How Languages Bind Us Together

I love languages, in an armchair sort of way. I have no formal training in languages, but I am often struck by how the evolution of language is simply a superficial marker of the deeper evolution of culture. People move and take with them a piece of their ancestral culture in the form of certain rituals, yes, but more importantly, they take their language with them. This 'snapshot' of their past doesn't remain still either; it incorporates influences from the new homeland, and the evolution continues. But the ancestral links remain. I remember my own wonder when I first learned in school about the Romance languages and how they were all derived from Latin. I further remember my amazement at learning about this so-called Indo-European language family, and the fact that Latin and Sanskrit were sister languages! Common knowledge for us now, but still a powerful symbol of how cultures have traveled over millenia. For example, India and China are neighbors, but, separated by the Himalayas and some mighty rivers, their cultures have had little contact and hence, their languages--Indo-European/Dravidian and Sino-Tibetan language families respectively--have little in common. The ties between the Dravidian (South India) and Austro-Asiatic (South East Asia) languages are more complex: close connections in script, but little in terms of vocabulary.

Because of my interest in the general subject of languages, I was fascinated to see this footage of British actor, Eddie Izzard, going to Friesland in Northern Holland where some of the Anglo-Saxon tribes originally came from. Eddie knows that the local language, Frisian, is a Germanic language that is very similar to Old English. So, naturally, he attempts to buy a cow from a local farmer, by speaking in old English and seeing if he's understood. (Hat tip to Tall Blog.)

Change is here; now go change the details--habeas corpus edition

Now for some real news that, naturally, is consigned to oblivion thanks to the bailout and Valentine's Day newsthink. Yesterday, a federal judge ruled against the Obama Administration on a key aspect of the current habeas corpus mess: Define what an "enemy combatant" is before we decide whether to keep holding them.

In the first federal court ruling rejecting a position of the Obama Administration on detention of terrorism suspects, a federal judge in Washington on Wednesday turned aside an Administration plea to go forward with detainees’ challenges without first defining who may be held as an “enemy combatant.” U.S. District Judge John D. Bates decided that no habeas cases can be decided without settling who may be treated as an enemy in the “war on terrorism.” However, he did give the Administration some added time — until March 13 — to come up with an alternative definition to one that he will be using temporarily. The judge’s order, though written in moderate terms, conveyed some impatience with the government’s initial response.

Emphasis mine. If you don't know or care about habeas corpus...sigh. Obama is, as we've been reminded once or twice, a constitutional law professor, and once memorably talked during the campaign about the need to protect one of our most important rights:

But, the former constitutional law professor argued, "What I have also said is this: that when you suspend habeas corpus -- which has been a principle, dating before even our country, it’s the foundation of Anglo-American law -- which says, very simply, if the government grabs you, then you have the right to at least ask, 'Why was I grabbed?' and say, 'Maybe you’ve got the wrong person.'

"The reason you have that safeguard," he said, "is because we don't always have the right person. We don’t always catch the right person. We may think this is Mohammed the terrorist, it might be Mohammed the cab driver. You may think it’s Barack the bomb thrower, but it might be Barack the guy running for president.

Myes, "why was I grabbed?" If you don't care to remember what h/c is, please burn that phrase in your brain, and know that you have a constitutional right to ask that in court. Not just in America, either. As George Will points out:

No state power is more fearsome than the power to imprison. Hence the habeas right has been at the heart of the centuries-long struggle to constrain governments, a struggle in which the greatest event was the writing of America's Constitution, which limits Congress's power to revoke habeas corpus to periods of rebellion or invasion.

Now, back to Judge Bates' decision. Without a properly focused definition of "enemy combatant," this Administration can hold almost anyone indefinitely, and the burden of proof shifts inordinately to the defense--and hinges on the capability of their lawyers. Candidate Obama railed against such sloppy uses/abuses of government power. Now, President Obama needs to go change how that power is used. The devil was always in the details.

Today's Procrastination Utility

Stick Cricket is one of my favorite flash games of all time. They've done a great job of improving the graphics over the years and have come a long way from the initial, literally "stick" game graphics. Just press one of the arrow keys at the proper moment to score runs! The game comes in many flavors (I like the World Domination game) and there is also a nifty training mode.

If you like the cricket version, there is also a really cool Stick Baseball game!

The Utilitarian Ethic of Procrastination

Psychologists at Oxford University have discovered an intriguing phenomenon: playing Tetris may reduce flashbacks to traumatic events, a hallmark symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder:

The researchers report in PLoS ONE that for healthy volunteers, playing ‘Tetris’ soon after viewing traumatic material in the laboratory can reduce the number of flashbacks to those scenes in the following week. They believe that the computer game may disrupt the memories that are retained of the sights and sounds witnessed at the time, and which are later re-experienced through involuntary, distressing flashbacks of that moment.

It is not clear whether Tetris is unique among video or computer games in being able to disrupt memories. Even so, what is clear is that those parental admonishments against playing video games too much because they turn your brain into mush might, indeed, have some basis in fact.

Naturally, after all that inane talk, I quite understand if you have the overwhelming urge to go play some tetris:

The Utilitarian Ethic of Science

Scientists at Newcastle University have shown that by giving a cow a name and treating her as an individual, farmers can increase their annual milk yield significantly:

The study, published online in the academic journal Anthrozoos, found that on farms where each cow was called by her name the overall milk yield was higher than on farms where the cattle were herded as a group.

"Just as people respond better to the personal touch, cows also feel happier and more relaxed if they are given a bit more one-to-one attention," explains Dr Douglas, who works in the School of Agriculture, Food and Rural Development at Newcastle University.

The good doctor helpfully closes with this advice: "Placing more importance on knowing the individual animals and calling them by name can – at no extra cost to the farmer – also significantly increase milk production."

Something tells me that those farmers that aren't already predisposed to naming their livestock will find it difficult to incorporate his advice and suddenly begin sweet-talking Daisy and Bessie on their barnyard walks. What's more, I suspect that the cows themselves--intelligent beings that they are--might become suspicious if their owner goes from spitting or kicking at them to cooing sweet nothings on a moonlit night. If they don't become wary at this turn of events, evidenced by, say, a reduction in their milk production, said cows are likely not very bright after all.

It shouldn't be long now before we see numerous advertisements for seminars in cow-psychology, followed by early morning talk shows (Dr. Milk?), and a booming demand for cow-sitters (yes, I spelled that correctly). More likely, this will spawn the next great comic series--yes, Milkbert--where the bovine protagonist suffers through barnyard indignities and stupid HR policies. Hmmm, that gives me an idea for a hit TV show (you saw it here first)...The Barnyard.

No, Really, Truth is Stranger than Fiction

I love Will Ferrell and his political satire on Saturday Night Live. But, I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry when I saw this old routine:

I'm normally a cynic, but this is incredible!

This video warmed my heart, brought a lump to my throat, and generally blew me away. I must apologize to the folks in Britain because this is old news for them; America does occasionally find out about cool things like these, even if a bit late. Hat tip to Josie, and courtesy of Komando.

Turn the sound up!

More from Komando:

Paul Potts was an unassuming cell phone salesman from Wales. But he had a special hidden dream. He wanted to sing opera.

His big break came on the television show Britain’s Got Talent. It’s a variety show in the vein of American Idol. It even features the famous killjoy, Simon Cowell, as a judge.

In this video, you’ll see his first-round audition. Watch the judges’ faces. They don’t expect much from Potts. But that doesn’t last long. Potts went on to win that season of Britain’s Got Talent. And Sony released his first album in 2007.

Here's Paul's semi-final winning song:



And, the final (Nessun Dorma again):



The verdict:

News that should be more prominent

Afghanistan now has a road in the western part of the country that links to an Iranian route to the coast. India built the road at a cost of $85 million in order to be able to trade with Afghanistan by sea and through Iran, thus avoiding the need to go through Pakistan--to-date the only viable access route to Afghanistan. India has a major vested interest in a free, prosperous Afghanistan, much more so than the U.S., because of historic (and well-founded) worries that Afghan radicalism will quickly transfer to northwest India through Pakistan. On the other hand, Pakistan, being joined at the hip with Afghanistan thanks to the Durand Line monstrosity, cannot tolerate an independent Afghanistan or a close Indo-Afghan relationship for fear that India will seek to destabilize Pakistan from the west. Afghanistan for its part needs an alternate route to the coast to reduce its dependence on Pakistan. This is one of the reasons why India and Afghanistan have much to gain from a closer relationship with Iran, something the previous U.S. administration was loath to sanction because of their deep distaste for the Iranian regime. IMHO, Iran is the key to Afghanistan's future development. U.S. interests would be well-served if we recognize this. The Central Asian route being planned right now for U.S. military access is fine for the short- and medium-term, but this only connects you to the Caspian Sea and you also have to worry about numerous sources of instability, including the Russians and the Caucusus. A normalized relationship with Iran would be a Gordian Knot solution to Afghanistan--a country that one can safely say will persist as a concern for the long-term.

Yes I did

Tuesday, January 20, 2009: How I made it to Obama's Inaugural (and back).

7:15 a.m. Home: I had planned on getting on the metro at King Street Station by 7, but was still dilly-dallying at home trying to cram random supplies into my coat pocket when my wife turned on the TV and showed me the huge crowds that had already gathered on the mall. That was a necessary kick in the pants...an end to my feeble hopes that all those predictions of record crowds would prove to be wildly overstated and that I could simply saunter to the middle of the mall and find a good spot. I'm not sure why I thought this; maybe because over the last month many of my friends had decided against going, citing such novel reasons as the difficulty of getting to DC, uncertainty about the metro system's reliability, inadequate access to restrooms, large crowds, cold weather, etc., that I hoped most people would elect to stay home. I was channeling my inner Yogi Berra ("no one goes there any more; it's too crowded.").

7:30 a.m. King Street Station: Yawn, not much of a crowd. Bring it on! I mutter confidently, in the spirit of our outgoing President. Then, a train comes. It's a Blue line train and it's packed. Already! Just two stops into its journey. One person gets off, four squeeze into the spot she just vacated. My cheer is dulled a bit, but I hope my Yellow line train fares a little better. Optimistic chap, that's me. Enter Yellow line express, equally packed to the vents. I shuffle to the edge of the platform and assume a proper stance--wide with knees flexed in order to lower my center of gravity--to hold my position against the frantic mob behind me. Luckily, the train stops with a door exactly in front of me. Like a good NFL running back, I pick my slivers of daylight among the huddled bodies and soon disappear into the belly of the car.

7:30-8:15 a.m. Yellow line train: I became familiar with some strangers. Quite unintentional, really. But when one is pressed close against other people, you can't help but hope they don't think you're acting fresh. L'Enfant Plaza, our preferred destination to the south of the mall area is apparently ridiculously full, so much so that our train is hurried along to the next available stop: Gallery Place/Chinatown. Groans in the train. Cheers when we get off at GP/C. Groans when we see the crowds there, wondering what "ridiculously full" looks like. In an attempt to salvage some dignity, I sheepishly take out the water bottle from my coat pocket and show it to the dude whom I had been pressed up against on the train. He allows a small smile.

8:15-8:35 a.m. Gallery Place/Chinatown Station: This long to get out of the damn station.

8:35-9:45 a.m. Trying to get to the Mall: Crowds. OMG, crowds. Everywhere. Since we were unceremoniously dumped to the north of the mall, we were caught up in the masses trying to get through security and onto the parade route. Yes, the parade that's scheduled to happen in the afternoon! I'm walking on H Street, about five blocks north of the mall, but can't see any way of going south. Street after street is closed for the parade and I doggedly continue, hoping to see some daylight somewhere. Me and a hundred thousand of my closest friends. I am about to give up in despair and sit down and sob somewhere quietly, when I round the White House and make it to 19th Street. Hallelujah, I can see the Washington Monument, and more importantly, a clear path to it.

9:45-10 a.m. Washington Monument: I made it! I try to inch my way up the mall closer to the Capitol, but a patient security chap informs us that that part of the mall is full. So, I backtrack and find a spot of high ground right under the Monument with a clear view of the Capitol in the distance. By distance, of course, I mean a mile away. But, hey, I can see the Inaugural stage and little people dots. To my left and right nearby, two giant jumbotrons provide a great view of the proceedings. People of all colors and shapes litter the place. That's when I realize that I'm in the minority. Yep, I'm the only one in ski pants and snow hiking boots (God bless my time in Colorado). With my ACU hoodie sweatshirt and my grey wool dress coat on top of it all, I realize I'm cutting a strange figure, but at least I'm warm. Lots of dust everywhere.

10-11:45 a.m. The wait: Interminable wait for our new royal family. It's cold and a bit blustery. Families with unbelievably patient kids everywhere. Everyone taking pictures of the crowd with their cellphones. Few scattered couples keeping warm by periodically giving each other tongue massages. Some geospatially challenged individuals attempting to guide their lost friends to themselves by giving incomprehensible directions over the phone. Which is just as well, seeing that any empty spaces have rapidly filled in long ago. I myself have a spotty cellphone signal (damn you, AT&T), so I can't call anyone. I content myself with the occasional text update to my wife. Lots of chants: O-BA-MA; Yes We Did; O-BA-MA. The giant screens show us a live camera feed, but are not accompanied by any commentary. That's when I realize how much I miss Peter Jennings. I also realize how important the media narrative is in shaping our experiences. The PA announcer kindly keeps us company by periodically informing us that Grand Poobah so-and-so has just shown up. Muted applause for Jimmy Carter. Enthusiastic cheering on seeing a motorcade on screen; the crowd assumes that's Obama. Polite reception for H.W. Bush. Crazy cheers for Gore and Clinton (more so for Gore). Boos for Dubya. Lots of boos. More so for Dick Cheney. Wildest cheering reserved for Malia and Sasha. Rapture and relief on seeing Obama. General sense of relief that a new administration is coming in. I have an Onion-style headline in my head: "Black man gets crappy job." PA guy kindly requests everyone to sit down. Many laughs from the crowd. The crowd's really big by now. I thankfully munch on a granola bar, my only nourishment of the day. I have my bottle of water, but I dare not drink more than a sip, for fear that I would have to give up my hard-earned spot to relieve myself. Not to mention my fear of portable restrooms. I turn my head left to right and see nothing but a sea of heads and American flags. I grew up in India, in the land of a billion people, and I've never been in anything like this.

11:45 a.m.-1:15 p.m. The inauguration of Barack Obama: Biden says his oath, and many in the crowd instantly yell, "No More Cheney!" Chief Justice Roberts flubs Obama's oath. Dude, that was your only part all day, and you messed that up? First black President, a moment that will likely be replayed endlessly for future generations, and you couldn't say 39 words. Also, since Bush's term expired at 11:59 a.m., America had no President for ten minutes, or at least an oathless one. Constitutional crisis, anyone? Still, when Obama concludes his oath, there's a lump in my throat and I'm overwhelmed by the moment. I'm taken in by the magnitude of what just happened, thinking about the fact that a black man is about to take up residence in a building that used to have slave quarters. I'm overcome at the thought that Martin Luther King, Jr., spoke at the other end of this very mall, and I'm watching history happen in front of me. Many are freely crying, hands on their heads. I wonder if MLK would also consider this a fulfillment of his dream, like so many seem to imagine. I'm ecstatic that I am here, in this moment, in this place, on the freaking mall! The cheers are deafening; I can't help but sense a common feeling that we all need him to succeed. Obama's speech is good, not great. But, I'm grateful to have a President that I can listen to without cringing. I'm hopeful he will change our image in the world. I also notice how confident he is. Good, he'll need it. I also think: congratulations, it's your shit now, buddy. Don't let us down. Break a leg. (Note to Secret Service if you're reading this: that's just a saying.)

1:15-2:30 p.m. Home: Yes, I left without staying for the parade. I'm glad too, the thing didn't start till 5 and only those with tickets could be there anyway. I look toward the L'Enfant Plaza Station and alertly notice that there is no earthly way I can make it there in less than two hours through the crowd. I decide to hoof it to Arlington Cemetery Station, a mile behind me, over the bridge. I make it there in 30 minutes, notwithstanding the blisters on my feet (I ruefully realize that my hiking boots are meant for the snow, not for concrete). The station is less crowded than I expected and a Blue line train comes along in a minute. I sit down with a grateful sigh. I also realize that this is the first time I've sat down or leaned against anything all day. I'm weary, but thrilled to have experienced Obama's inauguration in person.