Horn Of Africa Quotes

No one in the world needs a Rhino horn but a Rhino.

History is ending because the dominator culture has led the human species into a blind alley, and as the inevitable chaostrophie approaches, people look for metaphors and answers. Every time a culture gets into trouble it casts itself back into the past looking for the last sane moment it ever knew. And the last sane moment we ever knew was on the plains of Africa 15,000 years ago rocked in the cradle of the Great Horned Mushroom Goddess before history, before standing armies, before slavery and property, before warfare and phonetic alphabets and monotheism, before, before, before. And this is where the future is taking us because the secret faith of the twentieth century is not modernism, the secret faith of the twentieth century is nostalgia for the archaic, nostalgia for the paleolithic, and that gives us body piercing, abstract expressionism, surrealism, jazz, rock-n-roll and catastrophe theory. The 20th century mind is nostalgic for the paradise that once existed on the mushroom dotted plains of Africa where the plant-human symbiosis occurred that pulled us out of the animal body and into the tool-using, culture-making, imagination-exploring creature that we are. And why does this matter? It matters because it shows that the way out is back and that the future is a forward escape into the past. This is what the psychedelic experience means. Its a doorway out of history and into the wiring under the board in eternity. And I tell you this because if the community understands what it is that holds it together the community will be better able to streamline itself for flight into hyperspace because what we need is a new myth, what we need is a new true story that tells us where we're going in the universe and that true story is that the ego is a product of pathology, and when psilocybin is regularly part of the human experience the ego is supressed and the supression of the ego means the defeat of the dominators, the materialists, the product peddlers. Psychedelics return us to the inner worth of the self, to the importance of the feeling of immediate experience - and nobody can sell that to you and nobody can buy it from you, so the dominator culture is not interested in the felt presence of immediate experience, but that's what holds the community together. And as we break out of the silly myths of science, and the infantile obsessions of the marketplace what we discover through the psychedelic experience is that in the body, IN THE BODY, there are Niagaras of beauty, alien beauty, alien dimensions that are part of the self, the richest part of life. I think of going to the grave without having a psychedelic experience like going to the grave without ever having sex. It means that you never figured out what it is all about. The mystery is in the body and the way the body works itself into nature. What the Archaic Revival means is shamanism, ecstacy, orgiastic sexuality, and the defeat of the three enemies of the people. And the three enemies of the people are hegemony, monogamy and monotony! And if you get them on the run you have the dominators sweating folks, because that means your getting it all reconnected, and getting it all reconnected means putting aside the idea of separateness and self-definition through thing-fetish. Getting it all connected means tapping into the Gaian mind, and the Gaian mind is what we're calling the psychedelic experience. Its an experience of the living fact of the entelechy of the planet. And without that experience we wander in a desert of bogus ideologies. But with that experience the compass of the self can be set, and that's the idea; figuring out how to reset the compass of the self through community, through ecstatic dance, through psychedelics, sexuality, intelligence, INTELLIGENCE. This is what we have to have to make the forward escape into hyperspace.

Killing, and being prepared to send one's own followers to their deaths is an index of seriousness in bargaining.

I thought I was getting away from politics for a while. But I now realise that the vuvuzela is to these World Cup blogs what Julius Malema is to my politics columns: a noisy, but sadly unavoidable irritant. With both Malema and the vuvuzela, their importance is far overstated. Malema: South Africa's Robert Mugabe? I think not. The vuvuzela: an archetypal symbol of 'African culture?' For African civilisation's sake, I seriously hope not. Both are getting far too much airtime than they deserve. Both have thrust themselves on to the world stage through a combination of hot air and raucous bluster. Both amuse and enervate in roughly equal measure. And both are equally harmless in and of themselves — though in Malema's case, it is the political tendency that he represents, and the right-wing interests that lie behind his diatribes that is dangerous. With the vuvu I doubt if there are such nefarious interests behind the scenes; it may upset the delicate ears of the middle classes, both here and at the BBC, but I suspect that South Africa's democracy will not be imperilled by a mass-produced plastic horn.

From the Author’s Note: In 2017, a migrant died every twenty-one hours along the United States-Mexico border. That number does not include the many migrants who simply disappear each year. Worldwide in 2017, as I was finishing this novel, a migrant died every ninety minutes, in the Mediterranean, in Central Americ, in the horn of Africa. Every hour and a half. So sixteen migrant deaths for each night I tuck my children into bed. When I first began my research in 2013, these estimates were difficult to find because no one was keeping track. Even now, the International Organization for Migration warns that the available statistics are “likely only a fraction of the real number of deaths” because so many migrants who vanish are never accounted for in the first place. So maybe the number is more like two hundred deaths for each load of laundry I do. There are currently around forty thousand people reported missing across Mexico, and investigators routinely find mass graves containing dozens, sometimes hundreds, of bodies.

For the 24th MAU and the other MAUs that served in Lebanon during the tumultuous 1982–84 period, your courage, your sacrifices, your dedication to duty, and your eternal spirit are with us forever. Above all, your sacrifices were not in vain. It was only after the 1983 bombing of our BLT Headquarters that the United States officially recognized that terrorist activities are a form of warfare and that a comprehensive strategy must be devised to deal with this national security threat. Additionally, the magnificent performance of our fighting men and women in Afghanistan, Iraq, the Horn of Africa, the Philippines, and elsewhere around the globe may be traced to your legacy. Once again, I salute you for who you are, what you have done, and your sacrifices to make the world a better place. As always, take care of yourselves, take care of each other, God Bless, and Semper Fidelis. AL GRAY, MARINE TWENTY-NINTH C

In his work Maladies and Remedies of the Life of the Flesh, published in Leiden under the pseudonym Christianus Democritus, he claimed to have discovered the Elixir of Life—a liquid counterpart to the Philosopher’s Stone—which would heal any ailment and grant eternal life to the person who drank it. He tried, but failed, to exchange the formula for the deed to Frankenstein Castle, and the only use he ever made of his potion—a mixture of decomposing blood, bones, antlers, horns and hooves—was as an insecticide, due to its incomparable stench. This same quality led the German troops to employ the tarry, viscous fluid as a non-lethal chemical weapon (therefore exempt from the Geneva Convention), pouring it into wells in North Africa to slow the advance of General Patton and his men, whose tanks pursued them across the desert sands. An ingredient in Dippel’s elixir would eventually produce the blue that shines not only in Van Gogh’s Starry Night and in the waters of Hokusai’s Great Wave, but also on the uniforms of the infantrymen of the Prussian army, as though something in the colour’s chemical structure invoked violence: a fault, a shadow, an existential stain passed down from those experiments in which the alchemist dismembered living animals to create it, assembling their broken bodies in dreadful chimeras he tried to reanimate with electrical charges, the very same monsters that inspired Mary Shelley to write her masterpiece, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, in whose pages she warned of the risk of the blind advancement of science, to her the most dangerous of all human arts.

When we passed Camp Johnson, the military compound, I couldn’t believe that I was seeing two bodies suspended from the high security fence near the gate. On Broad Street, which is the main drag in Monrovia, there were streetlights but to my horror they were being used as gallows. Some still had bodies hanging from them, which appeared bloated and badly decomposed. Other bodies were decomposing in the gutters, with runoff water swirling around them. The decaying process doesn’t take long in this tropical heat, and it was obvious from the sickenly smell that permeated the air that they had been dead for a while. The city appeared to be under Martial Law with soldiers assisting the police, directing traffic. Lacking traffic lights each intersection was congested with cars, horn blaring and nobody moving. It was a mess and heavily armed, rag-tag soldiers, were now, everywhere.

In the Horn of Africa, a famine had created a terrible humanitarian crisis. Millions of people were starving. There were images of potbellied children with shrunken limbs and dazed eyes. The Islamist extremist group, Al-Shabab, had banned international food relief efforts in the areas of Somalia they controlled. For some reason, Scorpion couldn’t take his eyes off the images of the starving children. Later that afternoon, he boarded the Alitalia flight to Rome. It was a short flight, just over an hour. By the time he landed at Fiumicino airport, he knew what he was going to do.

In 1994, the PFDJ established the Hidri Trust as a corporate umbrella for the Red Sea Trading Corporation – which maintained secret offshore accounts – plus banks, construction companies and manufacturing plants.8 The Red Sea Corporation and other party

FATHER OF THE BOY SCOUTS Arthur Conan Doyle was knighted, and not for the merits of Sherlock Holmes. The writer was invited to join the ranks of the nobility as thanks for the propaganda he wrote for the imperial cause. One of his heroes was Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of the Boy Scouts. They met while fighting savages in Africa: “There was always something of the sportsman in his keen appreciation of war,” Sir Arthur said. Gifted in the art of following the tracks of others and erasing his own, Baden-Powell was a great success at the sport of hunting lions, boars, deer, Zulus, Ashantis, and Ndebeles. Against the Ndebeles, he fought a rough battle in southern Africa. Two hundred and nine blacks and one Englishman died. The colonel took as a souvenir the horn the enemy blew to sound the alarm. And that spiral-shaped horn from a kudu antelope was incorporated into Boy Scout ritual as the symbol of boys who love nature.

Koch emphasized rugged pursuits, taking his sons big-game hunting in Africa and filling the basement billiard room with what one cousin remembered as a frightening collection of exotic stuffed animal heads, including lions and bears and others with horns and tusks, glinting glassy-eyed from the walls.

For the student of war, the Horn of Africa offers a cornucopia of violence and destruction. It has interstate wars and civil wars; international military interventions and maritime piracy; genocidal massacres and non-violent popular uprisings; conventional wars fought in trenches and irregular wars fought by jihadists and followers of a messianic cult.

Somalia, situated in the Horn of Africa, illustrates the devastating effects of lack of political centralization. Somalia has been dominated historically by people organized into six clan families. The four largest of these, the Dir, Darod, Isaq, and Hawiye, all trace their ancestry back to a mythical ancestor, Samaale. These clan families originated in the north of Somalia and gradually spread south and east, and are even today primarily pastoral people who migrate with their flocks of goats, sheep, and camels. In the south, the Digil and the Rahanweyn, sedentary agriculturalists, make up the last two of the clan families.

Sharp spur mek maugre horse cut caper. (The pinch of circumstances forces people to do what they thought impossible.) Sickness ride horse come, take foot go away. (It is easier to get sick than it is to get well.) Table napkin want to turn table cloth. (Referring to social climbing.) Bull horn nebber too heavy for him head. (We always see ourselves in a favorable light.) Cock roach nebber in de right befo’ fowl. (The oppressor always justifies his oppression of the weak.) If you want fo’ lick old woman pot, you scratch him back. (The masculine pronoun is always used for female. Use flattery and you will succeed.) Do fe do make guinea nigger come a’ Jamaica. (Fighting among themselves in Africa caused the negroes to be sold into slavery in America.) Dog run for him character; hog run for him life. (It means nothing to you, but everything to me.) Finger nebber say, “look here,” him say “look dere.” (People always point out the shortcomings of others but never their own.) Cutacoo on man back no yerry what kim massa yerry. (The basket on a man’s back does not hear what he hears.)

The Iron Wall had been one plot in the Horns of Africa.

During the last foray, however, the people learned that every shot does not kill, and they came up to the party with bows and arrows, and compelled the slaves to throw down their guns and powder-horns. They would have shown no mercy had Manyuema been thus in slave power; but this is a beginning of the end, which will exclude Arab traders from the country. I rested half a day, as I am still ill. I do most devoutly thank the Lord for sparing my life three times in one day. The Lord is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble, and He knows them that trust in Him.

Andre stood and walked across the large map of Africa that hung on the office wall. “May I ask what you are thinking?” questioned Colonel Hoffman. “I’m thinking Khartoum” Andre responded quietly, tapping the map in the northern half of Sudan and both Hoffman and Nicci nodded in agreement. “If the cargo aboard the ship was artillery systems and if the trucks that met the ship head for Juba, then we should expect – at the very least - a resumption of the civil war in Sudan.” Hoffman nodded again and then spoke himself. “And if the buyers in Juba have also accessed nuclear ammunition, then the government of Sudan is going to change soon. Anyone with weapons like that could easily consolidate control of all those oilfields. That means that the balance of power in the Horn of Africa is going to be very different from what it is now.” “What’s the population of Khartoum?” asked Nicci. Hoffman consulted his desktop computer. “The city itself, around two and a half million. The conurbation of greater Khartoum is more than ten million.” “Five minutes?” Nicci queried and Hoffman nodded. Nicci looked stunned. They all sat for a moment and considered the awesome destruction that would be unleashed.

Our relations seemed poor to me, and I wasn't surprised that the US intelligence picture in the Horn of Africa was weak. Much of what I read consisted of recycled news headlines repackaged as intelligence. Real, valuable intelligence only came from real people, yet we hadn't done much to meet and work with the people.

Most members of the political elites of north-east Africa have come to resemble gangsters rather than civic political leaders.

Violence is a means of bargaining and signalling value within the marketplace.

Political bargaining and political entrepreneurship can be seen naked, stripped of the flattering wardrobe of democracy, rule of law and state building.

Out on the Safaris, I had seen a herd of Buffalo, one hundred and twenty-nine of them, come out of the morning mist under a copper sky, one by one, as if the dark and massive, iron-like animals with the mighty horizontally swung horns were not approaching, but were being created before my eyes and sent out as they were finished.

A worried Abdulaziz asked H. St. John Philby, “Where will I get the manpower to govern Yemen?”41 Moreover, neither Britain nor Italy was enthusiastic about Saudi expansion into Yemen. Britain had interests in Aden and Italy in the Horn of Africa. Both nations had treaties of friendship with Yemen. The British government advised Abdulaziz that staying in Yemen could risk war with Italy and that London would not support him if it did.42 For the first and only time in his career, Abdulaziz ordered a strategic retreat, pulling out of Hodeidah and Sa’dah. Although he withdrew from large parts of what is today northern Yemen, the 1934 Treaty of Taif confirmed Saudi control of Najran and Jizan provinces. Across the border, many Yemenis continue to harbor irredentist claims on this Saudi territory, which they sometimes refer to as Historic Yemen.

The natives started their trek to the village and the bus followed slowly. No one saw any lions, but Butubu pointed out graceful elands and kudus. They resembled American deer but their horns were quite different. Those of the elands were long and straight and pointed slightly backwards. The kudus’ rose straight up from the forehead and curved in such a way that from a distance they resembled snakes. Suddenly Butubu stopped the bus. “Look!” he said, pointing toward a tree-shaded area. “There’s a family of hyrax. In Africa we call them dassies.‘” “Aren’t they cute?” Bess exclaimed. “Are they some kind of rabbit?” “No,” Butubu replied. “If you will look closely, you will see that they have no tails. People used to think they belonged to the rat family. But scientists made a study of their bodies and say their nearest relatives are the elephants.” “Hard to believe,” said Burt. “Think of a rabbit-sized elephant!” The small, dark-brown animals were sunning themselves on an outcropping of rocks. Three babies were hopping about their mother. Butubu explained that they were among the most interesting African animals. “The babies start walking around within a few minutes of their birth and after the first day they’re on their own. They return to the mother only long enough to be fed, but they start eating greens very quickly.” Butubu drove on but continued to talk about the dassies. “There is an amusing folk tale about these little animals. It was said that in the days when the earth was first formed and animals were being put on it, the weather was cold and rainy. ”When all the animals were called to a certain spot to be given tails, the dassie did not want to go. As other kinds passed him, he begged them to bring him back a tail.“ Nancy laughed. “But none of them did.” “That is right,” Butubu answered. “And so to this day they have no tails that they can use to switch flies.” Everyone in the bus thanked him for relating the charming little legend, then looked out the windows. They were approaching a village of grass-roofed huts. The small homes were built in a semicircle.

Jesus told his disciples that the people around them would know who they were by their love.

The attitude toward missionaries and aid workers often was, as a priest who spent time in Mogadishu said, “God sent you here to work for us, get on with it.

In 1927, a few African locusts were spotted near a river in Timbuktu. Within three years the whole of west Africa was besieged by the creatures. Eventually, locusts covered an area more than 2,000 miles wide—extending from Ethiopia and the Belgian Congo to the luxuriant farm lands of Angola. Finally, 14 years after the plague began, 5,000,000 square miles of Africa (an area twice the size of the United States!) had been destroyed by the locusts.

(a much-debated accolade, made all the more ironic by President Obama’s massive anti-terror operations throughout the Middle East and North Africa), a gigantic spiral appeared in the skies over Norway, the site of the awards ceremony.

Language ​A mangle and an earthly remnant that the poet leans on more heavily than all others, is language.  At times he can rightly hate, accuse, and curse it—or rather himself, that he is born to work with this wretched tool.  With envy he thinks of the painter, whose language—the colors—speaks just as understandably to all mankind, from the North Pole down to Africa, or the musician, whose tones speak every human language as well, and which from the single-voiced melody to the polyphonic orchestra, from the horn to the clarinet, from the fiddle to the harp, must obey like many new, singular, fine, and differing languages.  ​But for one thing especially he envies the musician deeply and daily: that the musician has his language for himself alone, only for making music!  But for his activity the poet must use the same language in which you hold school and do business, in which you telegraph and hold court.  How poor he is, that for his art he owns no private organ, no personal abode, no private garden, no personal window to look out onto the moon—all and all he must partake in everyday life!  He says “heart” and means the pulsing core of life in man, his innermost capability and weakness; but then the word at the same time signifies a muscle.  He says “power”, then he must fight for the sense of his word with engineers and electricians; he says “bliss”, then something from theology gazes onto his imagination’s expression.  He can use no private word that doesn’t leer at once to another side, that doesn’t with a breath recall foreign, disturbed, hostile imaginations, that isn’t deceive by scruples and shortenings, and broken by narrow walls, from which a voice turns back unsounded and smothered. ​If a knave is someone who gives more than he has, then a poet can never be a knave.  There is not a tenth, not a hundredth of what he would like to give; he is satisfied if the hearer understands him from totally above him, then entirely from far, then completely incidentally, most importantly at least not grossly misunderstands.  He seldom reaches more.  And overall, where a poet reaps praise or criticism, where he makes effects or gets mocked, where someone loves him or rejects him, one speaks not from his thoughts and dreams alone, but only a hundredth that could squeeze through the narrow canal of language and through the no wider comprehension of reading.

Africa?” said Jack. “Oh, man, I’ve always wanted to go there.” He opened the book. He and Annie stared at a picture. It showed hordes of zebras, tall giraffes, big animals with horns, and tiny, deerlike creatures.

People think girls don’t go to school here because we’re ignorant shepherds. Attendance rates plummet when the seasonal herds of long-horned zebu turn towards our village and rise again when they leave and drop in another village further away. It’s not ignorance. It’s fear. Keep your daughters home or else … or else the village might get another stone statue or another wedding …

Slavery was a major industry in West Africa. Since before anyone could remember, the kings and chieftains of the region had sold their fellow men to Arab buyers who took them to the slave markets of the Middle East. The new European traders horned in on an existing business.