Im Grenziand is the story of a Kurdish man who comes into possession of a map of landmines planted during the war in the no man's land at the border. With this map, the smuggler is able to negotiate a path through the border region and bring back rarities that have become luxury items because of an embargo against the country. The smuggler finds less success, however, in negotiating the labyrinth of secret police and armed forces when he learns of his son's involvement with Islamic fundamentalism. -JB He tried hard to hide his fear, especially from his buyers. He delayed the next tour as long as he could. He came up with excuses, got sick, had to take a short trip. But it just isn't possible to hide for long in a small city. Finally he had to take off, without having imagined a satisfactory resolution to this horrible situation. Contrary to his expectations, everything went fairly well. When he came upon the boot tracks they had almost blown away, as if something had closed over the changes that had shocked him. The gray earth that had held their imprint appeared to have tightened, smoothing out the impression. Of course the smuggler did not forget what the footprints meant. But he wanted to be reassured that all that was now past, and since it was quiet again and only the wind surrounded him, a calm light mood did in fact set in. Only the next time or the time after that did it all come back to him again. He had been on the road long enough by now to remain calm and concentrate at the same time. The night was mild. The wind was strong and seemed to change direction every ten minutes. That annoyed him because he could hardly hear anything else. He remembered how he had looked at the dark river which that night seemed to him like an enormous solid shape; the longer he stared at it, the more motionless it became. His glance wanted to stay glued to the surface of this creature. Back then he could still hear the village dogs before he went on. By the time the cliff plateau came into view, he had long since sunk into his isolation, into the sound of his steps and his own breathing. The horror that would turn him to stone the next moment only became apparent after a second glance. The smuggler had been riveted on the dark outlines of the cliff as he looked up and ahead along the path. The cliff was simply his biggest obstacle. Out of the corner of his eye he had become aware of a protrusion by the side of the road, perhaps two hundred meters away. He looked in that direction, then turned away again. He forced himself to look once more. He approached and it remained what it had appeared to be from a distance-a leg growing up out of the ground. It was unnaturally thin, as if the earth had swallowed a large doll head first. The shoe on the end of the leg was clearly recognizable. As he stood in front of it, the wind enveloped him in the last of the sweet odor of decay. What irritated him was the slightly bent twig on which the shoe had been skewered. Some
{"title":"From \"Im Grenzland (In the Borderland)\"","authors":"S. Fatah, Janice Becker","doi":"10.2307/25304883","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304883","url":null,"abstract":"Im Grenziand is the story of a Kurdish man who comes into possession of a map of landmines planted during the war in the no man's land at the border. With this map, the smuggler is able to negotiate a path through the border region and bring back rarities that have become luxury items because of an embargo against the country. The smuggler finds less success, however, in negotiating the labyrinth of secret police and armed forces when he learns of his son's involvement with Islamic fundamentalism. -JB He tried hard to hide his fear, especially from his buyers. He delayed the next tour as long as he could. He came up with excuses, got sick, had to take a short trip. But it just isn't possible to hide for long in a small city. Finally he had to take off, without having imagined a satisfactory resolution to this horrible situation. Contrary to his expectations, everything went fairly well. When he came upon the boot tracks they had almost blown away, as if something had closed over the changes that had shocked him. The gray earth that had held their imprint appeared to have tightened, smoothing out the impression. Of course the smuggler did not forget what the footprints meant. But he wanted to be reassured that all that was now past, and since it was quiet again and only the wind surrounded him, a calm light mood did in fact set in. Only the next time or the time after that did it all come back to him again. He had been on the road long enough by now to remain calm and concentrate at the same time. The night was mild. The wind was strong and seemed to change direction every ten minutes. That annoyed him because he could hardly hear anything else. He remembered how he had looked at the dark river which that night seemed to him like an enormous solid shape; the longer he stared at it, the more motionless it became. His glance wanted to stay glued to the surface of this creature. Back then he could still hear the village dogs before he went on. By the time the cliff plateau came into view, he had long since sunk into his isolation, into the sound of his steps and his own breathing. The horror that would turn him to stone the next moment only became apparent after a second glance. The smuggler had been riveted on the dark outlines of the cliff as he looked up and ahead along the path. The cliff was simply his biggest obstacle. Out of the corner of his eye he had become aware of a protrusion by the side of the road, perhaps two hundred meters away. He looked in that direction, then turned away again. He forced himself to look once more. He approached and it remained what it had appeared to be from a distance-a leg growing up out of the ground. It was unnaturally thin, as if the earth had swallowed a large doll head first. The shoe on the end of the leg was clearly recognizable. As he stood in front of it, the wind enveloped him in the last of the sweet odor of decay. What irritated him was the slightly bent twig on which the shoe had been skewered. Some","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"91"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304883","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69014731","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
An everyday sort of earthquake had caused the sapphire bottle of cholesterol-free mineral water from the Scottish highlands, which welcomed you to your suite at the Beverly Hilton along with compliments of the management, to vibrate off the nightstand and shatter against the marble base of the floor lamp, foiling your designs for yesterday evening. With a pained groan you rolled over onto your side-always the right-of the amusingly named king-size bed in order to call Mom in Santa Monica: "Are you okay?" Your attempts at a cover-up were easily thwarted: after all, it was safe to assume the light tremors weren't felt too far outside Los Angeles, and even in the age of CNN, news of something impossible to predict necessarily had to arrive after the actual event. What else could you do but admit you were in town three days sooner than expected? Because we had to take off first thing in the morning. "That's right, WE!" To Johannesburg. No not Africa, don't be silly: it's halfway to Las Vegas. No it's family business, not business business. Her memory was not deceiving her, she was the closest relative you had, and the last one left as well-it has to do with Florian. "You know very well who that is, Mom!" On account of his father. It's a funeral not a party. "He died, that's right!" Even before you could end the conversation ("If you'd like to... Of course I think it's appropriate!") with an "All right, see you soon!" it was clear what was coming: "My mother wants to meet you!" Her persistent refusal to meet or even acknowledge me, which had caused you seven years of pain, had never really bothered me, except to make me sorry for your sake. After all she was an old lady raised in a different world, under the Kaiser-what purpose would it serve to make her fragile heart bear one burden more? But now that I was finally going to meet her, I was excited to find out exactly who this person was, this woman capable of reducing you to a few pitiful excuses, and so much so that you coated yourself in a tar-like silence, which didn't become you at all, as the traffic shoved us from one signal to the next, while we rode our rented wheels from the land of the rising sun down the boulevard of the setting one, towards the giant, blindingly lit sign hawking California oranges at the end of the asphalted world. "You don't mean to tell me you're still running around in those Asian nightshirts!" A gray-haired lady in a white nurse's uniform had opened the door to one of the look-alike houses that fronted one of the look-alike lawns of saturated green (so perfect I had to convince myself it wasn't Astroturf) on one of the look-alike streets in quiet, upscale Brentwood Park. Her black face was beaming as she greeted you like a long-lost brother, then led us ("Bring them in, Nancy!") into a dimly lit room where clouds of Chanel No. 5 battled a lingering odor of Lysol. Now we were standing in front of a tiny old woman who looked as lost as a child in the overly large hospit
{"title":"From Cohn & Konig","authors":"J. Helfer, Philip Boehm","doi":"10.2307/25304895","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304895","url":null,"abstract":"An everyday sort of earthquake had caused the sapphire bottle of cholesterol-free mineral water from the Scottish highlands, which welcomed you to your suite at the Beverly Hilton along with compliments of the management, to vibrate off the nightstand and shatter against the marble base of the floor lamp, foiling your designs for yesterday evening. With a pained groan you rolled over onto your side-always the right-of the amusingly named king-size bed in order to call Mom in Santa Monica: \"Are you okay?\" Your attempts at a cover-up were easily thwarted: after all, it was safe to assume the light tremors weren't felt too far outside Los Angeles, and even in the age of CNN, news of something impossible to predict necessarily had to arrive after the actual event. What else could you do but admit you were in town three days sooner than expected? Because we had to take off first thing in the morning. \"That's right, WE!\" To Johannesburg. No not Africa, don't be silly: it's halfway to Las Vegas. No it's family business, not business business. Her memory was not deceiving her, she was the closest relative you had, and the last one left as well-it has to do with Florian. \"You know very well who that is, Mom!\" On account of his father. It's a funeral not a party. \"He died, that's right!\" Even before you could end the conversation (\"If you'd like to... Of course I think it's appropriate!\") with an \"All right, see you soon!\" it was clear what was coming: \"My mother wants to meet you!\" Her persistent refusal to meet or even acknowledge me, which had caused you seven years of pain, had never really bothered me, except to make me sorry for your sake. After all she was an old lady raised in a different world, under the Kaiser-what purpose would it serve to make her fragile heart bear one burden more? But now that I was finally going to meet her, I was excited to find out exactly who this person was, this woman capable of reducing you to a few pitiful excuses, and so much so that you coated yourself in a tar-like silence, which didn't become you at all, as the traffic shoved us from one signal to the next, while we rode our rented wheels from the land of the rising sun down the boulevard of the setting one, towards the giant, blindingly lit sign hawking California oranges at the end of the asphalted world. \"You don't mean to tell me you're still running around in those Asian nightshirts!\" A gray-haired lady in a white nurse's uniform had opened the door to one of the look-alike houses that fronted one of the look-alike lawns of saturated green (so perfect I had to convince myself it wasn't Astroturf) on one of the look-alike streets in quiet, upscale Brentwood Park. Her black face was beaming as she greeted you like a long-lost brother, then led us (\"Bring them in, Nancy!\") into a dimly lit room where clouds of Chanel No. 5 battled a lingering odor of Lysol. Now we were standing in front of a tiny old woman who looked as lost as a child in the overly large hospit","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"119"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-07-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304895","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69014961","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"[Wired, Sparks Flying, All Night Long, Then in Early]","authors":"H. Jackson, Nicholas Grindell","doi":"10.2307/25304901","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304901","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"152"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304901","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69015027","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Then Once More along the Low Bulging","authors":"Brigitte Oleschinski, Andrew Duncan","doi":"10.2307/25304937","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304937","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"222"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304937","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69015290","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Yes Yes No • Provide rights, resources, immediate actions, and interim measures and remedies information. • Investigate if complainant consents. If not‐ send nonparticipation letter & conduct gatekeeper assessment, Investigate if warranted by gatekeeper assessment; notify complainant if investigating. • Prevent from reoccurring by imposing restrictions such as campus trespass, or other actions as appropriate.
{"title":"Yes - No - Yes","authors":"Brigitte Oleschinski, Andrew Duncan","doi":"10.2307/25304935","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304935","url":null,"abstract":"Yes Yes No • Provide rights, resources, immediate actions, and interim measures and remedies information. • Investigate if complainant consents. If not‐ send nonparticipation letter & conduct gatekeeper assessment, Investigate if warranted by gatekeeper assessment; notify complainant if investigating. • Prevent from reoccurring by imposing restrictions such as campus trespass, or other actions as appropriate.","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"221"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304935","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69015245","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Towards Morning It Must Have","authors":"Brigitte Oleschinski, Andrew Duncan","doi":"10.2307/25304940","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304940","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"223"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304940","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69015403","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"To Be Human, Not:","authors":"E. Erb, R. Waldrop","doi":"10.2307/25304861","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/25304861","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42508,"journal":{"name":"CHICAGO REVIEW","volume":"48 1","pages":"68"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1,"publicationDate":"2002-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://sci-hub-pdf.com/10.2307/25304861","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"69013664","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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