when the skipper had got the ship full, he wished to stop the quern, but whichever way he turned it, and however much he tried, it was no good; the quern kept grinding on, and the heap of salt grew higher and higher, and at last down sunk the ship.

There lies the quern at the bottom of the sea, and grinds away at this very day, and that’s why the sea is salt. 

* brose = porridge

Christmas fairy tales

selected by Neil Philip

London: Little Brown, 1996

In order for the character of a human being to reveal truly exceptional qualities, we must have the good fortune to observe its action over a long period of years. If this action is devoid of all selfishness, if the idea that directs it is one of unqualified generosity, if it is absolutely certain that it has not sought recompense anywhere, and if moreover it has left visible marks on the world, then we are unquestionably dealing with an unforgettable character.

 About forty years ago I went on a long hike, through hills absolutely unknown to tourists, in that very old region where the Alps penetrate into Provence.

This region is bounded to the south-east and south by the middle course of the Durance, between Sisteron and Mirabeau; to the north by the upper course of the Drôme, from its source down to Die; to the west by the plains of Comtat Venaissin and the outskirts of Mont Ventoux. It includes all the northern part of the Département of Basses-Alpes, the south of Drôme and a little enclave of Vaucluse.

At the time I undertook my long walk through this deserted region, it consisted of barren and monotonous lands, at about 1200 to 1300 meters above sea level. Nothing grew there except wild lavender.

I was crossing this country at its widest part, and after walking for three days, I found myself in the most complete desolation. I was camped next to the skeleton of an abandoned village. I had used the last of my water the day before and I needed to find more. Even though they were in ruins, these houses all huddled together and looking like an old wasps' nest made me think that there must at one time have been a spring or a well there. There was indeed a spring, but it was dry. The five or six roofless houses, ravaged by sun and wind, and the small chapel with its tumble-down belfry, were arrayed like the houses and chapels of living villages, but all life had disappeared.

It was a beautiful June day with plenty of sun, but on these shelterless lands, high up in the sky, the wind whistled with an unendurable brutality. Its growling in the carcasses of the houses was like that of a wild beast disturbed during its meal.

I had to move my camp. After five hours of walking, I still hadn't found water, and nothing gave me hope of finding any. Everywhere there was the same dryness, the same stiff, woody plants. I thought I saw in the distance a small black silhouette. On a chance I headed towards it. It was a shepherd. Thirty lambs or so were resting near him on the scorching ground.

He gave me a drink from his gourd and a little later he led me to his shepherd's cottage, tucked down in an undulation of the plateau. He drew his water - excellent - from a natural hole, very deep, above which he had installed a rudimentary windlass.

This man spoke little. This is common among those who live alone, but he seemed sure of himself, and confident in this assurance, which seemed remarkable in this land shorn of everything. He lived not in a cabin but in a real house of stone, from the looks of which it was clear that his own labor had restored the ruins he had found on his arrival. His roof was solid and water-tight. The wind struck against the roof tiles with the sound of the sea crashing on the beach.

His household was in order, his dishes washed, his floor swept, his rifle greased; his soup boiled over the fire; I noticed then that he was also freshly shaven, that all his buttons were solidly sewn, and that his clothes were mended with such care as to make the patches invisible.

He shared his soup with me, and when afterwards I offered him my tobacco pouch, he told me that he didn't smoke. His dog, as silent as he, was friendly without being fawning.

It had been agreed immediately that I would pass the night there, the closest village being still more than a day and a half farther on. Furthermore, I understood perfectly well the character of the rare villages of that region. There are four or five of them dispersed far from one another on the flanks of the hills, in groves of white oaks at the very ends of roads passable by carriage. They are inhabited by woodcutters who make charcoal. They are places where the living is poor. The families, pressed together in close quarters by a climate that is exceedingly harsh in summer as well as in winter, struggle ever more selfishly against each other. Irrational contention grows beyond all bounds, fueled by a continuous struggle to escape from that place. The men carry their charcoal to the cities in their trucks, and then return. The most solid qualities crack under this perpetual Scottish shower. The women stir up bitterness. There is competition over everything, from the sale of charcoal to the benches at church. The virtues fight amongst themselves, the vices fight amongst themselves, and there is a ceaseless general combat between the vices and the virtues. On top of all that, the equally ceaseless wind irritates the nerves. There are epidemics of suicides and numerous cases of insanity, almost always murderous.

The shepherd, who did not smoke, took out a bag and poured a pile of acorns out onto the table. He began to examine them one after another with a great deal of attention, separating the good ones from the bad. I smoked my pipe. I offered to help him, but he told me it was his own business. Indeed, seeing the care that he devoted to this job, I did not insist. This was our whole conversation. When he had in the good pile a fair number of acorns, he counted them out into packets of ten. In doing this he eliminated some more of the acorns, discarding the smaller ones and those that that showed even the slightest crack, for he examined them very closely. When he had before him one hundred perfect acorns he stopped, and we went to bed.

The company of this man brought me a feeling of peace. I asked him the next morning if I might stay and rest the whole day with him. He found that perfectly natural. Or more exactly, he gave me the impression that nothing could disturb him. This rest was not absolutely necessary to me, but I was intrigued and I wanted to find out more about this man. He let out his flock and took them to the pasture. Before leaving, he soaked in a bucket of water the little sack containing the acorns that he had so carefully chosen and counted.

I noted that he carried as a sort of walking stick an iron rod as thick as his thumb and about one and a half meters long. I set off like someone out for a stroll, following a route parallel to his. His sheep pasture lay at the bottom of a small valley. He left his flock in the charge of his dog and climbed up towards the spot where I was standing. I was afraid that he was coming to reproach me for my indiscretion, but not at all: It was his own route and he invited me to come along with him if I had nothing better to do. He continued on another two hundred meters up the hill.

Having arrived at the place he had been heading for, he began to pound his iron rod into the ground. This made a hole in which he placed an acorn, whereupon he covered over the hole again. He was planting oak trees. I asked him if the land belonged to him. He answered no. Did he know whose land it was? He did not know. He supposed that it was communal land, or perhaps it belonged to someone who did not care about it. He himself did not care to know who the owners were. In this way he planted his one hundred acorns with great care.

After the noon meal, he began once more to pick over his acorns. I must have put enough insistence into my questions, because he answered them. For three years now he had been planting trees in this solitary way. He had planted one hundred thousand. Of these one hundred thousand, twenty thousand had come up. He counted on losing another half of them to rodents and to everything else that is unpredictable in the designs of Providence. That left ten thousand oaks that would grow in this place where before there was nothing.

It was at this moment that I began to wonder about his age. He was clearly more than fifty. Fifty-five, he told me. His name was Elzéard Bouffier. He had owned a farm in the plains, where he lived most of his life. He had lost his only son, and then his wife. He had retired into this solitude, where he took pleasure in living slowly, with his flock of sheep and his dog. He had concluded that this country was dying for lack of trees. He added that, having nothing more important to do, he had resolved to remedy the situation.

Leading as I did at the time a solitary life, despite my youth, I knew how to treat the souls of solitary people with delicacy. Still, I made a mistake. It was precisely my youth that forced me to imagine the future in my own terms, including a certain search for happiness. I told him that in thirty years these ten thousand trees would be magnificent. He replied very simply that, if God gave him life, in thirty years he would have planted so many other trees that these ten thousand would be like a drop of water in the ocean.

He had also begun to study the propagation of beeches and he had near his house a nursery filled with seedlings grown from beechnuts. His little wards, which he had protected from his sheep by a screen fence, were growing beautifully. He was also considering birches for the valley bottoms where, he told me, moisture lay slumbering just a few meters beneath the surface of the soil.

We parted the next day.

The next year the war of 14 came, in which I was engaged for five years. An infantryman could hardly think about trees. To tell the truth, the whole business hadn't made a very deep impression on me; I took it to be a hobby, like a stamp collection, and forgot about it.

With the war behind me, I found myself with a small demobilization bonus and a great desire to breathe a little pure air. Without any preconceived notion beyond that, I struck out again along the trail through that deserted country.

The land had not changed. Nonetheless, beyond that dead village I perceived in the distance a sort of gray fog that covered the hills like a carpet. Ever since the day before I had been thinking about the shepherd who planted trees. «Ten thousand oaks, I had said to myself, must really take up a lot of space. »

I had seen too many people die during those five years not to be able to imagine easily the death of Elzéard Bouffier, especially since when a man is twenty he thinks of a man of fifty as an old codger for whom nothing remains but to die. He was not dead. In fact, he was very spry. He had changed his job. He only had four sheep now, but to make up for this he had about a hundred beehives. He had gotten rid of the sheep because they threatened his crop of trees. He told me (as indeed I could see for myself) that the war had not disturbed him at all. He had continued imperturbably with his planting.

The oaks of 1910 were now ten years old and were taller than me and than him. The spectacle was impressive. I was literally speechless and, as he didn't speak himself, we passed the whole day in silence, walking through his forest. It was in three sections, eleven kilometers long overall and, at its widest point, three kilometers wide. When I considered that this had all sprung from the hands and from the soul of this one man - without technical aids - , it struck me that men could be as effective as God in domains other than destruction.

He had followed his idea, and the beeches that reached up to my shoulders and extending as far as the eye could see bore witness to it. The oaks were now good and thick, and had passed the age where they were at the mercy of rodents; as for the designs of Providence, to destroy the work that had been created would henceforth require a cyclone. He showed me admirable stands of birches that dated from five years ago, that is to say from 1915, when I had been fighting at Verdun. He had planted them in the valley bottoms where he had suspected, correctly, that there was water close to the surface. They were as tender as young girls, and very determined.

This creation had the air, moreover, of working by a chain reaction. He had not troubled about it; he went on obstinately with his simple task. But, in going back down to the village, I saw water running in streams that, within living memory, had always been dry. It was the most striking revival that he had shown me. These streams had borne water before, in ancient days. Certain of the sad villages that I spoke of at the beginning of my account had been built on the sites of ancient Gallo-Roman villages, of which there still remained traces; archeologists digging there had found fishhooks in places where in more recent times cisterns were required in order to have a little water.

The wind had also been at work, dispersing certain seeds. As the water reappeared, so too did willows, osiers, meadows, gardens, flowers, and a certain reason to live.

But the transformation had taken place so slowly that it had been taken for granted, without provoking surprise. The hunters who climbed the hills in search of hares or wild boars had noticed the spreading of the little trees, but they set it down to the natural spitefulness of the earth. That is why no one had touched the work of this man. If they had suspected him, they would have tried to thwart him. But he never came under suspicion: Who among the villagers or the administrators would ever have suspected that anyone could show such obstinacy in carrying out this magnificent act of generosity?

Beginning in 1920 I never let more than a year go by without paying a visit to Elzéard Bouffier. I never saw him waver or doubt, though God alone can tell when God's own hand is in a thing! I have said nothing of his disappointments, but you can easily imagine that, for such an accomplishment, it was necessary to conquer adversity; that, to assure the victory of such a passion, it was necessary to fight against despair. One year he had planted ten thousand maples. They all died. The next year, he gave up on maples and went back to beeches, which did even better than the oaks.

To get a true idea of this exceptional character, one must not forget that he worked in total solitude; so total that, toward the end of his life, he lost the habit of talking. Or maybe he just didn't see the need for it.

In 1933 he received the visit of an astonished forest ranger. This functionary ordered him to cease building fires outdoors, for fear of endangering this natural forest. It was the first time, this naive man told him, that a forest had been observed to grow up entirely on its own. At the time of this incident, he was thinking of planting beeches at a spot twelve kilometers from his house. To avoid the coming and going - because at the time he was seventy-five years old - he planned to build a cabin of stone out where he was doing his planting. This he did the next year.

In 1935, a veritable administrative delegation went to examine this « natural forest ». There was an important personage from Waters and Forests, a deputy, and some technicians. Many useless words were spoken. It was decided to do something, but luckily nothing was done, except for one truly useful thing: placing the forest under the protection of the State and forbidding anyone from coming there to make charcoal. For it was impossible not to be taken with the beauty of these young trees in full health. And the forest exercised its seductive powers even on the deputy himself.

I had a friend among the chief foresters who were with the delegation. I explained the mystery to him. One day the next week, we went off together to look for Elzéard Bouffier, We found him hard at work, twenty kilometers away from the place where the inspection had taken place.

This chief forester was not my friend for nothing. He understood the value of things. He knew how to remain silent. I offered up some eggs I had brought with me as a gift. We split our snack three ways, and then passed several hours in mute contemplation of the landscape.

The hillside whence we had come was covered with trees six or seven meters high. I remembered the look of the place in 1913: a desert... The peaceful and steady labor, the vibrant highland air, his frugality, and above all, the serenity of his soul had given the old man a kind of solemn good health. He was an athlete of God. I asked myself how many hectares he had yet to cover with trees.

Before leaving, my friend made a simple suggestion concerning certain species of trees to which the terrain seemed to be particularly well suited. He was not insistent. « For the very good reason, » he told me afterwards, « that this fellow knows a lot more about this sort of thing than I do. » After another hour of walking, this thought having travelled along with him, he added: « He knows a lot more about this sort of thing than anybody - and he has found a jolly good way of being happy! »

It was thanks to the efforts of this chief forester that the forest was protected, and with it, the happiness of this man. He designated three forest rangers for their protection, and terrorized them to such an extent that they remained indifferent to any jugs of wine that the woodcutters might offer as bribes.

The forest did not run any grave risks except during the war of 1939. Then automobiles were being run on wood alcohol, and there was never enough wood. They began to cut some of the stands of the oaks of 1910, but the trees stood so far from any useful road that the enterprise turned out to be bad from a financial point of view, and was soon abandoned. The shepherd never knew anything about it. He was thirty kilometers away, peacefully continuing his task, as untroubled by the war of 39 as he had been of the war of 14.

I saw Elzéard Bouffier for the last time in June of 1945. He was then eighty-seven years old. I had once more set off along my trail through the wilderness, only to find that now, in spite of the shambles in which the war had left the whole country, there was a motor coach running between the valley of the Durance and the mountain. I set down to this relatively rapid means of transportation the fact that I no longer recognized the landmarks I knew from my earlier visits. It also seemed that the route was taking me through entirely new places. I had to ask the name of a village to be sure that I was indeed passing through that same region, once so ruined and desolate. The coach set me down at Vergons. In 1913, this hamlet of ten or twelve houses had had three inhabitants. They were savages, hating each other, and earning their living by trapping: physically and morally, they resembled prehistoric men. The nettles devoured the abandoned houses that surrounded them. Their lives were without hope; it was only a matter of waiting for death to come: a situation that hardly predisposes one to virtue.

All that had changed, even to the air itself. In place of the dry, brutal gusts that had greeted me long ago, a gentle breeze whispered to me, bearing sweet odors. A sound like that of running water came from the heights above: it was the sound of the wind in the trees. And most astonishing of all, I heard the sound of real water running into a pool. I saw that they had built a fountain, that it was full of water, and what touched me most, that next to it they had planted a lime-tree that must be at least four years old, already grown thick, an incontestable symbol of resurrection.

Furthermore, Vergons showed the signs of labors for which hope is a requirement: Hope must therefore have returned. They had cleared out the ruins, knocked down the broken walls, and rebuilt five houses. The hamlet now counted twenty-eight inhabitants, including four young families. The new houses, freshly plastered, were surrounded by gardens that bore, mixed in with each other but still carefully laid out, vegetables and flowers, cabbages and rosebushes, leeks and gueules-de-loup, celery and anemones. It was now a place where anyone would be glad to live.

From there I continued on foot. The war from which we had just barely emerged had not permitted life to vanish completely, and now Lazarus was out of his tomb. On the lower flanks of the mountain, I saw small fields of barley and rye; in the bottoms of the narrow valleys, meadowlands were just turning green.

It has taken only the eight years that now separate us from that time for the whole country around there to blossom with splendor and ease. On the site of the ruins I had seen in 1913 there are now well-kept farms, the sign of a happy and comfortable life. The old springs, fed by rain and snow now that are now retained by the forests, have once again begun to flow. The brooks have been channelled. Beside each farm, amid groves of maples, the pools of fountains are bordered by carpets of fresh mint. Little by little, the villages have been rebuilt. Yuppies have come from the plains, where land is expensive, bringing with them youth, movement, and a spirit of adventure. Walking along the roads you will meet men and women in full health, and boys and girls who know how to laugh, and who have regained the taste for the traditional rustic festivals. Counting both the previous inhabitants of the area, now unrecognizable from living in plenty, and the new arrivals, more than ten thousand persons owe their happiness to Elzéard Bouffier.

When I consider that a single man, relying only on his own simple physical and moral resources, was able to transform a desert into this land of Canaan, I am convinced that despite everything, the human condition is truly admirable. But when I take into account the constancy, the greatness of soul, and the selfless dedication that was needed to bring about this transformation, I am filled with an immense respect for this old, uncultured peasant who knew how to bring about a work worthy of God.

Elzéard Bouffier died peacefully in 1947 at the hospice in Banon.

Jean Giono

Translation from french by Peter Doyle

in http://www.pinetum.org/man_tree.htm

Cena 1

 (Na cozinha. Bater de loiça. A Mãe, contente, canta ou assobia. Barulho de portas. Passos.)

 Jacob – Mãe! Cá estou eu! E com uma destas fomes!

Mãe– Óptimo, Jacob. Estou agora mesmo a preparar umas sandes.

Jacob – A Catarina veio comigo. E também está com fome. Eu disse-lhe que tinhas comprado torresmos.

Mãe – Catarina, onde é que te meteste? Entra!

Catarina – Viva, D. Mariana.

Mãe – Olá, Catarina, fica à vontade. Sentem-se. Querem chá com sumo de laranja?

Catarina – Obrigada.

Jacob – Espera, Catarina, eu sirvo-te.

Catarina – Não está nada mau este pão com torresmo.

Mãe – Foi divertido no parque?

Crianças– Mhm-mhm.

Mãe(A rir.) – Vocês empanturram-secomo se não comessem nada há dias. Estão a abrir-me o apetite. Vou fazer um pão para mim. Pronto, já está. Vêm cheios de calor, meninos. Andaram a correr?

Jacob– Primeiro fizemos de Índios. Depois, de artistas de circo ao pé do Toni… Depois, fizemos também de extraterrestres verdes que conseguiam cheirar tudo, principalmente torresmos. O Rudi também estava. Quis trazê-lo, mas ele diz que os torresmos são muito gordurosos

Mãe– Não é nada bom para a linha… Mesmo assim, quem quer mais?

Catarina– Eu, por favor.

Jacob– Eu também.

Mãe – E eu também… O Carlitos esteve lá?

Catarina– Não. Ele é muito aborrecido.

Jacob – Com ele não se pode fazer nada.

Mãe – Por ser aborrecido?

Jacob– Nem imaginas como ele é! Não gosta de nada.

Mãe– Não gosta de nada? Foi ele que disse isso?

Jacob– “Não gosto disto, não gosto daquilo…”.

Catarina– O Carlitos é tão… diferente, sabe, D. Mariana. Ou se gaba tanto, que só de o ouvirmos até nos massacra os ouvidos, ou então está aborrecido e não quer participar em nada. Fica sentado a dizer: “Não gosto de nada disso”.

Mãe– E quando ele conversa, o que é que diz?

Jacob – Oh, tudo e mais alguma coisa. Quanto é que o pai ganha, para onde é que vão nas férias, que já foi aos esquimós ou lá onde foi, quantos CDs é que já tem…

Catarina– 38…

Jacob – E que pode ver na televisão todos os filmes policiais que quer…

Mãe – Hum…

Catarina– E que nós somos uns coitados porque não podemos. Na turma, já ninguém lhe liga. Por ele ser tão parvo, a Susi até já disse que nunca mais o deixa copiar por ela. E que também nunca mais lhe vai dizer as respostas.

Jacob– Na escola, anda sempre a fazer asneiras e depois a Professora chama a mãe. Mas ela zanga-se de cada vez que tem de lá ir, porque perde um dia no escritório…

Catarina– Ele está a ficar cada vez pior. A única coisa que consegue fazer é o pino! É o único de nós todos. É capaz de fazer o pino e ficar a andar às voltas. Claro que faz isso quando e onde lhe apetece. A Susi sugeriu que, quando ele voltasse a fazer o pino, nós devíamos combinar e olhar todos para o outro lado.

Mãe– Então não me admira nada, coitado do rapaz. Se ninguém gosta dele, como é que ele há-de andar contente?

Jacob– Vamos passar a andar atrás dele? Mãe, eu já não o aguento! Prefiro outra pessoa qualquer. Até prefiro o Toni, embora ele só consiga dizer ããããã… (Catarina ri baixinho.)

Mãe– Jacob!

Jacob – Não digo isto por mal. Eu gosto do Toni. Mas, pronto, ele só faz ããããã…

Mãe – O Toni é uma criança deficiente, e não consegue falar como uma criança normal.

Catarina – Mas nós agora já sabemos o que ele quer dizer com ããã. Ele di-lo de diferentes formas. Hoje, quando representávamos o circo, ele acenou com a cabeça e gritou ããã e descobrimos que ele queria dizer “Outra vez!”.

Jacob– Isso foi quando o Rudi fez de leão e tu de domadora.

Catarina– É! Esse foi o número que mais divertiu hoje o Toni.

Mãe – Então vocês… Vocês brincam ao circo para o Toni?

Jacob– Achas esquisito?

Mãe(Apressadamente.) – Não, não. É que eu pensava que vocês o visitavam apenas de vez em quando e que só brincassem e falassem com ele. Mas fazerem circo…

Jacob– É difícil brincar com ele, porque ele tem de estar sempre no carrinho e não pode fazer nada. No fim de cada número, bate palmas. Foi a Susi que lhe ensinou. E às vezes agarra uma bola, quer dizer, atira-se a bola mesmo para o colo dele e depois ele agarra-a. Atirar a bola é que já não é capaz de fazer.

Mãe– Sabes porque é que eu primeiro me admirei que vocês fizessem coisas engraçadas em frente de uma criança deficiente, incapaz de andar e de correr? É que o Toni nunca há-de conseguir fazer isso.

Jacob – Mas ele gosta de ver. Se não, não se ria. Quando vê, diverte-se. Rir ele sabe.

Catarina– A princípio, a porteira do prédio ralhou connosco. Viu-nos através da janela do pátio e indignou-se por sermos insensíveis e fazermos coisas diante do Toni que ele, coitado, não consegue fazer. Nós ficámos muito assustados e queríamos ir embora, mas o Toni começou a choramingar e a mãe do Toni veio logo a correr cá abaixo e ouviu tudo. Fez festas ao Toni e disse: “ – Oh, eu, por exemplo, não sei tocar trompete, mas fico contente quando alguém toca para mim. Continuem com o vosso circo. Eu fico contente quando o Toni se diverte.”

Jacob– Ele fica mesmo contente, por isso é que gostamos tanto de ir lá. Porque ele gosta. O Rudi anda agora a treinar um número de cambalhotas.

Catarina– E a Susi, outro com bolas.

Mãe – O Carlitos não ficaria bem no vosso programa, já que sabe fazer o pino? … (Pequena pausa.) Ah?

Catarina– Bem…

Jacob – Primeiro, teríamos de lhe perguntar se ele queria mesmo vir…

Catarina – Seria uma boa oportunidade para ele se exibir…

Mãe – Teria principalmente uma oportunidade de dar uma grande alegria ao Toni! Gostava depois de ver se ele ainda diria: “Não gosto de nada!” Aquele que se sente útil e que dá uma alegria a outro decerto já não pode dizer: “Não gosto de nada!”

Catarina – Bem, não sei se o Carlitos vai deixar que o levemos até lá…

Mãe– Então, e se vocês precisassem mesmo dele?

Jacob– Será que ele vai acreditar que precisamos mesmo dele? Da maneira como nos temos portado com ele até agora…

Mãe– Jacob, vou dizer-te uma coisa, uma coisa difícil de compreender. E a ti também o digo, Cati. Quando alguém não gosta de nada – não interessa se é uma criança ou um adulto – quando alguém diz que não gosta de nada, isso é um grito de socorro. É alguém que pede socorro dessa maneira por se sentir mal. É ainda muito pior do que o Toni no seu carrinho, já que o Toni consegue alegrar-se com alguma coisa e é capaz de o demonstrar. Dessa forma, ele também vos dá alegria. Não é verdade que, quando o Toni fica contente, isso também vos faz felizes?

Crianças– Pois faz!!

Mãe – Quando o Carlitos diz: “Não gosto de nada!” está a querer dizer-vos: “Ajudai-me, por favor. Estou triste porque ninguém precisa de mim. Ninguém olha para mim.” Se vocês precisarem do Carlitos, se ele tiver a oportunidade de proporcionar alegria a outra pessoa, ele vai mudar. Não imediatamente, mas com o tempo. Não há-de precisar mais de se exibir nem de aborrecer os outros. Vai tornar-se diferente. Mas têm de ter paciência com ele. Eu, no vosso lugar, tentava.

Jacob– Mesmo que ele no início seja arrogante?

Mãe– Mesmo assim! Têm de arriscar. E não dar muita importância a isso.

Catarina – Eu faço-te sinal, Jacob, quando o Carlitos estiver a ser arrogante. Assim, não precisas de te zangar.

Mãe– Tens uma boa amiga, Jacob! (Catarina ri baixinho.)

Jacob– Bem, podemos tentar…

 Cena 2

 (Recreio da escola. Barulho do intervalo. Campainha.)

Jacob– Bem, Carlitos, fica combinado. Hoje vens connosco ao Toni.

Carlitos– Não! Acho que não vou gostar.

Catarina– Se vais gostar ou não, isso não interessa agora. Tens de vir, porque nós precisamos de ti.

Jacob– És o único que sabe fazer o pino e dar voltas.

Catarina – Podes indicar-nos outra pessoa que saiba andar de pernas para o ar?

Carlitos– Não!

Jacob – Então, estás a ver?

Catarina– Tu não tens de gostar, Carlitos, mas o Toni vai adorar. Ele nunca na vida viu ninguém que saiba andar e fazer o pino.

Jacob– Temos de explicar primeiro ao Carlitos como é que ele sabe que o Toni está a gostar, Cati.

Carlitos– Eu não sou parvo!

Catarina– Mas o Toni… bem, o Toni só sabe dizer ããã. Por isso, quando ele se rir e abanar a cabeça e disser ããã, quer dizer: “Outra vez!” E tu tens de repetir o número!

Carlitos – E quando ele não gosta?

Jacob – Então torce a boca e diz ããã.

Catarina– Mas ele vai gostar, vais ver. Nunca viu um número com esta categoria… (Música no fim desta cena.)

 Cena 3

(Pátio. Crianças a rir.)

 Carlitos(Em voz baixa.) – Este é que é o vosso Toni? Ora bolas! Tem cá um aspecto…

Catarina (Em voz baixa.) – Uma pessoa habitua-se. Espera quando ele se rir. De um momento para o outro, fica com outro aspecto. Fica mesmo querido!

Jacob– Minhas senhoras e meus senhores, caríssimo público! Segue-se agora o ponto alto do nosso programa de gala de hoje. Susi, tambor, por favor! (O tambor rufa.) Uma salva de palmas para Mister Carlitos Carlitovitch! (Aplausos.)

Carlitos– Bom, está bem. Já que aqui estou… Upa!

Crianças– Oooh… (Primeiro silêncio, depois aplausos.)

Toni – Ããã.

Carlitos– O que queres dizer, Toni? É comigo?

Toni– Ããã.

Catarina– Ele quer dizer: “Outra vez!”.

Carlitos– Mas com certeza! (Silêncio. Palmas.)

Catarina – Olha, Carlitos, o Toni está a aplaudir-te. Tens de fazer uma vénia! Nós fazemos sempre uma vénia como artistas de circo a sério!

Toni – Ããã.

Jacob– Logo vi que ia gostar.

Carlitos – Outra vez, Toni? Sim? Está bem, olha para aqui…

Porteira – Agora é que eu estou pasmada! Ele faz o pino e anda!

Catarina – Esta é a porteira, Carlitos. Traz-nos sempre sumo.

Porteira– Ele até abana os pés. Assim bem não me admira que o Toni se divirta. (Aplausos.) Anda cá, deixa-me olhar para ti. Tu és novo. Como te chamas?

Carlitos– Carlitos.

Porteira– Então és o Carlitos. Tens mesmo jeito para palhaço. E é bonito que te tenhas esforçado por causa do Toni…

Carlitos – Eu não me esforcei.

Porteira– Está aqui o vosso sumo, meninos. Peguem no tabuleiro. Têm de o segurar para o Toni poder beber também.

Catarina– Eu faço isso.

Carlitos – Dá cá, Cati. Eu faço isso. Aqui tens, Toni, bebe. Anda, põe as mãos em volta do copo. Segura tu sozinho. Anda, tenta… Cati, olha! Ele está a tentar!

Catarina– A mãe treina com ele todos os dias, mas é preciso ter paciência.

Carlitos – Muito bem, Toni. Outro gole… Sim, nós seguramos os dois no copo. Pronto. Cati, ele agora não parece tão… tão… quero dizer, parece muito querido!

Catarina– Porque está contente, Carlitos.

Carlitos– Achas que ele ia gostar de um número de palhaços com um acordeão pequenino a chiar horrivelmente? Ou um número de arcos? Mas eu iria precisar de uma outra pessoa.

Catarina– E essa pessoa precisa de saber fazer muita coisa?

Carlitos– Claro que não! Só tem de segurar no arco e gritar “Upa!”

Catarina– Eu podia fazer isso lindamente… se tu quisesses fazer comigo…

Carlitos– Claro que… que eu ia gostar muito...

(Alguns compassos de música, no final.)

Lene Mayer-Skumanz (org.)

Jakob und Katharina

Wien, Herder Verlag, 1986

(Tradução e adaptação)

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Sunday morning 7.30

Dear Diary

Had a bad dream last night. I was running… and running. There was this huge tiger chasing me. I was running faster and faster but I couldn’t get away. It was getting closer and then ... I woke up.

I held Flo in my arms. She makes me feel safe – she knows what’s going on. I can tell her. Keep having bad dreams. Didn’t use to be like that. I used to have loads of friends – like Sara and Jenny. Sara asked me to go to the shops but...

School’s been HELL since SHE came. I hate hate HATE her!!! I hate hate HATE her!!!

Sunday evening 20.15

Dear Diary

Went to Grandad’s.

Lucy came and we climbed the big tree. We played pirates. School tomorrow. Don’t think I can face it. Go to school and see HER! SHE’LL be waiting. I KNOW she will. Even when she isn’t there I’m scared she’ll come round a corner. Or hide in the toilets like a bad smell. Teachers never check what’s going on in there! If ONLY I didn’t have to go. Flo thinks I’ll be ok.

Monday morning 7.05

I had that dream again. Only this time it was HER who was chasing me. I was trying to run away but she kept getting closer and her hand was just on my shoulder... then I woke up.

I feel sick but I made myself eat breakfast, so mum won’t think anything’s up. Can’t tell anyone. They will think I’m soft and I’m not. It’s just that girl and what SHE does to me.

Monday evening 20.30

Dear D

SHE was there. Waiting. Just routed the corner from school where nobody could see her. SHE grabbed my arm and it behind my back.

Said if I gave her money SHE wouldn’t hit me. I gave her what I had. I didn’t want to be hit. “I’ll get you tomorrow!” SHE said and pushed me over before she walked off.

It hurt like hell. SHE ripped my favorite trousers!

Told mum I fell over. She sewed them up. I feel like telling Sara or Jenny but they won’t understand!! Glad I’ve got you and Flo to talk to.

Tuesday morning 7.30

Couldn’t sleep last night. Just lay there. Too scared to go to sleep. Too scared I’d have that dream, again. SHE’ll be waiting for me. Why does SHE always pick on ME? I haven’t done anything to her. Must have dropped off, cos next thing mum was waking me. Couldn’t eat breakfast. Gave it to Sam so mum wouldn’t notice.

Tuesday evening 20.00

SHE followed me out of school – all big and tough.

SHE pulled my hair. Wanted to scream but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. “You got my money?” SHEspat at me. Shook my head. “I’ll have this,” SHE snarled, snatching my PE bag, “‘til you give it to me.” I’d love to give it to her! Feel like punching her fat face! What can I do? I can’t hit her cos she’s bigger than me.

I can’t ask mum or dad for the money cos they’ll want to know what it’s for.

Wednesday morning 5.30

Diary, I’ve done something bad. Really bad! If mum finds out I don’t know what she’ll do. But I’ll be in big trouble – for sure.Last night I saw mum’s purse on the table. I was on my own and so I took £5.I’ll put it back as soon as I can.I’ll save my pocket money.I’ll try and earn some money.Hope mum doesn’t miss it.She’ll go mad!

Wednesday evening 19.47

This has been the worst day of my life!!

1^st – got told off cos I didn’t have my PE things.

2^nd – hadn’t done my homework.

3^rd – SHE was by the side gate – waiting.

She twisted my arm and took the money. Threw my bag in the mud.

4^th – SHE wants more. I can’t get more.

I’ve already stolen from my mum. I don’t know what to do.

Wish I’d never been born!!

Thursday morning 8.15

I can’t believe it.

Mum’s found out!!

She wanted to know if anybody had seen her £5 note. We all said no. What else could I say? I feel bad, really bad. I hate lying. Mum said she’s taking me to school. At least I’ll be safe ‘til home time.

Thursday evening 18.30

On the way to school mum asked me if I took the money. She looked so sad. I had thought of lying but seeing her face l just couldn’t. I said yes and like a stupid idiot burst into tears. Mum asked why? And I told her about the girl and what she’d been doing to me. I told her how scared I was. I couldn’t stop crying.

Mum held me and hugged me. When I’d called down, she asked, if there was anyone at school l could talk to? I shook my head. She asked if l would like her to talk to my teacher.

Friday morning 6.35

Dearest Diary

Still woke up real early but I DIDN’T HAVE THAT DREAM!!I feel a bit strange. Know she won’t be in school – they suspended her for a week. What if she’s outside? My teacher said she did it to others – to Jess and Paul. I thought she’d only picked on me. But what happens if she’s there?

Friday evening 20.45

She really wasn’t there!!! I had a talk with a nice lady who said I could talk to her at any time. She said that if anyone is bullying you, you should try and tell somebody. I told Sara and Jenny. Sara said it had happened to her at her last school. Not the money bit but this boy kept picking on her.

We’re all going to look after each other at school so that nobody else will get bullied. Maybe it’ll be ok. When I got home mum made my favorite dinner.

Saturday morning 8.50

No school!!No bad dreams!!

Had a look on the net and there was loads about bullying. I didn’t think that it happened often but it happens all the time! Even to grown-ups and fishes. Did you know that fishes can die from the stress of being bullied?

There are all kinds of helplines and stuff like that – for people, not fishes!! I wish I’d known!

Saturday evening 21.05

Dad took me and Sam to see a film. It was really funny. We had such a laugh. Sam wanted to know why I never told him about what was going on. “I would have smashed her face!” he said. “That would just have made you a bully too!” I told him.

  ♦♦♦♦

 What Ellie found out about bullying:

 If you are bullied by anyone in any way IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT!

NOBODY DESERVES TO BE BULLIED!

NOBODY ASKS TO BE BULLIED!

 There are many ways in which somebody can be bullied. Can you name the ways in which Ellie was bullied?

 Here is a list of some of the ways children are bullied:

 ♦Being teased

♦Being called names

♦Getting abusive messages on your mobile phone

♦Getting hate mail either on email or by letter

♦Being ignored or left out

♦Having rumors or lies spread about you

♦Being pushed, kicked, shoved or pulled about

♦Being hit or punched or hurt physically in any way

♦Having your bag or other belongings taken and thrown about

♦Being forced to hand over money or your belongings

♦Being attacked because of your race, religion or the way you speak or dress

 ♦♦♦♦

 Ellie found that it helped to keep a diary of what was happening to her. It’s a way of keeping a record of dates and times when things occurred. It’s also a way of not bottling everything up. It is important that you try and tell somebody what is going on.

Maybe you could try talking to a friend who you trust.

Maybe you could try talking to your mum or dad, sister or brother.

Maybe there is a teacher at school who you feel comfortable talking to.

Most schools have an anti-bullying policy and may have somebody (like the kind lady Ellie mentions in her diary) to talk to.

Henriette Barkow

Ellie’s secret diary: don’t bully me

London, Mantra Lingua,2004

A escadaria das fadas

Mohamed Ben Tahir foi um dos emires que governaram a formosa cidade espanhola de Valência na época em que pertencia aos mouros.

Era um homem de meia-idade, moreno e de olhos profundos, usava um turbante e vestia um albornoz branco.

O emir tinha uma filha chamada Aixa, uma jovem de grande beleza, a quem o povo de Valência apelidara de «Flor dos Jardins» por gostar muito de correr pelos campos e de respirar o perfume das flores e dos bosques. O emir adorava a filha e dava-lhe todas as riquezas que podia. Os seus inúmeros tesouros pareciam-lhe pouco para a sua querida filha.

Porém, Ben Tahir sabia muito bem que as riquezas que lhe dava não chegavam para a educar. Aixa tinha de ter tanto de riquezas como de sabedoria, por isso chamou um sábio para ensinar a princesa. O professor também era árabe e usava um chapéu em cone, vestia um traje estrelado e tinha uma respeitável barba branca como todos os magos. A jovem, que tinha enorme vontade de aprender, acolheu o sábio com grande afecto. No entanto, à medida que foi aprendendo e ficando mais inteligente, a formosa jovem tornava-se mais triste e insociável.

Todas as pessoas da cidade começaram a notar a mudança de Aixa. O pai também estava preocupado e bastante aflito com o comportamento da filha.

— O que tens, Aixa? — perguntava-lhe.

— Nada, pai — era sempre a resposta.

Nem as longas viagens nem os presentes que lhe oferecia diariamente a animavam. Continuava a passear sozinha pelos jardins ou a olhar pela janela.

— O que poderei fazer para te ver sorrir? — perguntou carinhoso o emir.

Aixa suspirou profundamente e cravou os olhos nos degraus da escadaria talhada na rocha que se viam da janela.

Ben Tahir percebeu. Mandou vir o mago à sua presença e pediu ao professor que lhe dissesse o que sabia da tristeza de Aixa.

— Oh, poderoso senhor! A tristeza da tua filha não tem cura.

— Se és assim tão sábio, deves saber como curá-la!

— Sei o que tem a tua filha, porém é-me impossível curá-la — exclamou o mago. — Quer ver o que existe no cimo da escadaria das fadas, esses degraus formados no rochedo em frente da janela do seu quarto.

— Pois que vá — disse o emir decidido.

— Sim, grande senhor — continuou o mago — mas isso é impossível. Cumprindo a tua vontade, transmiti-lhe toda a minha sabedoria mas, à medida que a sua inteligência se foi desenvolvendo, o coração foi adormecendo. Sabe mais do que os velhos sábios, mas esqueceu-se de amar. Sabes o que isso significa? Quer dizer que a sua sabedoria não lhe serve de nada, porque lhe falta o amor. E como só vive para estudar, chegou ao limite de tudo o que se pode saber e agora sente um enorme vazio. O desejo de Aixa é tornar-se fada, desejo que nenhum humano consegue realizar, e é por essa razão que está triste.

— Se ela se sentir mais feliz por se aproximar da escadaria das fadas, porque havemos de privá-la disso?

— Aixa não deve sentir curiosidade. Isso é próprio das pessoas comuns. Aixa não pode subir a escadaria das fadas.

O emir, enfurecido com o ancião, exclamou:

— Fiz-te vir de um país longínquo para me ajudares a tornar feliz a minha filha, e afinal o que conseguiste foi entristecê-la ainda mais, pois educaste-a fazendo-lhe desejar coisas impossíveis. E não te dei tudo quanto me pediste? Porque deambulas tu pelos jardins, cabisbaixo e resmungando sempre?

— A minha tristeza não se relaciona com a maneira como procedeste comigo. Sinto-me velho e estou convencido de que não viverei muito mais tempo. Todos temos de morrer, mas tenho pena de não tornar a ver o meu país.

— Queres dizer que pretendes ir-te embora? É a liberdade que estás a pedir-me?

— Senhor — ripostou o sábio — a liberdade é o maior bem que podemos gozar na terra.

O emir ficou de novo pensativo, passeando pelo luxuoso salão. De repente, deteve-se diante do sábio e exclamou:

— Bem! Por mim, não há o menor inconveniente, mas como sei que é por minha filha que vieste, tem de ser ela a conceder-te licença para partires.

Ben Tahir tocou o gongo e no mesmo instante apareceu um gigantesco servo.

— Diz a Aixa que venha imediatamente.

Depois de posta ao corrente do que se passava, a jovem exclamou angustiada:

— Não, pai, não é possível que o meu mestre parta. Só ele tem o remédio contra a minha tristeza e, para fugir ao cumprimento do seu dever, pede-te que lhe dês a liberdade. Ele possui o segredo da escadaria das fadas e não quer revelar-mo. Poderia converter-me na mais feliz das pessoas e nega-me essa grande alegria.

— És um impostor! — gritou o emir, sacudindo o sábio.

Aixa sentiu-se protegida e prosseguiu:

— Esse homem conhece a palavra mágica que abre o caminho das fadas, a palavra que leva à porta do palácio das fadas. Quem conseguir entrar nele será o ser mais poderoso e mais feliz da terra. Porque não me revela ele a palavra?

— Fala! — ordenou Ben Tahir.

— Essa palavra — disse o mago — pode conduzir à infelicidade eterna. A escada não pode ser subida pelos humanos.

— Já te disse — exclamou o emir com decisão — que, se é desejo de minha filha subir a escadaria, subi-la-á. Quero que seja feliz, que viva contente e ria de novo.

Perante as exigências do emir, o mago não se atreveu a protestar mais, e disse, com um encolher de ombros:

— Tu assim quiseste, emir. Devo porém avisar-te de que é preciso que tanto tu como tua filha obedeçam a todas as ordens que vos der, já que o atraso de um segundo no cumprimento das mesmas poderá ser fatal. Ficaríeis sepultados no fundo da misteriosa montanha.

— Cumpriremos as tuas ordens — disseram Aixa e o pai.

Na noite seguinte, encontraram-se à meia-noite e dirigiram-se para perto da escadaria das fadas. O velho sábio não parava de olhar as estrelas, à espera de que ocupassem a posição favorável. Nesse momento, o galo cantou.

— Utiliza imediatamente o poder mágico que conduz ao país das fadas — ordenou o emir.

O ancião, sem fazer muito caso das palavras do emir, acendeu uma tocha e pegou numlivro muito velho e de páginas amarelecidas e letras esquisitas. Colocou um anel sobre a primeira página e começou a ler, lentamente, a meia-voz. Quando terminou a leitura da primeira página, produziu-se um tremendo ruído no seio da montanha.

Aixa e seu pai estremeceram, enquanto o ancião, como se nada tivesse ouvido, continuava.

A escadaria pareceu iluminar-se e a jovem começou a subi-la.

O mago disse ao ouvido de Ben Tahir:

— Sobe também. Verás algo de maravilhoso.

O pai de Aixa deu início à subida, e o velho voltou à sua monótona leitura.

Ao terminar a terceira página, ouviu-se outro ruído, ainda mais forte do que o primeiro.

Foi então que a jovem e o emir viram desenhar-se no rochedo a forma de uma porta arqueada, que se foi abrindo lentamente, à medida que o mago pronunciava as palavras cabalísticas do misterioso livro.

Quando na rocha se abriu o espaço suficiente para dar passagem a um homem, Aixa e Ben Tahir penetraram no Paraíso das Fadas.

Pai e filha pararam perplexos. Ante os seus olhos acostumados às maiores magnificências, deparava-se algo com que jamais podiam ter sonhado, algo de tão fantástico que só podia ser uma das mais maravilhosas fantasias do longínquo Oriente. Ali, não longe deles, estavam uns seres quase transparentes, que olhavam os recém-chegados com um estranho sorriso nos lábios. Eram as fadas daquele incomparável paraíso.

Uma delas fez um gesto a Aixa.

— Vem — disse. — Estávamos à tua espera...

— Que maravilha! — repetia Aixa continuamente.

— Parai! — gritou o mago.

A sua voz era tão imperiosa que a jovem ficou por momentos no umbral do palácio.

— Vem! — insistiu a fada.

— Regressai! — repetiu o mago.

Aixa, acostumada como estava a obedecer, voltou para trás, e o pai pousou-lhe uma mão no ombro, satisfeito por ver que a luz e a alegria lhe tinham voltado ao rosto. Em seguida, a porta fechou-se com um estrondo, obedecendo a umas palavras mágicas do sábio.

A jovem estava felicíssima; beijava o pai, abraçava o velho mago e repetia mil vezes que não existia na terra ninguém mais feliz do que ela. Pelo contrário, o velho mestre mostrava-se mais sombrio do que nunca.

Quando regressaram ao palácio, o velho mago dirigiu-se a Ben Tahir e disse:

— Poderoso emir, eu cumpri a minha promessa. Cumpri agora a vossa, permitindo que regresse à minha pátria, para morrer sob o céu que me viu nascer.

— Se a minha filha consentir, serás livre.

Aixa estava tão contente que acedeu a dar a liberdade ao seu velho mestre, mas com a condição de que este lhe deixasse o livro misterioso e o anel que tinha o poder de abrir o palácio das fadas.

O mago não pensou duas vezes e entregou-lhos.

— São teus. Guarda-os como recordação de quem iluminou a tua inteligência com a luz da sabedoria. Porém, serve-te deles com cuidado, não abusando do seu ilimitado poder. Não esqueças que na vida está também a morte.

Depois de ditas estas palavras, o ancião deixou o palácio do emir e partiu imediatamente para a sua terra, carregado de belos presentes que Ben Tahir lhe dera como recompensa por ter devolvido a felicidade à filha.

O tempo passou. Uma noite, Aixa não pôde dormir. Lembrava-se todos os dias do que tinha visto no palácio das fadas. Pegou no livro misterioso e no poderoso anel e, acompanhada da sua escrava favorita, dirigiu-se à escadaria de pedra. Quando as estrelas atingiram no seu curso o lugar que o ancião havia assinalado, a donzela abriu o livro e leu as palavras mágicas. Tal como naquela outra noite, a montanha começou a abrir-se, até permitir a entrada no paraíso das fadas.

Aixa entregou o livro e o anel à escrava, e hipnotizada com as maravilhas que se lhe deparavam, entrou no palácio encantado. Só que agora não estava ali o mago para a avisar, e Aixa ficou encerrada naquele maravilhoso lugar que tanto havia desejado conhecer.

Quando o sol despontou, ao ver que Aixa não regressava, a escrava foi contar ao emir o que tinha acontecido. Este pegou no livro, disposto a lê-lo todo, se necessário fosse, mas os sinais misteriosos eram incompreensíveis.

— Que se reúnam todos os meus homens e que partam em busca do velho mago — ordenou, então.

Foram imediatamente enviados emissários em todas as direcções, mas o velho não apareceu em parte alguma. Era como se a terra o tivesse tragado. Ben Tahir não se deu por vencido e mandou o exército derrubar a montanha. Em vão. Nem a mais pequena brecha pôde ser aberta na rocha.

Decorreram os anos, até que, um dia, o poderoso emir morreu de desespero junto da montanha misteriosa. Ninguém soube se a donzela moura pôde alguma vez voltar à luz do dia.

Os que hoje passam por aquele lugar não podem deixar de recordar a lenda daquela que, no passado, se deixou deslumbrar pelos próprios caprichos, em lugar de pôr a sua sabedoria ao serviço da bondade e da beleza.

Colecção Heidi

Aladino e a Lâmpada Mágica

Editorial Íbis, Liv. Bertrand

(adaptação)

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Nem só de pão

 — Mas onde é que ele está? — pergunta o pai. — A escola já acabou há tanto tempo!

A mãe vai, uma vez mais, ver o horário e meneia a cabeça. Percebe-se uma pontinha de medo na sua voz quando diz:

— Geralmente, já cá costuma estar…

— Não — o pai meneia a cabeça. — Não é bem assim. Lembras-te de que ele ainda no outro dia voltou a…

— Tirou a joaninha do passeio e foi pô-la na relva…

— Exactamente — diz o pai. — E não foi há tanto tempo assim que ele…

— Eu sei — diz a mãe. — Que ele queria tirar a minhoca do bico do melro…

— Então e não tirou a borboleta da poça de água?

— Salvou o abelhão de morrer na teia de aranha, queres tu dizer…

— Não interessa — diz o pai. — De qualquer forma, ele ainda não chegou.

“Está a demorar tanto…” pensa a mãe. “Tanto…”

Já tinha ido à janela espreitar primeiro para a rua, na direcção de onde ele costumava vir, depois para o outro lado e ainda para o parque em frente. Mas agora não podia deixar o que estava a fazer na cozinha

— Pronto, vou eu, então — consola-a o pai. — Eu encontro-o já!

“Se não tiver acontecido nada…” pensa a mãe.

Nesse momento, tocam com força à campainha. Os pais acorrem à porta. Matias precipita-se para dentro. O pai e a mãe olham para o filho, depois entreolham-se. O que irá ele dizer? Solta-se uma torrente de palavras:

— Sabem? Sabem? — exclama, ainda ofegante.

— Não —diz o pai afavelmente. — Não sabemos. Infelizmente, nós os dois não sabemos de nada.

— Ali em baixo está uma pomba que só tem uma pata!

Matias lança a novidade com os olhos arregalados de espanto e visivelmente excitado.

— Só tem uma pata, aquela pomba — continua. — A pata direita, e de cada vez que quer chegar à comida, bem… uma mulher estava a dar-lhe comida e vinham sempre as outras todas e eram muito mais rápidas. Eu dizia — xô, xô, — mas só assustava a que tinha uma pata e ela fugia… Voar, voava bem, mas no chão… e as outras… as outras…

As palavras perderam-se. Fica apenas um filho consternado que olha, desesperado, ora para a mãe, ora para o pai, durante muito tempo.

— E foi por isso que vieste tão tarde da escola? — pergunta o pai afavelmente — Outra vez?

Matias diz que sim com a cabeça.

— As pombas com duas patas roubam o pão à que só tem uma. Ela não é suficientemente rápida… é lenta, muito… demasiado lenta…

Os olhos assustados abrem-se ainda mais.

— Vai morrer à fome? — pergunta.

— Não, não vai — diz o pai com voz determinada. — A mãe já vai buscar alguma coisa à cozinha — e deita-lhe um olhar. A mãe defende-se:

— Agora vamos comer, se não, as panquecas…

Mas o pai nem sequer ouviu.

— …já traz pão da cozinha — diz.

— Mas aquecidas não são tão boas!

— …pão da cozinha, e depois vamos lá ver o que podemos fazer com a pomba, não é?

O pai parece muito divertido ao falar. A mãe traz pão da cozinha. Matias meneia a cabeça algumas vezes. Ainda está perturbado com o que acabara de ver.

— …e depois vêm sempre as pombas com duas patas — continua — e a que só tem uma encolhe-se. Salta para o lado, cheia de medo e…

— Onde é que ela está? — quer saber o pai.

Matias conduz os pais até ao banco verde perto dos arbustos. As pombas já estão à espera, sacodem as asas e esvoaçam, debicam o pão que as pessoas lhes deitam, gostam de ir comê-lo à mão.

— Agora vamos ver se juntos conseguimos — diz o pai com energia.

Ah! A pomba que só tem uma pata também aparece. Aproxima-se aos saltinhos, com dificuldade. Matias aponta para ela, saltita de um pé para o outro, aos gritos:

— Ali! Está ali! Estás a vê-la? Aquela ali! Aquela!

Não é mesmo nada fácil ajudá-la. Sozinho, Matias nunca teria conseguido dar-lhe de comer. — Xô, xô! — faz ele. Muitas vão embora, enquanto a pomba doente fica junto do pai. As outras também recebem alguma coisa, mas ela recebe um verdadeiro banquete.

Matias está feliz. Ao sentar-se à mesa para almoçar, diz-lhe o pai:

— Se tivesses vindo logo… quero dizer, se nos tivesses chamado logo depois da escola, não é… não teria sido bem melhor?

Matias pensa e responde:

— É provável. És capaz de ter razão, mas agora, ela também já tem a barriga cheia.

Lutz Besch

Jutta Modler (org.)

Brücken Bauen

Wien, Herder, 1987

Tradução e adaptação

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A Estrela de Erika

Nota da autora

 Em 1995, cinquenta anos depois do fim da Segunda Guerra Mundial, encontrei a mulher de que fala esta história. O meu marido e eu estávamos sentados na beira de um passeio em Rothenburg, na Alemanha. Observávamos uns trabalhadores a limparem as ruínas do telhado da Câmara. Na noite anterior, um tornado tinha-se abatido sobre esta bonita aldeia medieval. Havia entulho um pouco por todo o lado. Um velho comerciante disse-nos que os estragos causados por este tornado se assemelhavam aos da última ofensiva dos Aliados durante a guerra. O comerciante entrou na sua loja, e uma senhora, sentada perto de nós, apresentou-se como sendo Erika.

Perguntou-nos se tínhamos vindo fazer turismo naquela região. Quando lhe disse que vínhamos de Jerusalém, onde passáramos duas semanas a fazer pesquisas, confessou-nos, com um suspiro, que desejava muito lá ir mas que não tinha dinheiro para a viagem. Ao ver uma estrela de David pendurada ao seu pescoço, disse-lhe que, no regresso de Israel, tínhamos passado pelo campo de concentração de Mauthausen, na Áustria. Erika confessou-nos que, um dia, tinha tentado visitar o campo de Dachau, mas que não conseguira franquear a porta.

Depois, contou-nos a sua história…

Entre 1933 e 1945, seis milhões de homens e mulheres do meu povo foram mortos. Muitos foram fuzilados. Muitos morreram de fome. Muitos foram incinerados nos fornos ou asfixiados nas câmaras de gás. Eu escapei.

Nasci em 1944. Não sei o dia. Não sei como me chamava ao nascer.

Não sei em que cidade nem em que país nasci.

Não sei se tive irmãos ou irmãs. O que sei é que, apenas com alguns meses, escapei ao Holocausto.

Imagino muitas vezes como seria a vida dos membros da minha família durante as últimas semanas que passámos juntos. Imagino o meu pai e a minha mãe, despojados de todos os seus bens, forçados a abandonar a sua casa, enviados para o gueto.

Talvez depois tenhamos sido expulsos do gueto. De certeza que os meus pais tinham pressa de deixar o bairro rodeado de arame farpado para onde tinham sido relegados, de escapar ao tifo, ao excesso de pessoas, à imundície e à fome. Mas teriam alguma ideia do local para onde estavam a ser enviados? Ter-lhes-iam dito que iam para um local mais acolhedor, onde teriam comida e trabalho? Terão chegado até eles os rumores sobre os campos da morte?

Pergunto-me o que terão sentido quando os conduziram à estação, juntamente com centenas de outros judeus. Amontoados num vagão de transporte de animais. De pé, uns contra os outros, por falta de espaço. Terão entrado em pânico quando ouviram correr os ferrolhos?

De aldeia em aldeia, o comboio deve ter atravessado paisagens campestres estranhamente poupadas ao terror. Durante quantos dias ficámos naquele comboio? Quantas horas os meus pais passaram apertados um contra o outro? Imagino que a minha mãe devia ter-me bem encostada a ela para me proteger dos maus cheiros, dos gritos, do medo, que reinavam neste vagão lotado. Tinha de certeza compreendido que não íamos para um lugar seguro.

Pergunto-me onde estaria exactamente. No meio do vagão? O meu pai estaria junto dela? Ter-lhe-á dito que fosse corajosa? Terão falado do que iam fazer? Quando teriam tomado aquela decisão? Será que a minha mãe disse “Desculpa. Desculpa. Desculpa.”? Terá aberto a custo um caminho por entre aquela mole humana até à janela do vagão? Terá murmurado o meu nome ao embrulhar-me num cobertor bem quente? Terá coberto a minha cara de beijos e dito que me amava? Terá chorado? Rezado?

Logo que o comboio abrandou, ao atravessar uma aldeia, a minha mãe deve ter espreitado pela fresta do vagão. Ajudada pelo meu pai, deve ter afastado o arame farpado que ocultava a abertura. Deve ter esticado os braços para a luz pálida do dia. A única coisa que sei com certeza foi o que aconteceu a seguir.

A minha mãe atirou-me pela janela do comboio.

Atirou-me para cima de um pequeno quadrado de relva, junto de uma passagem de nível. Havia pessoas à espera de que o comboio passasse; viram-me cair do vagão de carga. No caminho que conduzia à morte, a minha mãe lançou-me à vida.

Alguém pegou em mim e levou-me para casa de uma mulher que se ocupou de mim. Que arriscou a vida por mim. Calculou a minha idade e atribuiu-me uma data de nascimento. Decidiu que me chamaria Erika. Deu-me um lar. Alimentou-me, vestiu-me, mandou‑me à escola. Fez tudo por mim.

Casei aos vinte e um anos com um homem maravilhoso. Ele aliviou muita da tristeza que me assaltava com frequência, percebeu o meu desejo de pertencer a uma família. Tivemos três filhos, que hoje têm os seus filhos também. No rosto deles, reconheço o meu.

Dizia-se outrora que o meu povo seria um dia tão numeroso como as estrelas do céu. Entre 1933 e 1945 caíram seis milhões de estrelas do céu. Cada uma delas corresponde a um membro do meu povo, cuja vida foi rasgada, cuja árvore genealógica foi arrancada.

A minha árvore lançou raízes.

A minha estrela ainda brilha.

Ruth Vander Zej/Roberto Innocenti

L’étoile d’Erika

Toulouse, Milan Jeunesse, 2000

(Tradução e adaptação)

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A igreja do rei

Era uma vez um rei que quis edificar uma igreja magnífica em honra da Virgem, decretando que ninguém nos seus estados pudesse contribuir para a obra, ainda mesmo com a mais pequena quantia.

Quando o edifício se concluiu, enorme, soberbo, grandioso, mandou o rei gravar numa pedra de mármore uma inscrição em letras de oiro, que dizia que só ele, e mais ninguém, tinha levado a cabo aquela obra monumental. Mas na noite seguinte o nome do rei foi apagado da inscrição, substituído pelo de uma pobre mulherzinha do povo. O rei ao outro dia tornou a mandar gravar o seu nome na inscrição, e de novo foi  substituído  pelo  da  pobre  mulher;  à terceira vez, sucedeu o mesmo. O rei, cheio de cólera, ordenou então que lhe levassem a mulher à sua presença.

―Proibi a todos os meus vassalos — disse ele ―que contribuíssem fosse com o que fosse para a edificação desta igreja; vejo que não cumpriste as minhas ordens.

―Senhor — respondeu a velhinha toda trémula — eu respeitei as vossas ordens, apesar da mágoa que sentia por não poder oferecer o meu pequenino óbolo em honra da Virgem, mas julguei não desobedecer a Vossa Majestade, deixando por vezes de jantar para comprar um pouco de feno, que eu levava às escondidas aos bois que conduziam as pedras destinadas à construção da igreja.

―O teu nome é mais digno do que o meu de figurar em letras de oiro na inscrição do monumento — disse-lhe o rei.

Mas, na noite seguinte uma invisível mão restabeleceu na lápide da igreja o nome do rei, que desde então lá se conserva ainda.

Guerra Junqueiro

Contos para a Infância

Porto, Editora Justiça e Paz, 1987

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Global Campus

world wide education initiative

Favela da Paz

 

Monte Cerro

Members of 'Favela da Paz', São Paulo, Brazil

Favela da Paz, led by Claudio Miranda, is a project situated in Jardim Ângela, a favela (slum) in São Paulo and one of the most brutal neighbourhoods in the world. For more than twenty years Claudio and his friends have been working together to transform pain and poverty into hope through the joy of art and music.  They run the successful band Poesia Samba Soul and a cultural project which offers hundreds of young people a perspective of life beyond drugs and violence through the possibility to study music, filmmaking and recording.
A friend of the project since 2009, Claudio and other members of Poesia Samba Soul have participated in Global Campus events in Tamera and Colombia, as well as the 2010 Grace Pilgrimage in Bogotá.  Members of Tamera have visited and collaborated with his project in São Paulo.  Through his contact to the global community Claudio developed a vision for the “Favela Da Paz” (“slum of peace”).  For the development and manifestation of this dream he needs the support of people who share his global vision, therefore five people from “Poesia Samba Soul” will have the chance to come to Tamera and to study this summer.

What we have received                       5000  Euros

What we still need                             7069  Euros

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Members of San José de Apartadó, Colombia

Located in one of the most violent areas of the world, the village of San José de Apartadó has taken a radical stand in its commitment to create a peace community. They do not tolerate weapons or violence in their village and they refuse to cooperate with any of the warring factions. Since its inception in 1996, 200 members of this community have been killed.  The peace village has become a role model for other peace initiatives in Colombia through its determination and courage to refuse to comply with violence.
Tamera has had a close relationship with this peace village for years, including many visits, collaborations and education times at both locations, the last of which was the Grace Pilgrimage in Bogotá followed by a gathering of the Global Campus in Mulatos, a model university and village built in the middle of the jungle in Colombia.
This summer, ten members of the community will join the Global Campus, beginning the next step of cooperation between the projects and a continuation of the profound love story of the emerging planetary community.

 

What we have received                      20500  Euros
What we still need                            20639  Euros

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Monte Cerro

Members of Peace Community Torreon, Mexico

In one of the most violent cities affected by Mexico’s drug wars a group is coming together to create a peace community.  Faced with the situation of the children and the youth in the area that grow up with no perspective for the future, they created “Pi Pao Angelito de los Niños”, bringing inner-city children to the countryside and offering them tools towards peace, connection to nature, and positive alternatives.  They are also creating a city garden mainly based on permaculture principles. Members of the community are in the process of looking for land to live and work on, towards creating a center for light and hope in this country of strong conflict.  Rosa Belia Sánchez Ochoa, one if the founders of the Peace Community, is a Body-Mind Instructor and the Torreon director for Río Abierto, an internationally practiced system for human development based on integrated spiritual work to break free from cycles of fear and distrust and explore human potential. Rosa Belia first came to Tamera in 2009, and since then members of both communities have traveled and collaborated in education times at both sites.  This year five of the founding members return to Tamera, looking forward to connect to the Global Community and participate in a field of mutual support, education and nourishment for people working on the issues of our times.

 

What we have received                     4000  Euros
What we still need                         13569  Euros

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Bata of 'The Barefoot College', Tilonia, India

The Barefoot College and Tamera are long time cooperation partners, members of Tamera have visited the project in India and one of the leaders of the Barefoot College, Vasu, was present at the first conversation about the idea of the Global Campus during the Summer University in Tamera in 2006.
The Barefoot College provides basic services, education and solutions to rural communities in India with the objective of making them self sufficient and sustainable. The main issues are solar energy, water, education, health care, rural handicrafts, people’s action, communication, women’s empowerment and wasteland development. The education in solar technology has extended around the world; women from villages around the world come to the Barefoot College for training.
Bata is of the second generation of the Barefoot College.  She grew up in the project, studied outside, and returned to continue the work of her father in the Media Agency.  Since 2006 she has served as a professional film maker, has made 24 short films, and has travelled to Africa and other international Barefoot College satellite stations, places where the women trained in solar technology return to implement their new skills.

 

What we have received                     300  Euros
What we still need                         2814  Euros

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Monte Cerro

Philip Munyasia of 'OTEPIC', Kenya

Born and raised in Northern Kenya, Philip’s life of service is a response to the situation of his country.  All around him he sees the struggle for survival: people have little opportunity for education, small plots of land, and limited access to water.  Inspired to find a different path, to help his people have a better life, Philip manifested opportunities for education.  He studied at an agricultural college in Kenya and went to the USA to learn about Bio Intensive farming.  
Philip founded the OTEPIC project in 2003, using his knowledge to train other people and creating a small organic garden.  They now train hundreds of farmers every year; many of the participants are women. OTEPIC’s projects span far beyond agricultural: tree nurseries and reforestation; practical workshops for making soap, solar cookers, and brickets from local materials for cooking fuel; programs for youth and street children and health education for HIV awareness and other issues.  Last summer Philip participated in the Global Campus for three months and learned new skills towards ecological, technological and social solutions for the future. He immediately translated this new knowledge to his region, sharing his learning through training programs for others.  He hopes to develop a water landscape according to the methodology of Sepp Holzer, complete with lakes for water retention and an edible permaculture landscape.

 

What we have received                       1800  Euros
What we still need                             1414  Euros

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Lee Ziv, Israel

Lee is an Israeli peace activist working in the Middle East.  She is a producer, project leader, tour leader and a bridge builder between people, projects and hope.
Lee is a co-founder of Musaique project, a diverse group of musicians that have come together from all over the Middle East and beyond.  The Musaique group, working in cooperation with Tamera, wants to become a global project focused on breaking down the barriers and borders between religions and nations through music.
Lee is a tour guide with Mejdi group, a tour company that leads an utterly new form of tourism for Israel and Palestine called ‘Dual Narrative’ Tours - always led by an Israeli Jew and a Palestinian partner who are engaged in peace building through learning the different narratives of this land.
By walking on the path of reconciliation in this land, Lee has learned the importance of becoming a global worker, moved by the understanding that all of us come from the same source and wish for the same healing. She comes to the Global Campus to learn from others, to bring her experience and to expand the global network of people who are dreaming of the same future of truth, peace and love.

 

What we have received                         800  Euros
What we still need                             2200  Euros