Saturday, February 29, 2020

In the back country of Pakistan, you will find a unique ancient tribe of people who reside in the Chitral District of Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa province. What makes them unique to most Pakistanis is the fact that many people in the tribe have blonde hair and blue eyes. Let me also add that they claim to descend from Greece in the time of Alexander the Great.
It is no secret that Alexander the Great had conquered these lands over 2,000 year ago and had occupied the mountains of northern Pakistan in which he would sow the seeds of a tribe that lives on to this very day. Many experts, scientists and authors agree that the Kalash Tribes shows all the signs, rites, history and possibly the DNA of the ancient Greeks.
For example, in 2014, the New York Times reported that “The Kalash people of Pakistan were found to have chunks of DNA from an ancient European population. Statistical analysis suggests a mixing event before 210 B.C., possibly from the army of Alexander the Great.” Here is a DNA map from the NY Times article showing the possible influx of DNA into the Pakistani region.
A recent study prepared by Thessaloniki’s Aristotle University English Language Department assistant professor Elisavet Mela-Athanasopoulou shows the common elements shared by the language of the Kalash ethnic group in the Himalayas and Ancient Greek. The study proved common elements shared by Kalash language and Ancient Greek.
Who are the Kalash?
The Kalasha (Kalasha: Kaĺaśa, Nuristani: Kasivo) or Kalash, are a Dardic indigenous people residing in the Chitral District of Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa province of Pakistan. They speak the Kalasha language, from the Dardic family of the Indo-Iranian branch, and are considered a unique tribe among the Indo-Iranian peoples of Pakistan.
There are an estimated 3,000 Kalasha left in this beautiful tribe, and they have maintained their ancient culture and tribal rites for well over 2,000 years. Part of these rites include the making of distilled spirits and smoking marijuana. Rites that would be a death sentence in the religion of Islam. These rites are protected by a fierce tribal leader who enforces strict policies and keeps a watchful eye over his tribe. For example,  a leader of the Kalash, Saifulla Jan, has recently stated, “If any Kalash converts to Islam, they cannot live among us anymore. We keep our identity strong.”
A Kalashi tribal man, Kazi Khushnawaz was recently quoted saying;
“Long, long ago, before the days of Islam, Sikander e Aazem came to India. The Two Horned one whom you British people call Alexander the Great. He conquered the world, and was a very great man, brave and dauntless and generous to his followers. When he left to go back to Greece, some of his men did not wish to go back with him but preferred to stay here. Their leader was a general called Shalakash (i.e.: Seleucus). With some of his officers and men, he came to these valleys and they settled here and took local women, and here they stayed.
We, the Kalash, the Black Kafir of the Hindu Kush, are the descendants of their children. Still some of our words are the same as theirs, our music and our dances, too; we worship the same gods. This is why we believe the Greeks are our first ancestors.”
The Kalash Tribe Connection With the Religion of the Ancient Jews (Phoenicians/HebrewsGreeks)
The tribe dresses in what can be called traditional old orthodox Jewish-style. Kalasha women usually wear long black robes,


often embroidered with cowrie shells. The children wear their hair in orthodox Jewish-style ringlets and sport bright coloured topi hats. The women sometimes have tattooed faces, wear long black robes with colored embroidery.
The Kalash have no telephone, cars or modern amenities. They make their own bread, clothing, and live from agriculture. They celebrate a week-long Chamos festival with lots of singing, dancing, ritual, feasting and even the sacrifice of a goat.
During this time, the God Balomain (Baal) passes through the valley collecting prayers. Giant bonfire are lit on hills and torches carried by tribal members in honor of this God. They then dance in circles as they sing and chant around the fire just like can be found with the lost tribes of the American Phoenician Hebrew Indians and with the Irish Phoenician Hebrew in Ireland.
The Guardian reported in 2005 that they were a lost tribe who struggles for survival. Here is a quote from the article;
“Turquoise streams rush through leafy glades of giant walnut trees and swaying crops. Clusters of simple houses cling to steep forested slopes. Compared with many compatriots beyond their valleys, the Kalasha are charmingly liberal: drinking wine, holding dancing festivals and worshipping a variety of gods. Women wear intricately beaded headdresses, not burkas, and may choose their husband.”
“For me, the Kalasha are heroes, because they have reached the 21st century still living like their fathers,” said Athanasius Lerounis, a 50-year-old schoolteacher from Athens supervising construction of the centre, which is due to open next month. “We want to help them preserve that.”
In my many other articles on the Lost Tribes such as the Lost Tribe of Judah Found: The Scattered Children of Bab-ElLost Tribe of Judah Found: The Bedas, and The American Indians and Phoenician Hebrews: 10 Commandments Found in Arizona I detail that many of these same traits such as the dress, food customs, religious rites and tattoos that is common in almost every single tribe that I have researched.
These tribes can be found all over the world from Egypt to India and all the way to Ireland and England in places such as Kent that was once known as the Old Kingdom of Jute which was originally Juteland or the land of the Jutes. Jutland, is regarded as Judah’s land.  An adjective for Jute is “Jutish,” pronounced jootish. Kent is an early medieval kingdom said to be founded in the 5th century, in what is now South East England. Julius Caesar invaded the area in 55 and 54 BC, and he referred to the kings here as kings of Cantium.
How did the Kalash maintain their tribal rites and religious customs for over 2,000 years?
Even though the Kalash have kept their culture and maintained their tribal rites, many tribal members have been forcibly converted to Islam by the sword under penalty of death. The remaining tribal members are only the result of being isolated in the Pakistan mountains where they could escape and hide from Islamic crusaders. Professor of Islamic studies, U. Mass Dartmouth; and author,  had recently written and article in the Huffington Post titled, The Lost Children of Alexander the Great: A Journey to the Pagan Kalash People of Pakistan. In it he writes;
“High in the snow-capped Hindu Kush on the Afghan-Pakistani border lived an ancient people who claimed to be the direct descendants of Alexander the Great’s troops. While the neighboring Pakistanis were dark-skinned Muslims, this isolated mountain people had light skin and blue eyes. Although the Pakistanis proper converted to Islam over the centuries, the Kalash people retained their pagan traditions and worshiped their ancient gods in outdoor temples. Most importantly, they produced wine much like the Greeks of antiquity did. This in a Muslim country that forbade alcohol.
Tragically, in the 19th century the Kalash were brutally conquered by the Muslim Afghans. Their ancient temples and wooden idols were destroyed, their women were forced to burn their beautiful folk costumes and wear the burqa or veil, and the entire people were converted at swordpoint to Islam. Only a small pocket of this vanishing pagan race survived in three isolated valleys in the mountains of what would later become Pakistan.”
A 2009 article in the Telegraph explains how this tribe was also recently the targets of the conservative Islamic militant group known as the Taliban. The Telegraph had written:
“The group, believed to be descendants of Alexander the Great’s invading army, were shielded from conservative Islam by the steep slopes of their remote valleys.
While Sikhs, Hindus, and Christians were slowly driven out of Pakistan’s North West Frontier Province by Muslim militants, the Kalash were free to drink their own distilled spirits and smoke cannabis.
But the militant maulanas of the Taliban have finally caught up with them and declared war on their culture and heritage by kidnapping their most devoted supporter.
Taliban commanders have taken Professor Athanasion Larounis, a Greek aid worker who has generated £2.5 million in donations to build schools, clinics, clean water projects and a museum.
They are now demanding £1.25 million and the release of three militant leaders in exchange for his safe return.
According to local police, it was Professor Larounis’s dedication to preserving Kalasha culture that Taliban commanders in Nuristan, on the Afghan side of the border that made him a target.
Confirmation of the Taliban’s role in his kidnapping came as their leader Mullah Omar urged American and Nato leaders to learn from the history of Alexander the Great’s invasion of Afghanistan and his defeat by Pushtun tribesmen in the 4BC.”
More research and videos of the Kalash

Kalash Religion –

Harvard University
by M Witzel
Kalash Religion. (Extract from: The Ṛgvedic Religious System and its Central Asian and. Hindukush Antecedents. A. Griffiths & J.E.M. Houben (eds.). The Vedas:.
The Guardian
Feb 13, 2014 – Video released by Taliban calls on Sunnis to join fight against Kalashpeople and moderate Ismaili Muslims in Chitral valley.

Kalasha: Happiest people in Pakistan? 

LOST TRIBE OF ARYANS LIKE THE YAZEDI


Gul Sayed, 25, sports a grin a mile wide as she hugs me, a lone foreigner in her home.
She is a member of the Kalasha, a peace-loving pagan tribe living in the remote villages that lie between Northern Pakistan’s Chitral Valley and the Afghan border. 
She’s dressed in a black robe embroidered with rainbow threads, a beaded headdress adorned with cowrie shells and colorful necklaces. 
Rumour has it the blue-eyed, fair-skinned Kalasha are the descendants of the armies of Alexander the Great. But unlike their putative bellicose ancestors, the country’s smallest minority group -- numbering around 3,000 -- prefers to make love, not war. 
Proud of their warm, caring, crime-free culture, these could just be the happiest people in Pakistan.
 
We sing, gossip and sew. No chores— Gul Sayed, member of Kalasha

Sexually free

Take the tribe’s approach to matters of the heart.
Loveless liaisons hold no appeal for the spirited Kalasha women: "We choose our husbands, and if they don’t treat us well, or it doesn’t work out, we can leave and find a new partner," says Gul, as her two friends, teenage mothers Farida and Asmar, nod and blush. 


Nothing to shout about if you're a Western woman, but under rural Pakistan's strict Islamic code, it's a radical divergence from the norm. 
Here in their rustic one-room homes in the valley of Rumbur, the ladies clutch calm, cherubic infants, the progeny of such liberal unions. 
They live in tune with nature, amidst fields filled with crops, walnut, apricot and mulberry trees, and flanked by fast-flowing streams. 
From the terrace of Gul’s house, a web of channels and aqueducts fans out to distribute water to everyone in the village.
In the distance stands a mill, and further away a darkened temple, its wooden statues and altar stained with the blood of goats that are occasionally sacrificed to honor the Kalasha’s spirit ancestors.
Kalasha girl, PakistanThe fair-skinned Kalasha are said to be descended from the armies of Alexander the Great.

Pastoral lives 

As we nibble on grapes and apples laid out on a rug on the floor, Gul explains that she has just returned from the seclusion of the Bashali, a house at the bottom of the village, where the women are quarantined during menstruation or pregnancy. 
You’d think being viewed as impure, as Kalasha women are during this time, and forbidden to mingle with the menfolk, might dampen their spirits.
But no. It seems the Bashali is the perfect excuse for women to chill out. "We sing, gossip and sew -- no chores," says Gul, smiling. 
Up in higher pastures, a shepherd, who like most Kalasha men wears the Pakistani garb of shalwar khameez, is tending his goats.
Managing livestock is the main occupation of the men. "My husband has six cows and three hundred goats," says Asmar. 
And from the rooftop of Gul's house, I can see what the women do when they’re not in the Bashali, or gathering water, fruit, or firewood from the forests.
A couple of meters below, a girl is milling maize to make flatbread to be eaten with vegetable and goat curry, honey and tangy goat’s cheese, or tea, for a Kalasha-style Continental breakfast.
On a roof to the left, another violet-eyed beauty is bent over a sewing machine, her eyebrows knit in concentration as she adds a rainbow-colored border to a dress.
By her side a wizened old woman sits with a loom between her legs, weaving black cloth for the new clothes they will wear for the three-day Joshi Spring Festival. 
Kalsah dancingDancing and festivals make up a bit part of the Kalasha lifestyle.

Parties through the year

The Kalasha love a knees-up. Joshi, held in May, is one of four major festivals celebrated by the tribe. "We seek the blessings of our gods and goddesses for the safety of our herds and crops," explains Gul. 
At the break of dawn on the first day, children gather walnut branches and flowers to decorate their homes, and the doorway of the temple. 
As the sun rises, the villagers drink goat's milk and the men light a fire on the altar of the temple. They make offerings of goat’s blood, wine and honey to their spirit ancestors.
Then the fun begins. Girls gather in groups, clasp each other’s shoulders and dance, stomp and shuffle in circles. The men beat drums, play flutes and clap their hands to cheer them on. 
Year round, the Kalasha dance their way through a stream of festivals and rituals, and socially and culturally, theirs appears to be a joyful existence.


The only shadow on their rich, textured lives are the attitudes of some local Muslims towards their beliefs. 
"They  call us 'Kafirs,' unbelievers," says Gul, who like many of the Kalasha are fearful of their Islamic compatriots who live outside the valleys.
Still, times are changing.
In years gone by the Kalasha were threatened with forcible conversion to Islam, now the tribe receives government protection, improved health and education services, and -- bar an isolated incident when a Greek volunteer was kidnapped by the Taliban in 2009 and later released -- are largely untouched by the region’s political troubles.
Left to get on with living life to the brim, the Kalasha do just that, with compelling devotion.
getting there
Travelpak, www.travelpak.co.uk, based in London, can organize tailor-made tours to Pakistan, departing from anywhere in the world.
A two-week trip, taking in the Kalasha Valleys of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Northern Areas, costs from around US$1,600, excluding the cost of international flights.
Pakistan International Airlines (www.pia.com), Emirates (www.Emirates.com), Gulf Air (www.gulfair.com) all fly to Islamabad from destinations within Asia.

Jini Reddy is a London-based freelance journalist, writing on independent travel, personal development, wellbeing and lifestyle, for assorted newspapers, magazines and online media.
Follow Jini on Twitter: @Jini_Reddy 
Jini's website: www.jinireddy.co.uk









Connecting With Horses Is Like Living in a Fantasy Novel
Judith Tarr Mon Feb 24, 2020

Visiting the Horses by Adolf Heinrich Claus Hansen (1915)


Deep-down, in it for the long haul horse people have a look to them. They come in all shapes and sizes, and they aren’t all leathery whipcord types in well-worn breeches or a cowboy hat that’s seen a thousand miles and expects to last a thousand more. But you can spot them. It’s the way they stand in a crowd, not making an effort to be visible, and probably not saying much; giving way when the crowd pushes, but not letting themselves be pushed. They have a core of quiet to them.

It’s the way they talk, too, when you get them to open up. It’s not easy if they don’t know you. Oh, they’ll happily talk horses for hours if you’ll let them, but that’s surface stuff. The real, deep stuff, they save for people they trust.



All horse people, even longtime horse people, aren’t in that category. There’s a large contingent of empiricists, for whom horses are just horses: nonhuman animals, servants and sports equipment. Many of them are trainers, and very successful ones. They’ve mastered the art of getting horses to do what humans want them to do in ways that satisfy human standards of performance.

The counterpoint to the empiricist is the devoted hobbyist, the lover of all things horse. This person may come to horses early or late—as a child or a mature adult—but they truly love the species and will do anything for the horse or horses in their care. Whether they’re well off or making personal sacrifices to keep the horse bills paid, their horse gets the best of everything. Maybe they’re into shows or events. Maybe they’re happy just being with horses.

For them, horses are loved like children. They may actually take the place of human offspring, in the same way owners of pets call them “fur babies” and refer to themselves as parents. To the empiricist, a horse is essentially a Skinnerian machine—stimulus in, response out—but for the hobbyist, the horse is, in a quite literal way, family.

Human family. That’s the lens, as it is with the empiricist. The love of horses still centers the human.

When the lens shifts, then you’re looking at deep horsemanship. Horse at the center. Human wants and needs still very much present but making the horse the priority.

And then the story shifts toward what we (and definitely the empiricist) might call fantasy. “Anthropomorphism,” says the empiricist. Projecting human thoughts and feelings and social structures on a nonhuman animal.

Which is what the empiricist would say of the hobbyist, too, but there’s a difference. Deep horsemanship is:

Standing in a high pasture in a circle of mares. Feeling them rooted in earth, but poised between earth and sky. Realizing that they choose to show themselves to you.

Sitting all night with a dying horse, remembering all the years together. Waiting for the morning, knowing it will be the last. Being with her all the way to the end, however horrible those last hours may be.

Standing beside a horse who has gone down and can’t get up. Watching her slip into a dream—her first in days, because horses can’t get REM sleep while standing, and she hasn’t dared lie down for this exact reason: that she won’t get up again. She runs in her sleep, though her hindquarters are no longer working. Suddenly she whickers, as a horse does when she sees a loved one. Then she calls, a loud peal. And then she goes quiet, though she’s still alive; she’ll need your help to finish it. And you know: the ones who have gone before have called her home.

The loved horse is gone, suddenly or more slowly. Your heart has a huge hole in it. But within days, you’re driven to do something. Make a call. Check a sales website.

And there’s one. The person you called just hung up from another call: a horse is available, exactly what you’re looking for. Waiting for you. Needing you.

Or there’s one entry on the sales site. Not even the type or breed or age you were looking for. But you can’t get the horse out of your head. You contact the seller. You get answers to your questions.

The horse is deep in your head. You dream about her. Long before the papers are signed, she’s yours. She was always yours.

Morning in the foaling pen. Newborn lifts his head, looks at you. You know exactly what he is and who he is and that he’s for you. Or more precisely, you are for him. Anne McCaffrey wasn’t kidding. The eyes really do swirl at Impression.

Riding in the arena beside the pen with the mama mare and her three-day-old daughter. Daughter sees you riding and pitches a screaming, leaping, furiously jealous fit. And you realize she’s outraged because you’re not riding her. And even more outraged when you tell her she’s too little. She has to grow up.

Introducing visitors to a five-day-old foal. Visitors stand around talking. Except one. And you see that this baby, who has never been more than a few feet from her mother (and at this age she wouldn’t be), is over a hundred feet away. She has herded the visitor into a corner and is keeping him there. Claiming him.

It takes a few weeks, but in the end he admits: She’s in his head. He’s dreaming about her. Will I possibly consider selling her? Not that it’s even a choice. She’s made it for all of us. At five days old.

Deep horsemanship. A little like Impressing dragons. A lot like living in a fantasy novel.

Judith Tarr is a lifelong horse person. She supports her habit by writing works of fantasy and science fiction as well as historical novels, many of which have been published as ebooks by Book View Cafe and Canelo Press. She’s even written a primer for writers who want to write about horses: Writing Horses: The Fine Art of Getting It Right. Her most recent novel, Dragons in the Earth, features a herd of magical horses, and her space opera, Forgotten Suns, features both terrestrial horses and an alien horselike species (and space whales!). She lives near Tucson, Arizona with a herd of Lipizzans, a clowder of cats, and a blue-eyed dog.

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The Revolution Will Be Dramatized


Catching Fire came out November 2013.
Mockingjay: Part I came out November 2014.
In between, Mike Brown was killed by a police officer in Ferguson, Missouri, and the Ferguson Uprising took place.
This essay is about what it was like to live in an America that can rapturously and enthusiastically consume and cosplay revolution, and can look on real world resistance with disdain.
The first installment in the Hunger Games cinematic franchise was compelling, to be sure, but it was admittedly a bit underwhelming. For a story about a nation that punishes its citizens by dividing them into districts and then pitting their children against each other in a televised battle to the death, the first movie seemed to intentionally shy away from capturing the heinous nature of it all. It was dust-bowl bleary, certainly, but Katniss’ home in District 12 felt like stylized, not institutionalized, poverty. Once in the actual arena, it even felt a bit bright and breezy, portraying fellow competitors—you know, other children who were fighting to the death—as Katniss’ antagonists much of the time, and showing the Capitol—the seat of power responsible for all this—in short, visually captivating bursts, usually when Haymitch was soliciting donors to send Katniss gifts when she put on a good show.
Where the novel had been arresting, the first film went to great lengths to be another world, giving me pretty constant reprieves from the supposed oppressive injustice of Panem.
Catching Fire was the second novel in the Hunger Games trilogy, and it ground almost to a complete halt for me. Bluntly, Katniss performs a long, laborious, completely uncharacteristic wallowing act that felt very much like a middle book trying to rustle up enough story to justify the fact that there are three books. Because the hard part is apparently not being poor, oppressed, and living in a world where you’re too disconnected from your fellow countrypeople to effectively fight back. The hard part is having to say you’re in love with Peeta. She could not get into it, and I, in turn, could not get into that.
But the film adaptation. We bookish types like to bandy around mantras like “the book was better,” as though it’s a golden rule, like no film has ever improved on its source material. That’s just not true. I personally have several examples of movies that are better/more effective/more compelling than the novels that birthed them, and that’s not even speaking to adaptations that are simply as good. Catching Fire, the movie, reined in Katniss’s pity party and apparent willingness to jeopardize the family she went into the arena to save in the first place, and it made the games themselves feel real.
Importantly, it made the world in which the games could exist feel real. It was darker, and more violent… and to be honest, I was kind of amazed at how well received it was. It was, after all, about a revolution in the making. It was about a police state, in which there were no devil’s advocates arguing that there might be a few bad apples spoiling the bunch, or a few good guys mistakenly on the wrong side. There was an oppressive, dehumanizing, antagonizing, intensely penalizing power majority that was altogether wrong—and America celebrated it.
Three finger salutes went up all over the country.
Not only was it a hit, Catching Fire was praised for disallowing the viewer any distance from the violence. The District 11 execution that marks the first bloodshed in the film is heralded for being the focus of a steady frame—as opposed to the shaky cam employed in the first movie—and for being a moment during which Katniss was, as one review mentioned, “made to fully realize the capability for cruelty inherent in the government of Panem.” Yes, a set of doors closed before the bullet left the chamber—it’s PG-13, friends—but the effect was palpable. The viewer was spared neither that this was a full-scale terror, nor the immutable truth of the wrongness of military brutality being used against civilians.
That execution of the elderly Black man in that scene is meant to be impactful, but it knocked the wind out of me. It reminded me that in the real world, in real life, in my country, we have been terrorized by the repeated slaying of Black men, women, and children, at the hands of law enforcement. That in the film he was pulled from a crowd and made to kneel before being shot in the head did not feel fictionalized enough. It did not feel extreme or hyperbolic when as a child I’d seen footage of four cops beating a man until he was disfigured and required mobility aids. A country that could see that, acquit the perpetrators, and then demonize the community’s response, was telling you that time does not heal institutional and intentional wounds. It might infantilize you with admonishments to leave the past behind, but there is a straight line between chattel slavery and Jim Crow and refusal of civil liberties and lynchings and overcriminalization and economic disenfranchisement and cultural erasure and sustained gaslighting and mocking the very concept of reparations. And so while someone divorced from the reality of incessant oppression can split hairs and argue semantics, for me, there was nothing sensational about that execution. That my country could be riveted by Catching Fire’s unapologetic centering of such a killing—provoked in the film by a whistle and a salute of solidarity that tacitly defied the Capitol, and carried out in front of his own community, as District 11 was apparently the Black district—filled me with a wonderment, and a kind of cautious energy.
The optics hadn’t been accidental.
The themes couldn’t be overlooked.
Surely, all across the country, my real country, a realization was—forgive me—catching fire. Surely.
Fast-forward to August 2014, and the killing of Mike Brown. The first wave of the Ferguson Uprising, a series of riots that took place in Ferguson, Missouri over the course of the next five months, began the next day. It had been nine months since Catching Fire came out, but as the second film in a series, its popularity had persisted, as had its publicity. Surely, that same overflow of support and recognition was going to rise up, I thought. Surely people were going to raise their hands in solidarity, and disallow history to repeat itself. It wasn’t going to be mostly Black Americans decrying this most recent slaying by a police officer. Surely the public wasn’t going to stand for the victim blaming and character assassinations it had permitted in the past.
Then the nation’s most celebrated newspapers informed me that Mike Brown, the teenage victim, was no angel.
Then the media and various personalities denounced the community’s response, and the anger, and the riot.
Whatever hope I’d nursed in those first awful hours bled out. Whatever I knew and believed about the socializing agent of entertainment media, and the fact that messaging is of paramount importance in either perpetuating the status quo or laying a foundation for re-education and enculturation—it hadn’t happened. If it takes exposure to get to awareness to get to empathy to get to solidarity to get to action, America’s progress was always slower than I wanted to believe.
By the second wave of the Ferguson Uprising, spurred by a grand jury declining to indict the officer responsible for Mike Brown’s death, it was November, and Mockingjay Part 1 was in theatres. Katniss Everdeen bellowed, “If we burn, you burn with us,”— but outside the dark theater, the world did not come to Ferguson’s aid. The country did not rally to stand against the militarization of the police force, or the separate set of laws under which officers had proven to operate. Those who came did so to document, to photograph, to disseminate, and then to talk about it somewhere far away, from a distance that allowed “civil discourse” to seem like a solution. And while it would be unfair to say that Ferguson wasn’t a “come to Jesus” moment for anyone, nothing swept the nation but viral images of alternately defiant and devastated protesters, of disproportionately equipped police officers and National Guard service people.
America, it turned out, was less concerned with the death and terrorization of its citizens even than Panem. Revolution was a high concept, meant for splashy acquisition deals that would become blockbuster YA novels and then glittering film adaptations. It was to be consumed, not condoned.
How very Capitol of us.
Recently the long-awaited prequel to the Hunger Games trilogy was finally teased, and it turned out that the protagonist at the center will be a young Coriolanus Snow. As in future president and villainous oppressor of Panem, Coriolanus Snow. And seeing as the author lives in the same America that I do, you know what? That tracks.
It’ll make one hell of a movie.
Bethany is a recovering expat splitting her time between Montreal, Quebec, and upstate New York—yet another foreign place. A California native, Bethany graduated from the University of California, Santa Cruz with a BA in Sociology (but took notable detours in the Film and Theatre departments). Following undergrad, she studied Clinical Psychological Research at the University of Wales, Bangor, in Great Britain.
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NFU TACKLING THE FARM AND CLIMATE CRISIS

https://www.nfu.ca/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Tackling-the-Farm-Crisis-and-the-Climate-Crisis-NFU-2019.pdf