View allAll Photos Tagged Cross.ing
For Oliver, Jeff, Jordo and Cindy.....somewhere in San Francisco forging their way ahead.
Now turn on the VOLUME Olo!
(note: Taken through a massive crowd....I stuck to my guns and buried my cowboy boots firm to the ground each time an opportunity came along)
Explore #286.....(I guess I am keeping this one)
For this photograph, taken in Tokyo Japan, I was on the roof terrace of a large department store in the Ginza district. Because of the high point of view very close to the intersection of two busy streets, I had a very nice diagonal, symmetrical angle on the scene. The crossing with its geometrical linear pattern and the scattered cars represents the orchestrated chaos of this densely populated city.
A couple of Class 58s cross at Landor Street Junction on 24th April 1986. Approaching, the driver of No. 58019 is easing his empty MGR rake down the bank from St Andrews Junction, and is about to pass No. 58001 heading a loaded MGR. They are both working on the Didcot Power Station - East Midlands coalfield circuit. The floodlights Birmingham City's St Andrews stadium are in the background. Copyright Photograph John Whitehouse - all rights reserved
A kilometer long irrigation ditch running through a rice field in Lila, Bohol, Philippines. At the end of this ditch is yesterday's Water Cross Ing shot.
Paramaribo, Suriname, South America at Saturday, 24 October, 2015.
(*) Voigtlander Heliar Ultra Wide-Angle, 12mm, f/5.6
Ertugrul Kilic - Copyright © 2015 - All rights are reserved.
My Iraqi Jew-ish Grandmother’s Hands
Sarah Sas-soon March 30, 2023
The author’s grand-par-ents, Nana Aziza and Abba Naji
Pho-to-graph cour-tesy of the author
My Iraqi grandmother’s hands shone with olive oil and fad-ed burn marks. They were always mov-ing — knead-ing, crush-ing, chop-ping, sautéing, pour-ing, and spoon-ing — the turquoise-stud-ded gold ban-gles around her wrist a glo-ri-ous jan-gle. When I was a lit-tle girl in Syd-ney, she would some-times mas-sage my back. I could not speak Judeo-Ara-bic or Hebrew, and her Eng-lish was a pid-gin mix. Our lan-guage was that of our hands.
I wrote Shoham’s Ban-gle because I want-ed to tell the sto-ry of my grandmother’s ban-gle, which I now wear around my own wrist. It wasn’t until lat-er that I real-ized that the book also spoke to a larg-er shift in Iraqi Jew-ish women’s history.
Every fam-i-ly deals with the past dif-fer-ent-ly. My fam-i-ly chose silence. Although I was fed Iraqi Jew-ish food, sung Iraqi songs, and heard Judeo Ara-bic, I was not told about Iraq or the rich Baby-lon-ian Jew-ish com-mu-ni-ty that had lived there for 2,600 years. I was not told about Oper-a-tion Ezra and Nehemi-ah, the air-lift of over 120,000 Iraqi Jews to Israel. I was not told why they had to leave. I was told, “Be qui-et and study hard.”
So instead of ask-ing ques-tions about my roots, I absorbed Iraq through my grandmother’s open home, teapots of car-damom tea, cheese-filled sam-busek, ba’aba tamar date cook-ies, and the del-i-cate, sim-mer-ing spices of cumin, baharat, and turmer-ic. Per-haps I always felt there was some-thing more to these spices. Inside every kubbeh ball was a hid-den tale.
I knew from a very ear-ly age that I want-ed to be a writer. I read words wher-ev-er they appeared — milk car-tons, cere-al box-es, street signs. Books like Enid Blyton’s The Far-away Tree and Syd-ney Taylor’s All-of-a-Kind Fam-i-ly series offered mag-i-cal oth-er worlds and immi-grant tales. It nev-er occurred to me as I buried myself in books that my grand-moth-er and oth-er fam-i-ly mem-bers also had a story.
The author’s grand-par-ents with their five chil-dren in Bagh-dad, 1951, before their flight on Oper-a-tion Ezra and Nehemiah
Pho-to-graph cour-tesy of the author
I got mar-ried young (like a good Iraqi Jew-ish girl), left Syd-ney, and moved to Johan-nes-burg. I had four boys. I called my grand-moth-er and scrib-bled down her recipes. After she died I lost some-thing very dear, which I only redis-cov-ered when I moved to Israel sev-en years ago. I began to research the sto-ry of the Iraqi Jews, espe-cial-ly the women, whose lives changed dra-mat-i-cal-ly with the plane ride from Iraq to Israel.
Shoham, the pro-tag-o-nist of my book, would have gone to school in Bagh-dad. I like to imag-ine that she went to the Lau-ra Kadoorie School for girls, which by 1950 had over 1300 stu-dents. While she stud-ied, her ban-gle would have jin-gled, a reminder of gen-er-a-tions of Jew-ish women stretch-ing from Baby-lon-ian times through the Ottoman Empire. There were no banks in Ottoman times, and so jew-el-ry was the depos-i-to-ry of fam-i-ly wealth worn by women, who were safe-ly guard-ed at home. Home was still a girl’s des-tiny in 1950’s Iraq. Shoham was to be an Iraqi Jew-ish wife and moth-er, the heart of the family.
In Israel, how-ev-er, these strict-ly defined tra-di-tion-al roles were bro-ken. Refugee pover-ty meant that Shoham’s moth-er, like many Iraqi Jew-ish women, had to work in fac-to-ries, in low-wage jobs. In Iraq, this would have been a dis-hon-or and embar-rass-ment. In Israel, it was survival.
This shift in expec-ta-tions meant that girls could have a dif-fer-ent des-tiny from their moth-ers. They had the oppor-tu-ni-ty to leave their homes ear-li-er, to envi-sion mean-ing-ful work and pro-fes-sions. A life beyond the stove. Yet, I imag-ine that even as Shoham entered the free-doms of an Israel where girls wore shorts, and mixed freely with boys, her ban-gle would clink on her wrist, as it does on mine.
She would remem-ber that her ban-gle was smug-gled from Iraq by her clever Nana. She would remem-ber that her ban-gle is the sym-bol of many wise, female hands, who guard-ed fam-i-ly and wealth before her. And I won-der if her ban-gle jan-gled her con-scious-ness as it does mine.
The ban-gles on my wrist remind me of my illit-er-ate grand-moth-er whose wis-dom ran deep-er than words. My ban-gles echo in the silence of my kitchen. What have we lost? I won-der. It’s in the emp-ty space next to me at the stove where my grand-moth-er once stood — where I feel not just the loss of the Iraqi, Baby-lon-ian Jew-ish community’s lan-guage and his-to-ry, but also the lost female secrets, the absent moth-er, the silenced chat-ter of gen-er-a-tions of women cook-ing together.
For me, this is the ten-sion of Shoham’s plane ride from Iraq to Israel, the cul-tur-al clash of East and West. It is the ques-tion that jan-gles on my wrist between the stove and the com-put-er screen. It is why I want to feed my chil-dren poet-ry, why I want to feed them kubbeh bamya stew. It is why I want to con-tin-ue the Iraqi Jew-ish lega-cy of my grand-moth-er who didn’t know how to read or write, but knew the secret of chop-ping onions joyfully.
The author’s fam-i-ly, includ-ing Nana Aziza and Abba Naji, in Syd-ney, Australia
Pho-to-graph cour-tesy of the author
Sarah Sas-soon was raised in Syd-ney, Aus-tralia, sur-round-ed by her lov-ing Judeo-Ara-bic speak-ing Iraqi Jew-ish immi-grant fam-i-ly. When she mar-ried, she immi-grat-ed to Johan-nes-burg, South Africa and with her hus-band and four sons, made Aliyah. She lives in Jerusalem. Sarah loves writ-ing poet-ry and sto-ries about cross-ing bor-ders and oth-er worlds. Shoham’s Ban-gle is Sarah’s first children’s book.
Unlike the friendly Pingan level crossing, this one at Wulong mine is run by a ferocious crossing guard who is waving me out of the path of SY1195 on the Fuxin Mining railway, 3/4/2011
October 7 281 / 366
www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BpSrtTx5og
When peace like a river attendeth my soul
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul...
~
You can tell someone you love 'em
From the bottom of your heart
And believe that it's the
truest thing you've known
And even if you never break
the promises you make
The river's gonna keep on rolling on
And if you haven't got a dollar
Not a penny to your name
Somebody's gonna miss you when you're gone
And even if you never find
Just a little peace of mind
The river's gonna keep on rolling on
Keep on rollin' to the ocean
Keep on rollin' to the sea
Keep on rollin' 'till the love we need
Washes over you and me
God's love is like a river
At every turn and every bend
And faith in Him will turn your heart around
'Cause even though we sin,
There's forgiveness in the end
And the river's gonna keep on rollin' on
Keep on rollin' to the ocean
Keep on rollin' to the sea
Keep on rollin' 'till the love we need
Washes over you and me
Keep on rollin' 'till the love we need
Washes over you and me...
~
It is well with my soul
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
It is Well with My Soul
by Horatio G. Spafford, 1873.
This hymn was written after two major traumas in Spafford’s life. The first, the great Chicago Fire of October 1871, ruined him financially. Shortly after, while crossing the Atlantic, all four of Spafford’s daughters died in a collision with another ship. Spafford’s wife Anna survived and sent him the now famous telegram, “Saved alone.” Several weeks later, as Spafford’s own ship passed near the spot where his daughters died, the Holy Spirit inspired these words. They speak to the eternal hope that all believers have, no matter what pain and grief befall them on earth.
As we were driving we drove through a valley where two crosses had been erected to commemorate the victims of the potato famine. The story goes that once the people had crossed the country to the west coast looking for transportation to North America, they found they had no means of buying the tickets they so desperately needed. As they were heading back they realized they had given up everything and were returning to nothing. So they sat down and waited for the inevitable darkness. It was a truly humbling experience.
Atop the large plant behind the train is a huge illuminated cross, that can be seen from I-88 and much of Rochelle. From where I was standing it sat just perfectly on top of the lead locomotive, which is less than a month old.
M EOLSAV1 04A
BNSF 7002 ES44C4
BNSF 6626 ES44C4
Long exposure soft water shot, longest exposure 15 seconds.
Water reservoir at the end of a kilometer long irrigation ditch running through a rice field in Lila, Bohol, Philippines.
One thing I'll say about the 28mm lens: while it may be a slow old thing (ƒ2.8), at least it can be hand-held decently down to 1/30.
I think this is my first proper "street" shot. Not counting street performers and the like.
He's heading for the seedy delights of Kings Cross. I wonder what for?
Half an hour later, I was eating stodgy Eastern European food, washed down with too much Absinthe.
Probably a good idea I got the shot first...
Walking on the beach at dusk and I passed this junk standing out of the ground ... noticed that at a sertain angle it formed a cross
Seconds from bowlage by a northbound Voyager, 60015 heads south with its rake of cartics whilst working 6e33 Warrington Arpley - Doncaster Railport vans. 19/02/14
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Words: Horatio G. Spafford, 1873.
Music: Ville du Havre, Philip P. Bliss, 1876 (MIDI, score). The tune is named after the ship on which Spafford’s children perished, the S.S. Ville de Havre. Ironically, Bliss himself died in a tragic train wreck shortly after writing this music.
This hymn was written after two major traumas in Spafford’s life. The first was the great Chicago Fire of October 1871, which ruined him financially (he had been a wealthy businessman). Shortly after, while crossing the
Atlantic, all four of Spafford’s daughters died in a collision with another ship. Spafford’s wife Anna survived and sent him the now famous telegram, “Saved alone.” Several weeks later, as Spafford’s own ship passed near the spot where his daughters died, the Holy Spirit inspired these words. They speak to the eternal hope that all
believers have, no matter what pain and grief befall them on earth.
Photo by Marcus Neustetter. Sculptural intervention at the Pullinger Kop Bridge in Hillbrow by Spaza Art and Andrew Lindsay.
diario di viaggio dal deserto del sahara fino all'oceano atlantico.
foto realizzate in pellicola diapositiva, sviluppate con la tecnica del cross processing.
According to the latest statistics from the civil organization United Jewish Appeal ( UJA ), in Williamsburg 75,000 ultra-Orthodox Jews live. Across New York, about 1.1 million Jews live, of which 30% are ultra-Orthodox . Like many ultra-Orthodox communities in Israel, the Williamsburg is seriously beset by poverty. The combination of a high birth rate with low household income brings to this neighborhood a poverty rate of 55%, and almost poverty of about 17%, according to the UJA .
Despite the scale of the figures, there is little crime. People are poor but have middle-class value, says Professor Heilman: "There are only problems when there is tension within the community or with people outside of it."
En Williamsburg viven cerca de 75.000 judíos ultraortodoxos, según las últimas estadísticas de la organización civil United Jewish Appeal (UJA). En todo Nueva York, habitan 1,1 millones de judíos, de los cuales un 30% son ultraortodoxos. Y como muchas comunidades ultraortodoxas en Israel, la de Williamsburg está gravemente acuciada por la pobreza. La combinación de una alta tasa de natalidad con unos bajos ingresos en los hogares concede al barrio unos índices de pobreza del 55% y de casi pobreza del 17%, según la UJA.
Pese a la magnitud de las cifras, supone una excepción dentro del prototipo de las zonas más depauperadas de Nueva York que reciben ayudas públicas. “El Gobierno les atorga subsidios a la vivienda pero en Williamsburg, a diferencia de los otros barrios donde también lo hace, esto no supone que no se pueda vivir allí porque haya una elevada inseguridad. Hay pocos delitos, la gente es pobre pero tiene valores de clase media”, sostiene el profesor Heilman. “Solo hay problemas cuando hay tensión en el seno de la comunidad o con gente de fuera de ella”.
Ref: internacional.elpais.com/internacional/2013/12/13/actuali...
Bedford Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11205, United States
Camera: GR
Lens: 18.3 mm f/2.8
Focal Length: 18.3 mm
Exposure: ¹⁄₅₀₀ sec at f/3.2
ISO: 100
Photo by Marcus Neustetter. Sculptural intervention at the Pullinger Kop Bridge in Hillbrow by Spaza Art and Andrew Lindsay.
To reverse the excursion train consist intact, the train shows out of Jim Thorpe back to Jim Thorpe Junction. At Jim Thorpe Junction, the consist will move forward cross ing the Lehigh River via the new bridge into the park. Once the consist clears the RIVER switch, then they will shove back via the LGSR main line into Jim Thorpe.
This is the end of a 12m stretch of cycle path at St. Cross. But where does it end? At the post? Across the pavement? Or in the middle of the road in a refuge?
N.B. There is no continuation on the other side of the road and the pavement only runs to the right; there is no pavement if you want to turn left here.