Law in Contemporary Society

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JacobGodshallFirstEssay 5 - 31 May 2017 - Main.JacobGodshall
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Ke Garne?

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We walk among the ruined temples of Durbar Square, and Manoj falls into his tour guide schtick telling me Hindu epics of sex and murder, secrets of the Kumari princess and conspiracy theories of the Palace Massacre--Indian spies, the King’s brother, the CIA. It’s a year after the Earthquake and bricks and mortar still litter the ground. Outside Kathmandu, it’s worse. “What happened to the money, the $4 billion?” I ask.
>
>
We walk among the ruined temples of Durbar Square, and Manoj falls into his tour guide shtick telling me Hindu epics of sex and murder, secrets of the Kumari princess and conspiracy theories of the Palace Massacre--Indian spies, the King’s brother, the CIA. It’s a year after the Earthquake and bricks and mortar still litter the ground. Outside Kathmandu, it’s worse. “What happened to the money, the $4 billion?” I ask.
 “It’s still only money,” says Manoj, “This is the problem. Something about paperwork.” He laughs his quiet laugh and sighs, “ Ke garne? Jiban yestai chha. ” What to do? Such is life. This is the phrase you say when you are dealt a shitty hand, but you do not fold because you can’t and you wouldn’t if you could. It is sad and funny and resilient, and it is what I like about Manoj.
Line: 17 to 17
 They sit in lines, handcuffed together in strings of ten. They are dressed in street clothes, the typical knock-off brands of Nepal--sweatshirts and jackets with American corporate brands like Facebook, Apple and Angry Birds, shirts silk screened with photos of Sid Vicious. Their expression is of boredom, and I think at this moment that this is the only emotion that can overcome fear. For they are so young, and I can’t imagine what jail would be like in Nepal.

After a time, Manoj returns and the lawyers begin to shuffle into their rooms.“How did it go?” I ask. He pauses for a time.

Changed:
<
<
“It’s for my brother, he’s having some troubles in Bahrain. I think this will require some more work.” And his face doesn’t doesn’t betray much, but his shoulders look heavier, and he is disappointed. He just pats my back and says, “We will watch for a little while.”
>
>
“It’s for my brother, he’s having some troubles in Bahrain. I think this will require some more work.” And his face doesn’t betray much, but his shoulders look heavier, and he is disappointed. He just pats my back and says, “We will watch for a little while.”
 And so we pick one of the little courtrooms, no larger than a storage shed, and find seats in the back. A man stands in the front of the room by the judge, hands cuffed behind his back, while a woman stands next to him speaking rapid Nepali . It’s too fast for me, but I enjoy the performance, the quick parries back and forth between the woman and the judge, a third man to the right occasionally interjecting in loud decisive bursts. The judge eventually nods, and the handcuffed man turns to take his seat, but the only one left is beside me. So he walks to the back and sits beside me and no one seems to mind.

JacobGodshallFirstEssay 4 - 31 May 2017 - Main.JacobGodshall
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META TOPICPARENT name="FirstEssay"
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Ke Garne?

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-- By JacobGodshall - 10 Mar 2017

We walk among the ruined temples of Durbar Square, and Manoj falls into his tour guide schtick telling me Hindu epics of sex and murder, secrets of the Kumari princess and conspiracy theories of the Palace Massacre--Indian spies, the King’s brother, Gyanendra, the CIA. It’s over a year after the Earthquake and bricks and mortar still litter the ground. Outside Kathmandu, I hear it’s worse. “What happened to the money, the $4 billion?” I ask.

>
>
We walk among the ruined temples of Durbar Square, and Manoj falls into his tour guide schtick telling me Hindu epics of sex and murder, secrets of the Kumari princess and conspiracy theories of the Palace Massacre--Indian spies, the King’s brother, the CIA. It’s a year after the Earthquake and bricks and mortar still litter the ground. Outside Kathmandu, it’s worse. “What happened to the money, the $4 billion?” I ask.
 
Changed:
<
<
“It is still only money,” says Manoj, “This is the problem. Something about about paperwork. People are rebuilding their homes, so they will not qualify when the money comes.” He laughs his quiet laugh and sighs, “Ke garne? Jiban yestai chha.” What to do? Such is life. This is the phrase you are dealt a shitty hand, but you do not fold because you can’t and you wouldn’t if you could. It is sad and funny and resilient, and it is what I like about Manoj.
>
>
“It’s still only money,” says Manoj, “This is the problem. Something about paperwork.” He laughs his quiet laugh and sighs, “ Ke garne? Jiban yestai chha. ” What to do? Such is life. This is the phrase you say when you are dealt a shitty hand, but you do not fold because you can’t and you wouldn’t if you could. It is sad and funny and resilient, and it is what I like about Manoj.
 
Changed:
<
<
We are heading to the district court house in Babarmahal. Manoj is hoping to meet a man there. “Tulo Manche.” Big man. For someone whose favorite phrase is “what to do?” he always seems to be doing something, meeting someone. Manoj is a man of projects and plans, a keen navigator of INGOs and people who do things. Last year, he got a dozen computers delivered to his old village school in Bhojpur. This is impressive because it’s Bhojpur, and they don’t have much there. Manoj is the first person from the village to go to college and the first to train to be a lawyer. He smiles when he shows me the school calendar with his photo in it.
>
>
We are heading to the courthouse in Babarmahal. Manoj is hoping to meet a man there. “ Tulo Manche. ” Big man. For someone whose favorite phrase is “what to do?” he always seems to be doing something, meeting someone. Manoj is a man of projects and plans, a keen navigator of INGOs and people who do things. Last year, he got a dozen computers delivered to his old village school in Bhojpur. This is impressive because it’s Bhojpur, and they don’t have much there. Manoj is the first person from the village to go to college and the first to train to be a lawyer. He smiles when he shows me the school calendar with his photo in it.
 
Changed:
<
<
Manoj and I met several years before because he was my research assistant. He was my research assistant, and I not his, because I am where I’m from and he is where he’s from. But it was decent money for him, and I needed help, so it was a good partnership. We trekked through Manang district conducting interviews with collectors, traders, smugglers and government officials trying to get rich from yarsagumba, a medicinal fungus that grows in the Himalayas and is bought by people in China for a lot of money. Manoj made the right contacts, got us in rooms with the right people. Of course, Manoj didn’t use his real last name, which couldn’t get us in the right rooms with the right people. But one time he did, and the Nepali was too quick for me to catch, but we were served tea on the porch, forbidden to go inside. Just then it started to hail, big sheets of ice pounding against that metal roof, and he didn’t say anything, and I didn’t say anything, the cosmos seemingly reinforcing the insurmountable unfairness of the world.
>
>
Manoj and I met several years before because he was my research assistant. He was my research assistant, and I not his, because I am where I’m from and he is where he’s from. But it was decent money for him, and I needed help, so it was a good partnership. We trekked through Manang district conducting interviews with collectors, traders and smugglers trying to get rich from yarsagumba, a medicinal fungus that grows in the Himalayas and is bought by people in China for a lot of money. Manoj made the right contacts, got us in rooms with the right people. Of course, Manoj didn’t use his real last name, which couldn’t get us in the right rooms with the right people. But one time he did, and the Nepali was too quick for me, but we were served tea on the porch, forbidden to go inside. Just then it started to hail, big sheets of ice pounding against that metal roof, and he didn’t say anything, and I didn’t say anything, the cosmos seemingly reinforcing the insurmountable unfairness of the world.
 Manoj left Bhojpur when he was sixteen because the Maoist insurgents put their rifles in his face and ordered him to carry their bags of rice. I once asked him what he thought of the Communist Party of Nepal, now that they were leading the coalition government. “They weren’t willing to work then, they will not work now.”
Changed:
<
<
We arrive at the district court at afternoon tea. The courthouse is more like a courtyard with open space in the middle and small rooms lining the outside. I later learn this used to be a horse stable. Nepali men in suits and topis stand outside talking, sipping milk tea. I get two cups for Manoj and me, successfully convincing the Didi to give me just black with no sugar. Scanning the crowd, Manoj spots the Tulo Manche standing in a circle with some other lawyers. He walks over, standing a few feet away, patiently and somewhat apprehensively waiting for his chance. I turn away and look around some more, seeing the prisoners for the first time.
>
>
We arrive at the court during afternoon tea. The courthouse is more like a courtyard with open space in the middle and small rooms lining the outside. It used to be a horse stable. Nepali men in suits and topis stand outside talking, sipping milk tea. I get two cups for Manoj and me, successfully convincing the Didi to give me black with no sugar. Scanning the crowd, Manoj spots the Tulo Manche standing with some other lawyers. He walks over, stopping a few feet away, patiently and somewhat apprehensively waiting for his chance. I turn away and look around some more, seeing the prisoners for the first time.
 
Changed:
<
<
They sit in lines, handcuffed together in strings of ten. They are dressed in street clothes, the typical knock-off brands of Nepal--sweatshirts and jackets with American corporate brands like Facebook, Apple and Angry Birds, shirts silk screened with photos of Sid Vicious. Their chief expression is of boredom, and I think at this moment that this is the only emotion that can overcome fear. For they are so young, and I can’t imagine what jail would be like in Nepal.
>
>
They sit in lines, handcuffed together in strings of ten. They are dressed in street clothes, the typical knock-off brands of Nepal--sweatshirts and jackets with American corporate brands like Facebook, Apple and Angry Birds, shirts silk screened with photos of Sid Vicious. Their expression is of boredom, and I think at this moment that this is the only emotion that can overcome fear. For they are so young, and I can’t imagine what jail would be like in Nepal.
 After a time, Manoj returns and the lawyers begin to shuffle into their rooms.“How did it go?” I ask.He pauses for a time.
Added:
>
>
“It’s for my brother, he’s having some troubles in Bahrain. I think this will require some more work.” And his face doesn’t doesn’t betray much, but his shoulders look heavier, and he is disappointed. He just pats my back and says, “We will watch for a little while.”
 
Changed:
<
<
“It’s for my brother, he’s having some troubles in Bahrain. I think this will require some more work.” And his face doesn’t doesn’t betray any frustration or disappointment, and just he pats my back and says, “We will watch for a little while.”

And so we pick one of the little courtrooms, no larger than a storage shed, and find seats in the back row. A man stands in the front of the room by the judge, his hands cuffed behind his back, while a woman stands speaking rapid Nepali next to him. It’s too fast for me to understand, but I enjoy the performance of it all, the quick parries back and forth between the woman and the judge, a third man to the right occasionally interjecting in loud decisive bursts. The judge eventually nods, and the handcuffed man turns to take his seat, but the only one left is the one beside me. So he walks to the back and sits beside me and no one seems to mind.

>
>
And so we pick one of the little courtrooms, no larger than a storage shed, and find seats in the back. A man stands in the front of the room by the judge, hands cuffed behind his back, while a woman stands next to him speaking rapid Nepali . It’s too fast for me, but I enjoy the performance, the quick parries back and forth between the woman and the judge, a third man to the right occasionally interjecting in loud decisive bursts. The judge eventually nods, and the handcuffed man turns to take his seat, but the only one left is beside me. So he walks to the back and sits beside me and no one seems to mind.
 “Today, I am very happy,” he says.
Line: 32 to 27
 “This is my wedding!”
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<
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Manoj smiles at my astonishment, and we laugh and congratulate the man. We watch him get married to the quick talking Nepali woman, and the man rests easy knowing he will not be deported upon release. Manoj and I walk back through Durbar Square, and I can tell he feels lighter amidst the ruins of it all.

It's a well-told story. With the exception of the tea for "him and I," its composition is flawless. But it is not self-interpreting, of course, and what the next draft needs to add, at the expense of only the few words it will take, is the why of it. Many ways to make meaning out of this story are possible, but the one you choose is important.

 \ No newline at end of file
Added:
>
>
Manoj smiles at my astonishment, and we laugh and congratulate the man. We watch him get married to the quick talking Nepali woman, and the man rests easy knowing he will not be deported upon release. I wonder the why of it. Love? Pragmatic necessity? But it doesn’t matter in that moment, because in their faces I see a simulacrum of hope. I see a dignity that they made themselves. Manoj must recognize it because he has it too. We walk back through Durbar Square, and I can tell he feels lighter amidst the ruins of it all.

JacobGodshallFirstEssay 3 - 29 May 2017 - Main.JacobGodshall
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META TOPICPARENT name="FirstEssay"
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 Manoj left Bhojpur when he was sixteen because the Maoist insurgents put their rifles in his face and ordered him to carry their bags of rice. I once asked him what he thought of the Communist Party of Nepal, now that they were leading the coalition government. “They weren’t willing to work then, they will not work now.”
Changed:
<
<
We arrive at the district court at afternoon tea. The courthouse is more like a courtyard with open space in the middle and small rooms lining the outside. I later learn this used to be a horse stable. Nepali men in suits and topis stand outside talking, sipping milk tea. I get two cups for Manoj and I, successfully convincing the Didi to give me just black with no sugar. Scanning the crowd, Manoj spots the Tulo Manche standing in a circle with some other lawyers. He walks over, standing a few feet away, patiently and somewhat apprehensively waiting for his chance. I turn away and look around some more, seeing the prisoners for the first time.
>
>
We arrive at the district court at afternoon tea. The courthouse is more like a courtyard with open space in the middle and small rooms lining the outside. I later learn this used to be a horse stable. Nepali men in suits and topis stand outside talking, sipping milk tea. I get two cups for Manoj and me, successfully convincing the Didi to give me just black with no sugar. Scanning the crowd, Manoj spots the Tulo Manche standing in a circle with some other lawyers. He walks over, standing a few feet away, patiently and somewhat apprehensively waiting for his chance. I turn away and look around some more, seeing the prisoners for the first time.
 They sit in lines, handcuffed together in strings of ten. They are dressed in street clothes, the typical knock-off brands of Nepal--sweatshirts and jackets with American corporate brands like Facebook, Apple and Angry Birds, shirts silk screened with photos of Sid Vicious. Their chief expression is of boredom, and I think at this moment that this is the only emotion that can overcome fear. For they are so young, and I can’t imagine what jail would be like in Nepal.
Line: 45 to 45
  important.

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JacobGodshallFirstEssay 2 - 07 May 2017 - Main.EbenMoglen
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META TOPICPARENT name="FirstEssay"
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It is strongly recommended that you include your outline in the body of your essay by using the outline as section titles. The headings below are there to remind you how section and subsection titles are formatted.
 

Ke Garne?

Line: 37 to 35
 Manoj smiles at my astonishment, and we laugh and congratulate the man. We watch him get married to the quick talking Nepali woman, and the man rests easy knowing he will not be deported upon release. Manoj and I walk back through Durbar Square, and I can tell he feels lighter amidst the ruins of it all.
Added:
>
>

It's a well-told story. With the exception of the tea for "him and I," its composition is flawless. But it is not self-interpreting, of course, and what the next draft needs to add, at the expense of only the few words it will take, is the why of it. Many ways to make meaning out of this story are possible, but the one you choose is important.

 
You are entitled to restrict access to your paper if you want to. But we all derive immense benefit from reading one another's work, and I hope you won't feel the need unless the subject matter is personal and its disclosure would be harmful or undesirable.

JacobGodshallFirstEssay 1 - 10 Mar 2017 - Main.JacobGodshall
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Added:
>
>
META TOPICPARENT name="FirstEssay"

It is strongly recommended that you include your outline in the body of your essay by using the outline as section titles. The headings below are there to remind you how section and subsection titles are formatted.

Ke Garne?

-- By JacobGodshall - 10 Mar 2017

We walk among the ruined temples of Durbar Square, and Manoj falls into his tour guide schtick telling me Hindu epics of sex and murder, secrets of the Kumari princess and conspiracy theories of the Palace Massacre--Indian spies, the King’s brother, Gyanendra, the CIA. It’s over a year after the Earthquake and bricks and mortar still litter the ground. Outside Kathmandu, I hear it’s worse. “What happened to the money, the $4 billion?” I ask.

“It is still only money,” says Manoj, “This is the problem. Something about about paperwork. People are rebuilding their homes, so they will not qualify when the money comes.” He laughs his quiet laugh and sighs, “Ke garne? Jiban yestai chha.” What to do? Such is life. This is the phrase you are dealt a shitty hand, but you do not fold because you can’t and you wouldn’t if you could. It is sad and funny and resilient, and it is what I like about Manoj.

We are heading to the district court house in Babarmahal. Manoj is hoping to meet a man there. “Tulo Manche.” Big man. For someone whose favorite phrase is “what to do?” he always seems to be doing something, meeting someone. Manoj is a man of projects and plans, a keen navigator of INGOs and people who do things. Last year, he got a dozen computers delivered to his old village school in Bhojpur. This is impressive because it’s Bhojpur, and they don’t have much there. Manoj is the first person from the village to go to college and the first to train to be a lawyer. He smiles when he shows me the school calendar with his photo in it.

Manoj and I met several years before because he was my research assistant. He was my research assistant, and I not his, because I am where I’m from and he is where he’s from. But it was decent money for him, and I needed help, so it was a good partnership. We trekked through Manang district conducting interviews with collectors, traders, smugglers and government officials trying to get rich from yarsagumba, a medicinal fungus that grows in the Himalayas and is bought by people in China for a lot of money. Manoj made the right contacts, got us in rooms with the right people. Of course, Manoj didn’t use his real last name, which couldn’t get us in the right rooms with the right people. But one time he did, and the Nepali was too quick for me to catch, but we were served tea on the porch, forbidden to go inside. Just then it started to hail, big sheets of ice pounding against that metal roof, and he didn’t say anything, and I didn’t say anything, the cosmos seemingly reinforcing the insurmountable unfairness of the world.

Manoj left Bhojpur when he was sixteen because the Maoist insurgents put their rifles in his face and ordered him to carry their bags of rice. I once asked him what he thought of the Communist Party of Nepal, now that they were leading the coalition government. “They weren’t willing to work then, they will not work now.”

We arrive at the district court at afternoon tea. The courthouse is more like a courtyard with open space in the middle and small rooms lining the outside. I later learn this used to be a horse stable. Nepali men in suits and topis stand outside talking, sipping milk tea. I get two cups for Manoj and I, successfully convincing the Didi to give me just black with no sugar. Scanning the crowd, Manoj spots the Tulo Manche standing in a circle with some other lawyers. He walks over, standing a few feet away, patiently and somewhat apprehensively waiting for his chance. I turn away and look around some more, seeing the prisoners for the first time.

They sit in lines, handcuffed together in strings of ten. They are dressed in street clothes, the typical knock-off brands of Nepal--sweatshirts and jackets with American corporate brands like Facebook, Apple and Angry Birds, shirts silk screened with photos of Sid Vicious. Their chief expression is of boredom, and I think at this moment that this is the only emotion that can overcome fear. For they are so young, and I can’t imagine what jail would be like in Nepal.

After a time, Manoj returns and the lawyers begin to shuffle into their rooms.“How did it go?” I ask.He pauses for a time.

“It’s for my brother, he’s having some troubles in Bahrain. I think this will require some more work.” And his face doesn’t doesn’t betray any frustration or disappointment, and just he pats my back and says, “We will watch for a little while.”

And so we pick one of the little courtrooms, no larger than a storage shed, and find seats in the back row. A man stands in the front of the room by the judge, his hands cuffed behind his back, while a woman stands speaking rapid Nepali next to him. It’s too fast for me to understand, but I enjoy the performance of it all, the quick parries back and forth between the woman and the judge, a third man to the right occasionally interjecting in loud decisive bursts. The judge eventually nods, and the handcuffed man turns to take his seat, but the only one left is the one beside me. So he walks to the back and sits beside me and no one seems to mind.

“Today, I am very happy,” he says.

“Why, what happened?” I ask.

“This is my wedding!”

Manoj smiles at my astonishment, and we laugh and congratulate the man. We watch him get married to the quick talking Nepali woman, and the man rests easy knowing he will not be deported upon release. Manoj and I walk back through Durbar Square, and I can tell he feels lighter amidst the ruins of it all.


You are entitled to restrict access to your paper if you want to. But we all derive immense benefit from reading one another's work, and I hope you won't feel the need unless the subject matter is personal and its disclosure would be harmful or undesirable. To restrict access to your paper simply delete the "#" character on the next two lines:

Note: TWiki has strict formatting rules for preference declarations. Make sure you preserve the three spaces, asterisk, and extra space at the beginning of these lines. If you wish to give access to any other users simply add them to the comma separated ALLOWTOPICVIEW list.


Revision 5r5 - 31 May 2017 - 17:47:00 - JacobGodshall
Revision 4r4 - 31 May 2017 - 01:36:24 - JacobGodshall
Revision 3r3 - 29 May 2017 - 17:29:19 - JacobGodshall
Revision 2r2 - 07 May 2017 - 18:19:22 - EbenMoglen
Revision 1r1 - 10 Mar 2017 - 18:17:23 - JacobGodshall
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