Ari Shavit, My Promised Land, New York: Spiegel and Grau of Random House Publishing (2013).

The nation of Israel, the last great colonial enterprise of the Western world, exists in a harsh, hot climate, surrounded by enemies that deny it a right to exist. For years, it served as beacon of democracy and Western military supremacy, but now it threatens to fall into theocracy and political isolation. Israeli journalist Ari Shavit presents his own personal history of Israel with My Promised Land, a fast-reading account of a young nation's struggles along the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea.

Shavit drives his narrative forward with extensive interviews. Many of his discussions feature the complex heroes and villains of the Zionist enterprise: settlers, warriors, and spies; capitalists, socialists, and politicians. Though he cuts the interviews with dashes of biography, historical context, and personal reflection, in the main Shavit allows his protagonists to co-author his book, so that they can defend their hopes, dreams, and doubts.

Shavit begins with a chapter out of his own family history. In the closing moments of the nineteenth century, an English-Jewish ancestor visited Palestine for the first time. He surveyed the countryside, and settled there a few years later. The Jewish settlers of the late 19th century tackled the problem of creating a Jewish homeland in a way similar to other herculean colonial enterprises, such as the Suez Canal; they raised capital from abroad, and then added tremendous amounts of human labor. They bought land from the waning elite of the Ottoman Empire. When necessary, they forced the removal of the serfs and tribes that had occupied the land for centuries. Intellectually, the Jewish immigrants felt tied to Europe, but they knew that Europe no longer wanted them; in the desert they began to forge a new identity, one with less room for the individual spirit and conscience, and much more aggressive than what they inherited from their diaspora ancestors.

The European Jews, imitating European colonial powers, looked at Palestine as a backwards, empty land. They never saw the Arabs as inhabitants. They only saw an empty land open to the aspirations of Jewish nationalism. The Jewish settlers especially sought out the rich coastal soils of Palestine. They wanted collective economic success and secular socialism, not the restoration of Biblical landmarks in the hills to the east. In time, the disenfranchised Arab serfs began to push back against the newcomers with sporadic murders and assaults on Jewish settlements.

The Jews responded to the violence with calls for the forced migration of Arabs out of Palestine. By 1938, the language of David Ben Gurion echoed that of world leaders working elsewhere: "I support compulsory transfer. I do not see anything immoral in it."

Shavit then traces how individuals like Shmaryahu Gutman drew on ancient Jewish symbols of resistance, like the mass suicide at the Masada fortress in 73 CE, thus "using the Hebrew past to give depth to the Hebrew present and enable it to face the Hebrew future." A rootless nation searched for its Hebrew past like a long forgotten spring and, once rediscovered, held onto those ancient waters with emotions that tottered between tenacity and desperation.

Jewish survival in Palestine required collective organization for social, political, and military conquest. The end of the British Mandate heralded a new era of Zionism. The Zionist political leaders rushed into action in 1948 and sliced off a portion of the region designed to ensure a Jewish majority in the newborn country of Israel.

Shavit cannot help but look back at his country's history with awe, love, and pride--and so Shavit's presentation is as personal as it is insightful. As a journalist he expands that history by inserting the memories, fears, and dreams of other Israelis. His emotional exploration of Palestine brings with it a humor and sadness all its own, one that fights against the coldness of a historical narrative.

Perhaps his most effective chapter relates the crisis of Lydda, 1948, in its absolute tragedy. The fatigued, desperate Jewish soldiers scrambled to the very edge of the Arab village of Lydda. And then, assuming the worst, the soldiers (including Moshe Dayan) charged through town with armored vehicles, guns blazing. Israel's founding political leaders abstained from making a clear decision to force the removal of the Arabs from the village, thus preserving their reputation in Europe and America. The absence of oversight turned their young Israeli soldiers into aimless cannons which the Arab civilians had to dodge through flight. The Arabs abandoned their dignity and homes for the sake of momentary security, and straggled out of Lydda (and many other villages) on long, deadly marches. Throughout the early years of Israel, trepidation gnawed at the backbone of Jews and Arabs alike, prompting them to edge deeper into the depths of human behavior.

Interestingly, Shavit mourns the loss of the Israeli character that inspired Zionism in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. "On the one hand [Zionism] was a colonialist enterprise. It intended to save the lives of one people by the dispossession of another. In its first fifty years, Zionism was aware of this complexity and acted accordingly...but after 1967, and after 1973, all that changed...." The victories and traumas of 1967 and 1973 forever altered the political landscape of the Middle East, and the social fabric of Israeli society.

Israel initiated the Six Day War of 1967 to create a political buffer between themselves and the surrounding Arab nations, and in anticipation of an Arab attack just over the horizon. Israel caught its rivals completely off guard, and won the war with superior preparation and complete surprise. The victories of 1967 left Israel drunk with victory, and far more land than they had hoped for at the outset of their enterprise.

The occupied territories soon complicated the problems of Zionism. Many defeated Arabs were unable to immigrate to another country, and to this day they remain imprisoned in small tracts of land in Gaza and the West Bank. Though tragic and inhumane, the experiences in Gaza and the West Bank are not a second Holocaust. As Shavit says, 'no one can seriously think there is any real similarity. The problem is that there isn't enough lack of similarity. The lack of similarity is not strong enough to silence once and for all the evil echoes." And so the Israelis live in close and dangerous proximity to the people they displaced, and those people watch them day after day. The Israelis look back with wary eyes, "the jailers imprisoned by their jail."

Israelis desperately want to believe in their country--their nation--as established fact. They want release from the terrible fear that haunts the low-land orchards, the ancient alleys of Jerusalem, and the drug-soaked discotechs of Tel Aviv. But Shavit sees no release from the fear. Modern Israelis lack the secular hardness of their grandparents and great-grandparents. The melting pot of 1948 now congeals into separate small-minded elements: right-wing, left-wing, Oriental Jew, ultra-orthodox, capitalists, settlers, and rootless Palestinian refugees. The soft selfishness of individualism undermines the collective consciousness necessary for survival in the Middle East. He anticipates a second Holocaust, easier than the first due to the small spot of land upon which the Jews now live, and the tools of nuclear destruction that he believes will soon sprout among Israel's many Arab neighbors.

Shavit repeatedly calls his book a personal history. He offers somewhat skewed interpretations of many key events. For example, he calls the 1936 Arab revolt "a collective uprising of a national Arab-Palestinian movement," but leaves the revolt poorly explained and poorly reasoned, ignoring the way that economic modernization can threaten tribal honor; he also never identifies the key leaders of the revolt, or their localized motives.

Yet Shavit writes with a journalistic candor, and he conveys epic history. To tell his story, he chooses certain perspectives and subjects as stepping stones along the path. My Promised Land, therefore, never presumes to be a comprehensive volume. It assumes knowledge of pivotal figures like David Ben-Gurion, Moshe Dayan, and Golda Meir. It also assumes a familiarity with British colonialism, the First and Second Worlds Wars, and the conflicts of 1948, 1967, and 1973. Yet Shavit's use of expanded, effusive stanzas of dialogue help paint the story of Israel in powerful, nuanced strokes of darkness and light.  

The Wind Rises is the final film from retiring Japanese animator Hayao Miyazaki. It is one of the most cynical films I have ever seen. It's cynicism runs deeper than a typical satire or tragedy, for it delves into the plausible human motivations behind inspiration, and darkly frowns at the cost of creative work.

Though rated only PG-13, the film works in the realm of dreams, and bears comparison to David Lynch's Mulholland Drive. Many of the same desires thrust through the subconsciousness of the characters of Lynch and Miyazaki: desire, envy, lust, jealousy, aggression, and resentment. Unlike in Mulholland Drive, Miyazaki's hero, Jiro Horikoshi walks out of his own dreams and back to his work desk, where he shakes off the thick, unsweetened syrup of subconscious imagery, and faces the cost of bringing his dreams closer to reality. 

And what, exactly, are those dreams? Jiro wants to build airplanes. He would love to fly them, as well, but his terrible nearsightedness prevents this. He finds his inspiration in the sophisticated, noble-born Italian aircraft designer, Giavonni Caproni. Caproni intrudes on Jiro's dreams, and together they explore the air and fly among the clouds, surrounded by women and friends, fame and fortune. 

Now, there is never any doubt in Jiro's mind that the planes he builds will be used for war. His friends (and Caproni) offer a variety of excuses for why this is okay. Japan must catch up with Europe. America will bully Japan if she lacks a strong military. Prestige is on the line. But most importantly to Jiro and his friends, military contracts offers the best opportunity to design aircraft. 

Even before the outbreak of war, Jiro sees that the world is full of pain and suffering. Earthquakes, roaring like a mythic beast, break the backs of Japan's ancient cities. When the ground stops shaking, fire belches across the landscape, and destroys all in its path as surely as if humans had torched the landscape. The desperate rural poor make their ways to the city, but can find no work; children are starving to death. It does not seem like it can get any worse. Jiro and his friends do not want to build weapons--no, they want to build planes. But in a world of earthquakes, firestorms, urban poverty and fear, adding another war-machine does not make much of a difference. 

Jiro begins to work on a new fighter plane. For aircraft designers, fighter planes represent the luxury standard. Fighter planes must fly higher, faster, and lighter than any other aircraft. The air-frame must handle intense stress at it soars through the clouds, and ride the extreme limits of aeronautical mechanics. 

Long hours at work compel Jiro to sacrifice the health of his young wife, a tuberculosis patient who gives herself completely to his dreams. His wife becomes a fire by which he can warm his hands, but that he knows she will soon go out. The family, for Jiro, provides no hope for the future, but instead acts a crutch for the present, allowing him to continue his work without pause. With no investment in the future, Jiro shows little interest in the ultimate outcome of his work. His plane must fly. Incidentally, he predicts that 'Japan will blow up.' And indeed, by the end of the film, it does. Not one of his planes survives the war. Many pilots die in the seats of his aircraft. But he got to build his plane. He got to dream with Caproni. 

The plot of Miyazaki's film rebels against the liberal orthodoxy of 'good taste.' It tells a tale of creativity, inspiration, and sacrifice, all of which culminates in a nihilistic fusillade. Jiro isn't just building any warplane--he's building the Japanese Zero, an aircraft at the forefront of one of the most aggressive, brutal campaigns of the twentieth century. The Zero allowed Japan to initiate the war with the United States at Pearl Harbor, but it did not allow them to win it. The industrial might of the United States eventually crushes Japan, and the last fully-imagined planes Jiro sees are American bombers, not Japanese fighters.

Advanced scientific education, rather than leading Jiro towards a world-improving wisdom, leads him into a narrow, creative fever. When he reaches the end of the film, his planes are wrecked, but his dreams remain. His wife, long dead, waves to him in the distance. Caproni, his idol, asks him if it was worth it. The ground smokes, blackened from war. The skies, however, remain blue with possibilities. 

For all that, the movie's tone never wallows in self-pity or doubt. The colors never darken for more than a few moments. By and large, people are nice to each other. The story is told exclusively through Jiro's eyes, and he seems to fight off the darkness, even as it utterly pervades his life. He never gives in to despair. 

The Wind Rises celebrates creativity and genius. But it acknowledges its costs. Miyazaki is, by critical acclaim, a creative genius. Does he believe he has found a private solution to the moral tensions he examines in his story of Japanese aircraft designers? It is impossible to say. But if he has, he does not reveal it. 

Miyazki has chosen to wave farewell with a film of psychological plausibility and deep cynicism. 

Dutt, B.C. Mutiny of the Innocents. (1971). Bombay: Sindhu Publications.

B.C. Dutt's Mutiny of the Innocents offers a razor sharp first-person account of a forgotten episode in the history of India's long struggle against foreign rule. In the early months of 1946, low-ranking sailors in the Royal Indian Navy began supporting Indian independence, but only after years of loyal service to the wider empire. Their sudden change of heart bewildered both British military leaders like General Claude Auchinleck and Indian politicians like Mahatma Gandhi.

Dutt's story, however, begins with his entrance into the Royal Indian Navy as a teenager. A radio and signal operator, Dutt and his fellow Indian sailors served loyally throughout the war, but lost enthusiasm for their task as profligate racism sets a clear divide between themselves and white service members. Despite the racism, Dutt worked hard, and took pride in his work. He was a cog in a wheel, but thrived in his own way. At the end of the war, Dutt found himself stationed at the HMIS Talwar, the shore establishment where he first learned his trade as a signalman. For Dutt, and his fellow veterans, the future looked bleak. The post-war navy offered few opportunities for advancement; outside the military, jobs were scarce. And many Indians viewed the sailors and soldiers of the Indian military as mercenaries more interested in lining their pockets with British coin than serving their homeland. Dutt's experiences with racism, and his own questions about his role in the British empire, eventually led him to take action in support of Indian independence. Gathering in the canteen of the Talwar, Dutt and a few like-minded conspirators engaged in well-timed acts of minor sabotage. For the most part, they merely distracted sentries and pasted revolutionary slogans on barrack walls. They timed their subversive activities to maximize the embarrassment of their officers.

In February 1946, the authorities caught Dutt. But he refused to cooperate or name his fellow conspirators. Further, he declared himself a political prisoner, rather than an insubordinate sailor. In a political situation already fraught with tension, this caught his superior officers off guard. They tried to respond with restraint in order to keep the situation quiet. But the opposite happened. Dutt's slight success catapulted him into the spotlight. Other naval ratings used a common complaint--the poor quality of navy chow--to rally other sailors to the cause. The ensuing rebellion more resembled a student protest or worker strike rather than a violent insurrection. What began as small demonstrations of discontent expanded into a brief (but bright) flame of outright rebellion, and came to be known as the Royal Indian Navy Mutiny. It ultimately involved upwards of 12,000 ratings (low-ranking sailors). The ratings seized ships and shore establishments throughout Bombay; ratings in Calcutta, Karachi, and elsewhere also gained control of their vessels. The ratings adopted the language of the nationalist leaders, and formed a strike committee to lead the way. The ratings offered to hand over the navy to nationalist leaders in Congress and Muslim League, but received a cold response from everyone except the Communists Party.  

 Congress leaders, especially Sadar Vallabhbhai Patel, quickly organized a truce between the mutineers and the British authorities. Very few ratings lost their lives, and only a few ships were damaged. But for enthusiastic participants like B.C. Dutt, the short-lived mutiny taught them an indelible lesson on the limits of India's revolutionary politics. The nationalist leaders had struggled for decades to achieve Indian independence. Now the leaders could already see the finish line, and yearned to reach it. The British were clearly on the way out. The mutiny, rather than helping the nationalist leaders achieve their objective, threatened to disrupt the delicate balance of power of domestic politics. Besides, the nationalist leadership consisted of lawyers and industrialists and cloaked themselves in the mores of non-violence; they distrusted military personnel out of habit, and the young naval ratings now asking for their help were no exception. Thus, the complex realities of nationalist politics quickly eclipsed the RIN mutiny.

A year and a half later, India won its independence from imperial rule, but at the cost of an independent Pakistan. Jinnah, the first leader of Pakistan, kept an earlier promise and allowed Muslim mutineers to apply for positions in the Pakistan navy. In India, however, newly-minted Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru (and the rest of the Congress leadership) opted to keep the mutineers out of the service. The Royal Indian Navy discharged D.C. Butt quickly and quietly; he tried to join Nehru's navy, but without success. He eventually made his way back to Bombay and became a reporter with the Free Press Journal, the newspaper that most closely covered the Royal Indian Navy Mutiny.

We do not often think of mutineers as innocents, but B.C. Dutt's book makes a convincing case that these young men truly did not know what they were getting themselves into. The book begins with a forward from S. Natarajan, the editor of the Free Press Journal at the time of the mutiny. He describes his own interest in the mutiny, and his careful decision to chronicle the efforts of the naval ratings when a few members of their party appeared on his doorstep on 18 February 1946. Though the mutiny ended in meekness, it shared dangerous echoes with rebellions that began elsewhere in the world. When the book transitions to Dutt's voice, the account assumes an uncanny charm. He records the events without malice or resentment. He articulates the views of his enemies with remarkable generosity and restraint.

In particular, Dutt chronicles the motivations of the Indian officers that remained loyal to the navy, and the actions of Commander King, a white officer whose racist language helped the mutiny spiral out of control. In other accounts (including Banerjee's The RIN Strike and Sarkar's Towards Freedom series) King stands a mysterious and foolish monster. But in Dutt's account, Commander King emerges as a complicated and surprisingly sympathetic figure that lacked the political wherewithal and leadership skills to contain the misbegotten mutiny. Like Dutt and King, the ratings and officers initially caught in the strike simply lacked the political sophistication to achieve their objectives.

B.C. Dutt published Mutiny of the Innocents in 1971. Reflecting on his actions of twenty-five years prior, Dutt comes across as an astute observer of human nature. He also has the wisdom to reassess his actions in the rearview mirror, and place them in historical perspective. At times, a sense of humor shines through the book's pages, as when after a late-night attempt at revolutionary graffiti, naval sentries catch Dutt with his hands covered in glue.

Dutt's book stands as a riveting account of political failure in waning shadows of the British raj. Dutt managed, for a short time at least, to rally sailors to take a political stand against the British empire; the rebellion's failure, as Dutt states at the close of the book, was probably inevitable. His revolution failed, but his book succeeds. 

We usually notice the absence of justice, not its presence. When present, justice touches us like a mild breeze. Only when we are absolutely still can we notice that it keeps us cool and comfortable. Justice is not a trophy we can brag about, or hold before the admiration of others. In the absence of justice we become cruel and mean. A low pettiness creeps onto the tip of our tongues. 

When justice is absent, we may call it injustice. We notice injustice immediately, and it treats our internals as roughly as the worst weather treats our skin.  Injustice twice corrupts: it corrupts the offender, but it also corrupts the offended. For even the mere fear of being a victim of injustice can corrupt the spirit; to avoid the possibility of injustice, we buckle, dodge, and coerce others. 

Justice might be complicated in description, but it is simple in practice. 

Justice through friendship, or not at all. 

For this reason, I prefer theater when we make it with friends. The more formal the relationship, the less satisfying I find it. Formal contracts can help preserve friendships, at times, such as when individuals promise each other a certain level of effort or resources. But on the whole, we need to want to see each other succeed; minimize each other's flaws, and maximize our strengths; we need fellow theatre-makers that excuse us for being human. 

It is not a close secret that more than one type of drama occurs in the classrooms and hallways of theater programs. Actors, though friends, compete fiercely for roles. Directors scramble for opportunities to practice their craft. Artists, often despite their own intentions, struggle to place themselves in a hierarchy of accomplishment. I've never wanted to get involved in that fray. I figure if I'm going to shallowly scramble for status, I might as well do so on a professional basis, rather than an academic one. And as of yesterday, I have never been so glad that I did not attend a master of fine arts program. Or earn an undergraduate degree in theater. 

My good friends in UT's Theater and Dance Department have offered me a lot of support over the years. Most recently, they produced THE PRICELESS SLAVE at the Cohen New Works Festival. They find themselves enveloped in a scuffle about 'main stage programming.' A similar fracas occurs in any academic  theater department, but its probably exacerbated by the unique tensions at the University of Texas. The department has two 'main stages.' One is a large, acoustically vibrant proscenium, and the other is a large, sound-sucking black box. But the department only puts on a handful of shows each year: a couple of dance pieces, and then a short list of musicals or plays. Ostensibly, all the material serves an academic purpose within the department, and also helps train the students for the professional world of acting, directing, set design, lighting, etcetera. 

To select its yearly program, the department uses a semi-inclusive process that is subject to veto from the departmental chair. A committee of faculty and faculty-friendly students informally surveys the department, and then talks out a list of shows for the coming academic year. They suggest shows that they want to see, and shows they want to perform in. Then the chair of the department looks over the list; he scratches some, adds others, and bounces the list back to the committee. Not everyone is happy with the results. Then actors audition, and 'artistic teams' are put together to work on specific productions. The process is not quite democratic, but then again, not much about art  or academics is democratic. 

While one could probably improve the selection process to better fit the department's diverse preferences, it seems that the real difficulty lies in the limited programming slots available. When there are only a handful of shows each year, the stakes are raised tremendously for each and every show that makes the slow, painful, pitiable journey to appear before  a live audience. Inevitably, the high-stakes process will leave many artists and students out in the cold. Increasing the number of programming slots (and decreasing the amount of funding each one receives) would lower the stakes. 

More aggressively, it appears a sickening waste of space that two venues in central Austin lie vacant most weekends. Increasing the number of production slots would reduce the nights when fertile ground lies fallow. Doubling the number of productions (or quadrupling) (or more) would lower the stakes, increase occupancy rates, and might even lead to more risk-taking.  The stakes are much too high for each show right now (artistically, educationally, and economically). It seems madness to continue on the current path of severely limited programming. 

Increasing the number of production slots would also speak to the interests and habits of some of the younger artists on the faculty. They prefer rough and tumble shows that take chances, mix genres, and dash through diverse landscapes without blinking an eye. They do not want to make or see clunky classical revivals that fail to match the technical achievements of Broadway, Chicago, and London, or that attempt to compete with the narrative powers of film. 

But the Old Guard in many faculties enjoys the stoic, steady and patient pace of limited programming with well-made plays. Good acting, to a certain set, means talent and training, both of which require strong material with which to play. A new, messy, incomplete play coarsens the fragile taste of young actors, whereas a masterfully written play can guide the actors towards greater heights of imagination and nuance. There is something to be said for this approach.

Still, the number of production slots must increase. Perhaps we can increase the number of performances without abstaining from producing well-made plays for the sake of 'new work.' Resurrecting the term 'repertory season' might bridge the distance between the Old Guard and New Guard faculty members, and aptly describe the policy of increased production slots. A repertory season could prejudice efficiency over perfection, craft over product, and cooperation over competition. And perhaps a repertory season might grant a lovable, forgivable and expected rough edge to the main stage productions. For the love of God, mis amigos, it is student fucking theater. In Texas. Of course it has rough edges. If you're not falling down and skinning your knee once in a while, you're probably not running fast enough. 

I began this essay with a note on injustice. I now return to that theme to look at the particulars of the season. 

This year's scruffiness began with In the Heights, a sort of hip hop musical. I dislike musicals. I suppose I get as emotionally involved as anyone else, but I dislike their cheap narrative tricks and manipulative scores. The show Les Miserables, for example, shoots an impoverished child on stage, mid-song; everyone cries; but it is a cheap ploy, and too easily staged. It is far more challenging and necessary to show the slow degeneration of life that shadows all instances of extreme poverty. But in Les Miserables, they shoot the kid. As they shoot the boy, and tears creep into my eyes, I want to punch Trevor Nunn (the English progenitor of the scene) for his vulgar manipulations. (Musicals are pornography, but for the emotions instead of the libido). 

I've been told that this particular musical (In the Heights) was chosen to speak to the growing number of Texas Latinos that attend the University of Texas. If this was the justification, I'm not sure it made sense in the first place.  The 'Heights' in the play's title refers to Washington Heights. Washington Heights is in Manhattan. Manhattan looks and feels a little different than the Rio Grande Valley or suburban Dallas, or even inner city Dallas.

When it came time to cast the play, my Hispanic friends in the department were pretty engaged with the idea. Obviously, the kids who attend a theater and dance program like to be on stage (even if it involves singing and dancing). The powers that be decided not to cast any of my friends in the play. The department decided that due to a dearth of talent within the department, they would offer several roles to actors from outside the university. 

This set off an alarm. It does not matter whether or not the alarm attested to technical instance of injustice in the minds of people casting the play--when it comes to injustice, the feeling is everything. And the casting decision blatantly demonstrated that the department was more interested in 'putting on quality programming' than developing or training the students that walked through its doors. Further, it fed a fire that burns throughout Austin, Texas--it's impossible not to notice the imbalances between actors of color and 'white' actors in this city in terms of opportunity and exposure. Supposedly, those casting the play subsequently increased the number of student actors involved in the project. But now it is too late. As soon as they made the mistake, they should have cancelled the damned musical and started from scratch. 

Of course, In the Heights is not the only play the department will perform this year. The other plays fall into a broad category that I call "shit that other people have done well, but that we can probably do okay." Our Country's Good, Dial M for Murder, Dead Man's Cell Phone.  Austin Playhouse and ZACH Theatre put on similar plays, but with big-kid actors and easier parking. Student  theater clubs also put on similar programming, but with cheaper tickets, lower expectations, and smuggled liquor. 

I have been around Austin since 2005. That's not all that long. But it's long enough to know that there have always been conflicts over these departmental shows at UT Austin. The programming has always been as flat and as warm as an old can of Coke. It is not the selection process that is at fault. A strong, autocratic leader can put together a good program. A broad, diverse coalition of voices can also (though more rarely) put together something interesting. But there must be room to fail. Increasing the number of production slots is the only way to go. 

A smaller university in town, Saint Edwards, puts on a series of four or five plays that typically resemble, in spirit, the plays appearing at UT. But I think Saint Edwards succeeds where UT fails. Why? Conditions are different. They emphasize acting over set design. They only use one black-box, and it never changes format. The theater only holds a handful of patrons at a time. Saint Edwards consistently mixes Equity actors into its productions. Saint Edwards only has a handful of students for whom they must provide roles. Saint Edwards does not allow student directors, thus granting more consistent directing opportunities to their faculty to keep their skills fresh. In short, and for a lot of unchangeable reasons, Saint Edwards puts together a program that I find more rewarding than what appears in my own forty-acre neighborhood. This has nothing to do with talent, and everything do with broader structural conditions. 

I love my friends at Texas, and I am sure that as the months go by, they will find solutions that restore the tenor of justice to their program. Break legs. I am glad I do not have to go to any of the formal meetings--I much prefer working on art outside of UT's academic boundaries. As the fracas develops, I hope to see a diverse set of productions that breathlessly move from one imaginative landscape to another. Play. Play. Play. 

Gopal, Sarvepalli. Jawaharlal Nehru: a biography, Vol. 1.  HUP (1976).     
 
In the final years of the British raj, Jawaharlal Nehru emerged as India's preeminent statesman and as a model of pragmatic leadership. The journey to that position led Nehru though the lecture halls of Harrow and Cambridge, but also a discipleship under Mahatma Gandhi, and nearly ten years imprisonment in British gaols. He emerged, in the end, as India's first prime minister and one of the longest tenured statesmen of the last century. 

The first volume of Sarvepalli Gopal's three volume biography emphasizes Nehru's steadfast development from a romantic nationalist into a courageous pragmatist. In the process, Nehru navigated four tense decades as a leading member of the Indian National Congress, the nationalist organization which used the tools of non-violence and non-cooperation to pry India away from an exhausted British empire. 

The independence of India was not an historical inevitability. Nationalist aspirations lacked shape and spirit prior to Mahatma Gandhi's entrance on the scene in 1915. In the shadow of Gandhi's lean, ascetic frame and his unyielding emphasis on social reform, Nehru and Congress overcame their association with British privilege and gave Indian nationalism a distinct, powerful, and popular voice. Their campaigns of non-cooperation and non-violence ebbed and flowed the like a tide throughout the interwar years. They rallied the uneducated masses, and rattled the nerves of the British raj. 

After years of struggle, the world-wide political conflicts surrounding the Second World War served as a catalyst to the fall of the British raj. The war opened the final chapter in Nehru's struggle for independence. The United Kingdom relied upon India as the second pillar of its military efforts; Britain brought India--a fifth of the world's population--into the war unasked. The war also depleted the resources of the Indian civil service, and required the British to hand increasing portions of power to domestic Indian interests and domestic Indian bureaucrats. Winston Churchill, Britain's war-time leader, nevertheless attempted to hold on to India with the mass arrest of Congress leaders and offers of post-dated settlements for independence. But the war strained the British to the breaking point and made a rapid compromise towards independence the only honorable political recourse. 

Nehru's Congress led the negotiations. Against Gandhi's wishes, Nehru accepted Muhammad Ali Jinnah's demands for a separate Pakistan. In the face of rising communal violence, Nehru firmly held the reins of Congress, and prevented the emergence of a strong ethnic Hindu party. Nehru merged social reform into Indian independence, and thus paved the way for a more liberal, democratic India even as Congress rejected further British intervention. He channeled the forces of nationalism, revivalism, and modernization as he and his allies established one of the largest countries on Earth. Gopal's first volume concludes at the dawn of an independent India on 14 August 1947; Nehru served India as prime minister until 1964. His premiership eventually wrestled with the creation of Pakistan, violent tensions with communist China, and all the challenges of the Cold War.

Gopal's biography expertly evokes the political environment surrounding Nehru's development, but the author also soberly demonstrates how personal attachment moderated Jawaharlal Nehru's political life. With touching devotion, Nehru's father and mother abandoned bourgeois comforts to follow their son into the dangerous politics of swaraj. Motilal Nehru, Jawaharlal's father, emerges as a moderate and patient hero in the first half of the book; he openly acknowledges his relentless pride in his son's efforts, yet helps to curb Jawaharlal's radical, youthful tendencies. With the backing of his parents, Jawaharlal devoted himself to the cause of an independent India, and began disciplining his political ideas with a cautious ear towards Gandhi's sympathy for the Indian poor. Gopal also rises to the occasion when depicting the troubled but deeply felt marriage between Jawaharlal and Kamala Nehru. Nehru's personal relationships with his father, mother, wife and mentors conditioned his political involvement with touches of humanity and sudden bursts of patient compromise. 

Gopal is somewhat less successful in explaining Nehru's early rise to power in the United Provinces. Nehru's appeal as a well-travelled, well-educated, mid-career nationalist emerges clearly, but why did Gandhi and Annie Besant devote so much attention to the young man as early as 1914?  These connections remain somewhat mysterious in Gopal's present volume. Ostensibly, Motilal's connections as a powerful and wealthy lawyer played a decisive role helping his son meet these individuals, but the nature of the connections stands uncertain to a reader (such as myself) less familiar with the early years of the Indian nationalist movement.

Despite that one difficulty, Gopal presents the story of Nehru's development with candor and confidence. 

Many statesmen marshaled nationalist sentiment in the twentieth century: Churchill, Hitler, and Roosevelt; Stalin, Mussolini and Mao. Among them all, Gopal's Nehru emerges as the most effectively peaceful and virtuous in his rise to power, and the most magnanimous in his use of authority.

Orde Wingate left Egypt in March 1933. Aboard the ship home, he met a Mrs. Alice “Ivy” Patterson and her daughter, Lorna. Lorna was sixteen at the time. Upon returning home, he and Peggy Jolly broke off their engagement, as he bashfully admitted he'd fallen in love with someone else. The army assigned him to the Royal Artillery Regiment at Bulford Camp, Salisbury Plain. 

Wingate eventually married Lorna in Chelsea on 24 January 1935. 

In the Wingate files at the IWM archives, I found a letter written to Lorna's mother that betrayed an unusually close intimacy between Orde Wingate and his future mother in law, Alice Ivy Hays. Hays later attempted to shape Orde's legacy in a positive direction when she wrote a book called There Was a Man of Genius: Letters to my Grandson, now out of print. The following letter sheds some light on the unusually close nature of their relationship--it's not the sort of thing a prospective son in law typically writes. I found the letter in folder OCW /3/4  1934.

Below, I've typed out the contents of the letter. [I've put my own notes, as well as illegible words, in brackets.]

The letter shows something of his zeal--and his ability to drive hard at those who care for him. There's clearly some feeling between Orde Wingate and his mother in law--enough to driver her into approving of the marriage, and then to write a book about her son in law.