Rambling Readers

Metin Seven 🎨

𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝑩𝒆 𝑨 𝑺𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒓

This 22-minute short film was made by the US Army just after the Second World War, warning about the tactics that Nazis use to gain power.

It's baffling how many parallels there are with current political developments. I think this video should be shown in every school around the world.

https://fedi.video/w/t4sN6wtVxGox9V8MyK1EzX

#politics #fascism #political #US #USA #europe #russia #nazi #nazis #germany #WW2 #WWII #war

Flipboard News Desk

A list of half a million names shines new light on Dutch collaboration with Nazis.

@npr reports: "Most of the people on the list are no longer alive, meaning they are not covered by the European Union's strict data protections. Even so, the publication of their names could have ramifications for their descendants."

https://flip.it/s5x6tX

#Holocaust #WW2 #Netherlands #Nazi #Europe #History #Histodons

d'aïeux et d'ailleurs

[#veille] Aux Pays-Bas, les noms des personnes soupçonnées de collaboration avec l’Allemagne nazie rendus publics - et les questions soulevées
https://www.lemonde.fr/international/article/2025/01/06/aux-pays-bas-les-noms-des-personnes-soupconnees-de-collaboration-avec-l-allemagne-nazie-rendus-publics_6483340_3210.html

"sur les 425 000 cas présentés, 329 000 n’ont finalement fait l’objet d’aucune poursuite, mais le site ne précise pas, pour chaque personne recensée dans la base de données, si elle a été reconnue coupable ou non."

#2GM #secondeguerremondiale #WW2 #archivesenligne #archives #Paysbas @archivistodon #archivistodons #histodons

marcas

Now then! At Christmas time I was at the Guildhall in York. Come along with me to see this amazing Medieval building!

#Gàidhlig #Gaelic #ScottishGaelic #ScotsGaelic #History #York #Guildhall #Medieval #ChristmasMarket #RichardIII #WWII #WW2 #Yorkshire #VisitYork

marcas

Shin sibh, a charaidean! Aig àm na Nollaig bha mi aig Talla nan Comann-cheàrd ann an Eabhraig. Thigibh còmhla rium gus togalach nam Meadhan-aoisean fhaicinn!

#Gàidhlig #Gaelic #ScottishGaelic #ScotsGaelic #History #York #Guildhall #Medieval #ChristmasMarket #RichardIII #WWII #WW2 #Yorkshire #VisitYork

Sesta

Walter Benjamin's library card for the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris (1940). In this library the philosopher Georges Bataille (known especially for his works "Story of the Eye" and "Inner experience") with the help of two other librarians hid Benjamin's unfinished work "The Arcades Project" and other documents when the Nazis invaded France in 1940. Some of them were not discovered until 1981 because so thorougly hidden by Bataille and his colleagues.

#ww2 #antisemitism #habentsuafatalibelli

Walter Benjamin's library card for the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris in French containing a foto of Benjamin.

World War II Database

Today in WW2 History, 12 Dec 1937: [Photo] Japanese troops assaulting Nanjing city gate #ww2 #onthisday http://ww2db.com/image.php?image_id=13866

Assoc for Scottish Literature replied to Assoc for Scottish Literature's status

“War polarises. It works by defining otherness. But for Hay, North Africa yielded a particular sense of how all cultures live across their differences. This doesn’t polarise or neutralise anything so much as partialise it. It is not simply that death levels all, but that languages deepen and extend humanity.”

Prof Alan Riach looks at the influence of WW2 on the poetry of Sorley MacLean & George Campbell Hay

2/4

https://www.thenational.scot/news/19307039.born-war/

#Scottish #literature #Gaelic #poetry #warpoetry #WW2

Assoc for Scottish Literature

Chì mi rè geàrd na h-oidhche
dreòs air chrith ’na fhroidhneas thall air fàire,
a’ clapail le a sgiathaibh,
a’ sgapadh ’s a’ ciaradh rionnagan na h-àird’ ud…

—“Bisearta”, by Deòrsa Mac Iain Deòrsa (George Campbell Hay, 1915–1984). Born #OTD, 8 Dec, Hay fought in North Africa & winessed the Allied bombing of Bizerte in 1943

1/4

#Scottish #literature #Gaelic #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW2

Deorsa Mac lain Deòrsa (George Campbell Hay)
Bisearta

Chì mi rè geard na h-oidhche
dreòs air chrith ’na fhroidhneas thall air fàire,
a’ clapail le a sgiathaibh,
a’sgapadh ’s a’ ciaradh rionnagan na h-àird’ ud.

Shaoileadh tu gun cluinnte,
ge cian, o ’bhuillsgein ochanaich no caoineadh,
ràn corraich no gàir fuatha,
comhart chon cuthaich uaith no ulfhairt fhaolchon,
gun ruigeadh drannd an fhòirneirt
on fhùirneis òmair iomall fhèin an t-saoghail.
Ach siud a’ dol an leud e
ri oir an speur an tostachd olc is aognaidh.

C’ainm nochd a th’ orra,
na sràidean bochda anns an sgeith gach uinneag
a lasraichean ’s a deatach,
a sradagan is sgreadail a luchd thuinidh,
is taigh air thaigh ga reubadh
am broinn a chèile am brùchdadh toit’ a’ tuiteam?
Is cò a-nochd tha ’g atach
am Bàs a theachd gu grad ’nan cainntibh uile,
no a’ spàirn measg chlach is shailthean
air bhàinidh a’ gairm air cobhair, is nach cluinnear?
Cò a-nochd a phàigheas
seann chìs àbhaisteach na fala cumant?

Uair dearg mar lod na h-àraich,
uair bàn mar ghile thràighte an eagail èitigh,
a’ dìreadh ’a uair a’ teàrnadh,
a’ sìneadh le sitheadh àrd ’s a’ call a mheudachd,
a’ fannachadh car aitil
’s ag at mar anail dhiabhail air dhèinead,
an t-Olc ’na chridhe ’s ’na chuisle,
chì mi ’na bhuillean a’ sìoladh ’s a’ leum e.
Tha ’n dreòs ’na oillt air fàire,
’na fhàinne ròis is òir am bun nan speuran,
a’ breugnachadh ’s ag àicheadh
le ’shoillse sèimhe àrsaidh àrd nan reultan.

Bizerta
translated by George Campbell Hay

I see during the night guard
a blaze flickering, fringing the skyline over yonder,
beating with its wings
and scattering and dimming the stars of that airt.

You would think that there would be heard
from its midst, though far away, wailing and lamentation,
the roar of rage and the yell of hate,
the barking of frenzied dogs from it or the howling of wolves,
that the snarl of violence would reach
from yon amber furnace the very edge of the world;
but yonder it spreads
along the rim of the sky in evil ghastly silence.

What is their name tonight,
the poor streets where every window spews
its flame and smoke,
its sparks and the screaming of its inmates,
while house upon house is rent
and collapses in a gust of smoke?
And who tonight are beseeching
Death to come quickly in all their tongues,
or are struggling among stones and beams,
crying in frenzy for help, and are not heard?
Who tonight is paying
the old accustomed tax of common blood?

Now red like a battlefield puddle,
now pale like the drained whiteness of foul fear,
climbing and sinking,
reaching and darting up and shrinking in size,
growing faint for a moment
and swelling like the breath of a devil in intensity,
I see Evil as a pulse and a heart
declining and leaping in throbs.
The blaze, a horror on the skyline,
a ring of rose and gold at the foot of the sky,
belies and denies
with its light the ancient high tranquillity of the stars.

The World at War

The first US WAAC’s (Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps) arrive in Gourock, Inverclyde, Scotland - 11th May 1943. On the 1st July 1943 it was given active duty status and became the WAC (Women’s Army Corp) #wac #waac #ww2 #worldwar2 #gourock #inverclyde #scotland #womensarmycorps #history

⚯ Michel de Cryptadamus ⚯

this 1933 diplomatic cable from the american embassy in berlin to FDR that was sent three months after #Hitler took power goes hard

"𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘎𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘖𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘫𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺."

#Germany #EU #nazi #Nazis #AfD #FDR #ww2 #WWII #WinstonChurchill

I think the Department must be exceedingly careful in its dealings with Germany as long as the present Government is in power as it has no spokesman who can really be depended upon and those who hold the highest positions are capable of actions which really outlaw them from ordinary intercourse

I think we must recognize that while the Germany of today wants peace, it is by no means a peaceful country . The present Gov. and its adherents desire peace ardently for the present because they need peace to carry through the changes in Germany which they want to bring about. What they want to do, however, definitely is to make Germany the most capable instrument of war that there has ever existed. Wherever one goes in Germany one sees people drilling, from children of five and six on, up to those well into middle age. A psychology is being developed that the whole world is against Germany and that it lies defenseless before the world. People are being trained against gas attacks, against airplane attacks, and the idea of war and danger from one's neighbors is constantly harped upon.

With few exceptions, the men who are running this Government are of a mentality that you and I cannot understand. Some of them are psychopathic cases and would ordinarily be receiving treatment somewhere. Others are exalted and in a frame of mind that knows no reason. The majority are woefully ignorant and unprepared for the tasks which they have to carry through every day.

Assoc for Scottish Literature replied to Assoc for Scottish Literature's status

Here’s a glorious rendition of Hamish Henderson’s “Freedom Come-All-Ye”, sung by Karine Polwart in the Italian Chapel, Orkney. The chapel was built & decorated by Italian POWs during WW2 using scraps & reclaimed materials, & is still in use today

7/7

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7PhuH2K5yzw

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #culture #folksong #HamishHenderson #WW2

Assoc for Scottish Literature

Hamish Henderson (1919–2002) – poet, soldier, intellectual, activist, songwriter – was born
#OTD, 11 Nov. A hugely important figure in Scottish culture, Henderson fought in North Africa & Italy in WW2. A 🎂🧵

There were no gods and precious few heroes…
—“Elegies for the Dead in Cyrenaica”

1/7

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #20thcentury #culture #warpoetry #WW2 #HamishHenderson

There were our own, there were the others.
Therefore, minding the great word of Glencoe’s
son, that we should not disfigure ourselves
with villainy of hatred; and seeing that all
have gone down like curs into anonymous silence,
I will bear witness for I knew the others.
Seeing that littoral and interior are alike indifferent
and the birds are drawn again to our welcoming north
why should I not sing them, the dead, the innocent?

Hamish Henderson
FIRST ELEGY
End of a Campaign

There are many dead in the brutish desert,
who lie uneasy
among the scrub in this landscape of half-wit
stunted ill-will. For the dead land is insatiate
and necrophilous. The sand is blowing about still.
Many who for various reasons, or because of mere unanswerable compulsion, came here
and fought among the clutching gravestones, shivered and sweated,
cried out, suffered thirst, were stoically silent, cursed
the spittering machine-guns, were homesick for Europe
and fast embedded in quicksand of Africa agonised and died.
And sleep now. Sleep here the sleep of the dust.

There were our own, there were the others.
Their deaths were like their lives, human and animal.
There were no gods and precious few heroes.
What they regretted when they died had nothing to do with race and leader, realm indivisible,
laboured Augustan speeches or vague imperial heritage.
(They saw through that guff before the axe fell.) Their longing turned to
the lost world glimpsed in the memory of letters:
an evening at the pictures in the friendly dark,
two knowing conspirators smiling and whispering secrets; or else
a family gathering in the homely kitchen
with Mum so proud of her boys in uniform: their thoughts trembled
between moments of estrangement, and ecstatic moments
of reconciliation: and their desire
crucified itself against the unutterable shadow of someone
whose photo was in their wallets.
Then death made his incision.

Assoc for Scottish Literature

Christmas Eve. The hour between tea and black-out.
The stove reddens and snores in the gathering dusk.
Five tin helmets hang in a row on the wall,
Their little black pot-bellies gleam in the glow of the fire…

—Flora Garry (1900–2000), “Ambulance Depot, 1942”

#RemembranceSunday #Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW2

Flora Garry
Ambulance Depot, 1942

Christmas Eve. The hour between tea and black-out.
The stove reddens and snores in the gathering dusk.
Five tin helmets hang in a row on the wall,
Their little black pot-bellies gleam in the glow of the fire.
Painted on each is a large white capital A.
The telephone stands dumb on its shelf in the nook.
No ‘Air Raid Message’ comes through, Purple or Red.
The fading sky is void and cold and still
But for the friendly drone of a homing plane,
And the strident intermittent trumpeting
Of the arrowhead formations of the geese
Winging riverwards to seek the sheltering reeds.
In the gloom of the garage the empty vehicles wait,
While we sit here by the snoring stove, and knit.
We are making a Christmas toy, a communal gift,
A scarlet and yellow duck with a bear’s snout.

MacDonald is making the head. She had a son.
But his ship, ‘overdue must now be presumed lost’.
She carries on as before, brave and bright-eyed.
What can we say? We give her the easiest chair
And fuss with cups of tea and hand cigarettes.
Easier for everyone if she were less brave.

Roberts is making the body of the duck.
She is old. She comes of gentle-folk,
And speaks with an English voice, and avoids draughts.
But she’s good at the job and asks for no concessions.
There was someone, we’ve been told, in the last war.
He fell, leading his men, at Neuve Chapelle.
She likes being here, though we’re not quite her sort.
It’s something she can do towards settling an old score.

The wings of the duck are made by Clark and Smith
Whose make-up is protective colouration.
They are young. Each wears a wedding ring.
They live from mail to mail, they crouch by the map
And trace the African coast, spelling out names,
Bizerta, Tunis, Tripoli, Tangier,
Renowned in tales of antique chivalry;
Each word a sharp potential two-edged sword
Striking one day, perhaps, at the heart’s core.

Watson is making the two feet of the duck.
Leave’s postponed. No Christmas engagement now.
They must wait, a few weeks maybe,
Maybe for all time.
She knits, not lifting her head. Best leave her alone.
Shouldn’t the black-out be on? We draw the blinds,
Make up the fire—a shovel of dross will do—
Shut out the darkening night and the eerie gusts
Of wind assaulting the hut’s ramshackle roof,
Bearing the season’s first thin tentative snow.
‘Another cigarette? Have you heard this one?’
We laugh, a little too loud. Then silence lasts
A little too long. A muttered emotional curse!
Let’s have the wireless on and get the news.
(The news we’ve learned to hate, but dare not miss.)
A boy’s voice sings, high, clear and cruelly sweet:

As we watched at dead of night
Lo! we saw a wondrous light.
Angels singing peace on earth
Telling of the Saviour’s birth.

We are making a Christmas toy, a sort of duck,
A comical duck with the blunt, snub snout of a bear.
We are making a toy for some other woman’s child.
No one here has any child of her own.

Assoc for Scottish Literature

Chì mi rè geàrd na h-oidhche
dreòs air chrith ’na fhroidhneas thall air fàire,
a’ clapail le a sgiathaibh,
a’ sgapadh ’s a’ ciaradh rionnagan na h-àird’ ud…

—Deòrsa Mac Iain Deòrsa (George Campbell Hay, 1915–1984), “Bisearta”
Hay witnessed the Allied bombing of Bizerte in Tunisia in 1943

#RemembranceSunday #Scottish #literature #Gaelic #poem #poetry #warpoetry #WW2

Bisearta
Deòrsa Mac Iain Deòrsa

Chì mi rè geàrd na h-oidhche
dreòs air chrith ’na fhroidhneas thall air fàire,
a' clapail le a sgiathaibh,
a’ sgapadh ’s a’ ciaradh rionnagan na h-àird’ ud.

Shaoileadh tu gun cluinnte,
ge cian, o ’bhuillsgein ochanaich no caoineadh,
ràn corraich no gàir fuatha,
comhart chon cuthaich uaith no ulfhairt fhaolchon,
gun ruigeadh drannd an fhòirneirt
on fhùirneis òmair iomall fhèin an t-saoghail.
Ach siud a' dol an leud e
ri oir an speur an tostachd olc is aognaidh.

C’ainm nochd a th’ orra,
na sràidean bochda anns an sgeith gach uinneag
a lasraichean ’s a deatach,
a sradagan is sgreadail a luchd thuinidh,
is taigh air thaigh ga reubadh
am broinn a chèile am bruchdadh toit’ a’ tuiteam?
Is cò a-nochd tha ’g atach
am Bàs a theachd gu grad ’nan cainntibh uile,
no a’ spàirn measg chlach is shailthean
air bhàinidh a’ gairm air cobhair, is nach cluinnear?
Cò a-nochd a phàigheas
seann chìs àbhaisteach na fala cumant?

Uair dearg mar lod na h-àraich,
uair bàn mar ghile thràighte an eagail èitigh,
a’ dìreadh ’s uair a’ teàrnadh,
a’ sìneadh le sitheadh àrd ’s a’ call a mheudachd,
a’ fannachadh car aitil
’s ag at mar anail dhiabhail air dhèinead,
an t-Olc ’na bhuillean a’ sìoladh ’s a’ leum e.
Tha ’n dreòs ’na oillt air fàire,
’na fhàinne ròis is òir am bun nan speuran,
a’ breugnachadh ’s ag àicheadh
le ’shoillse sèimhe àrsaidh àrd nan reultan.