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Material from:How To Publish A Childrens Book
NEW YORK — Biographies of Abigail Adams and Depression-era photographer Dorothea Lange are among the winners of the prestigious Bancroft Prize for history.
Columbia University announced Wednesday that three authors will each receive $10,000 for the Bancroft.
The prize goes to Linda Gordon for “Dorothea Lange: A Life Beyond Limits”; Woody Holton for “Abigail Adams”; and Margaret D. Jacobs for “White Mother to a Dark Race: Settler Colonialism, Maternalism, and the Removal of Indigenous Children in the American West and Australia, 1880-1940.”
Previous winners of the Bancroft, founded in 1948, include John Dower's “Embracing Defeat” and Sean Wilentz's “The Rise of American Democracy.”
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Wandering the icy streets of Chambarak–little more than compacted humps of ice glacially layered with hay and dung–I come to note that there's a feeling around a place that has had shells lobbed at it. Bombs sensitize, not de-sensitize, as is often romantically supposed. There's a quivering nerve that stays raw and bleeding long after the gunfire has stopped.
In the middle of the town there's an old Soviet block that was once either a prison or a collection of miniscule apartments without plumbing. It stands gutted and derelict. Van Baelen takes me inside. “When I first saw this place,” he says, “I knew immediately why I was in Armenia.”
A fetid stench upholsters the block, sharpening as we move upstairs. The building has been stripped to bare sooty concrete, and in places genuinely gutted by fire. Litter migrates in icy drafts. Some flights up, noises can be heard behind a door. We knock. The door opens onto a cloud of dung smoke from a wood stove, thick enough to burn the eyes and throat. In one room just big enough for a single bed, a small table, and a dresser, sits a woman called Hamest. Three children sit with her. They are refugees. They fled Azerbaijan fifteen years ago. The building is a refugee hostel. A handful of families are camped there still, waiting for a change in their fortunes.
And there's something more: a curiousness, an unexpectedness in the makeup of the family's features and in their manner. The boy has a strangely elongated face and a detached, doleful gaze. Then the father arrives and bids us welcome. And there's something unusual about him too, behind his beard and in his eyes.
Hamest and her husband are mentally retarded. So are all their children. And their life's routine after the door closes behind us is one of unthinkable abuse. Hamest's husband often trades their bread for vodka and drinks with other men in the building, often in that tiny room. He regularly beats Hamest, and there is reason to suspect her daughters suffer sexual abuse at the hands of the men. Hamest's mother is dead, and she has lost all contact with the family she knew when she fled Baku, Azerbaijan's capital, in 1990. She is utterly powerless.
MSF provides Hamest with a grant for electricity, and its psychologist tries to convince her to send her adolescent daughter to a boarding facility, away from the horrors of home. But Hamest is afraid she will lose her daughter as well. I retire from the building with questions. Not least, what are the odds of a mentally handicapped couple finding each other, and going on to raise a handicapped family?
I met a great many people in the Southern Caucasus. And it may be, notwithstanding psychoses brought about by the trauma of war and dislocation, that there are no more mental disabilities here than anywhere else. But there's a great stigma placed on mental disability here, and it attaches to anyone within reach of a sufferer. Sufferers are alone with their problems. Lesser conditions like depression and anxiety are ignored altogether, just taken as another fact of hard life. And this dynamic forms the heart of Van Baelen's project. He has made a start on the task of destigmatization.
Chambarak opened its first MSF day center in 2003. There is one in each of the towns I've visited, staffed with psychologists, social workers, and assistants. They are a hub not just for the disabled, but for the wider community; if only for warmth, coffee, and conversation. Every weekday the center is open for counseling, crafts, music, fitness, anything that brings the twain together in a relaxed and constructive way. Picnics and open days are mounted whenever possible. The able and disabled are mingling.
“We use any excuse for a party,” says Chambarak's psychologist, Loussine Mkrttchian. Subscription is steadily growing at her center.
It's also at the day center I see a remembered face. The shepherd who wandered past the house containing the missile. I meet him. His name is Petros, a handsome, weather-beaten, profoundly retarded thirty-five-year-old with airs of great musing and reflection and a fixation with the buttons on his coat. A familiar sight around the district, he simply wanders from morning to night, often in the mountains, often around the prohibited border zone. His family feeds him, but that's as far as his care goes. He's been left all his life to wander. He has never spoken a word.
© WRITING ON THE EDGE: Great Contemporary Writers on the Front Line of Crisis, Rizzoli New York, 2010.
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