Academic literature on the topic 'Théâtre religieux médiéval. Théâtre'

Au cours du dernier tiers du XXe si?cle les institutions religieuses ont parcouru subrepticement le chemin entre marginalisation et passage au premier plan de la sc?ne publique des pays en transition. La fin des id?ologies s?est sold?e par la mise en place des identit?s communautaristes. Alors que dans les d?mocraties lib?rales le fait religieux est caract?ris? par la formule believing without belonging, les choses sont diam?tralement oppos?es dans les soci?t?s en transition. Minoritaire avant la fin des ann?es quatre-vingts, l?appartenance confessionnelle atteint ainsi 94% lors du recensement de 2003 en Serbie-Mont?negro. L?appartenance ? la confession majoritaire se situe autour de 50% d?une population dans un pays comme la France, le point commun avec la Serbie ?tant que quelques 4% seulement se d?clarent pratiquants. La sp?cificit? des pays en transition tardive comme la Serbie, o? le cat?chisme a ?t? introduit en 2000, dix ans apr?s la Croatie et la Bosnie-Herz?govine, soul?ve la question de la cl?ricalisation rapide de la soci?t? en contrepartie de la s?cularisation et de la politisation des communaut?s confessionnelles. ? d?faut d?un projet de soci?t?, en moins de temps que dans les autres pays en transition, les institutions religieuses se sont mues en supports id?ologiques des autorit?s politiques affaiblies, en g?n?ratrices des restructurations des identit?s ethno-confessionnelles, en piliers des coh?sions communautaires, en institutions pilotes de consensus sociaux. Cela explique qu?une analyse de ce processus d?histoire de soci?t? n?est pas seulement ? m?me de nous ?clairer sur notre pass? le plus r?cent, mais encore sur le devenir du pr?sent qui est le n?tre ? l?horizon de nouveaux ?largissements europ?ens.

SamandragDenne studien er ei oppfølging av ein tidlegare studie der det vart konkludert med at lærarrolla kan ordnast i tre hovudkategoriar: den styrande, den støttande og den tilbaketrekte lærarrolla. Dette er dynamiske roller eller posisjonar som pedagogen kontinuerleg vekslar mellom for å oppnå måla for læring og sosialisering. Problemstillinga i denne studien er å utdjupa karakteristikken av desse lærarrollene og lærarens didaktiske intensjonar med val av lærarrolle. Basert på nye data frå klasserom i grunnskulen der undervisningsmetodane dramaforløp og dramatisering vert nytta i fagundervisninga, gjennomfører me ein dramaturgisk didaktisk analyse av aktørane sine handlingar og kommunikasjon i klasserommet. Funna vert kategoriserte i tre didaktiske aspekt ved lærarrollene: i) lærarens posisjonering, ii) lærarens faglege bidrag og iii) lærarens samhandling og kommunikasjon med elevane. Våre funn viser at kvar lærarrolle har sine distinkte kjenneteikn, og at kvar rolle representerer bestemte intensjonar frå læraren si side. Lærarens avveging mellom ulike undervisningsformer og det Biesta kallar undervisningas fleirdimensjonale føremål stiller såleis krav til lærarens profesjonelle dømmekraft. Kunnskap om desse kjenneteikna og intensjonane kan hjelpa lærarar og lærarstudentar med profesjonell planlegging og analyse av undervising, som korleis dei kan balansera mellom å setja seg sjølv i styrande, interaktiv eller tilbaketrekt posisjon i forhold til elevane si faglege tileigning; om dei vil leggja opp til undervising for elevane, saman med elevane eller ved elevane i samspel med kvarandre og andre læringsmedium. Gjennom ei konseptualisering av lærarrollene ønskjer me å bidra til refleksjon omkring lærarpraksis og lærarutdanning for slik å utvikla diskursen rundt lærarprofesjonen.Nøkkelord: lærarrolle, klasseleiing, didaktisk intensjon, undervisningsdramaturgi, pedagogisk dømmekraftThe teacher’s roles - alternation between different teacher positions in didactic practicesAbstractThis is a follow-up study to an earlier study that explored teacher practice in which it was suggested that the teacher’s role is best understood by considering three main categories of activities: the directing, the supportive and the distal teacher role.Based on new data from primary school classrooms, where the teaching methods process drama and dramatization are used in subject teaching, we perform a dramaturgic didactic analysis of the participants’ actions and communication in the classroom. Our findings are categorized in three didactic aspects of the teacher role: i) the teacher`s positioning, ii) the teacher`s academic contribution and iii) the teacher`s interaction and communication with the students. Our findings highlight that each teacher role has its distinct, but sometimes overlapping characteristics and that each role represents certain teacher intensions. The teacher`s balancing of, on the one hand, the forms of teaching and on the other, what Biesta calls the multidimensional purpose of education places certain demands on the teacher’s professional judgment. Knowledge about these characteristics and intensions may help teachers and PSTs in their professional planning and analysis of their teaching, for instance in finding a balance between placing themselves in a directing, interactive or distal position in the students’ qualification process, e.g. if their purpose is education for the students, together with the students or by the students in interaction with each other and different learning media. Conceptualizing the three teacher-roles might contribute to the development of the discourse on teaching professionalism.Keywords: teacher role, classroom management, didactic intention, the dramaturgy of education, pedagogical judgment

(francuski) Plusieurs sources historiques nous sont parvenues qui attestent le r?le actif des cultes de saint Simeon et saint Sava, les premiers saints de l'Eglise Serbe. Tout en ?tant compl?mentaires, ces deux cultes diff?rent par leur fonction, notamment du fait que saint Simeon, fondateur de l'Etat et de la dynastie serbes, est c?l?br? comme un saint myroblite, alors que saint Sava, premier archev?que de l'Eglise serbe ind?pendante, est v?n?r? comme un saint thaumaturge. Leur fusion en un culte faisant l'objet d'une c?l?bration unique a eu lieu ? l'?poque du roi Milutin (1282-1321). Le pr?sent article ?tablit que la formation finale du nouveau programme monarchique de Milutin, probablement inspir? par la communaut? monastique de Chilandar, se situe entre 1314-1316 et 1321. Outre l'observation g?n?rale de la fonction de ce culte et de sa polys?mie, nous proc?dons ?galement ? une analyse du ph?nom?ne constitu? par les pri?res de saint Sim?on et saint Sava apparaissant dans les chartes de l'?poque du roi Milutin ? indice certain de l'efficacit? reconnue du nouveau culte ? et de ses implications politiques. Cependant, une image compl?te de la signification des pri?res de ces deux saints dans les chartes et de leur usage dans le domaine id?ologique, ne peut ?tre obtenue qu'en proc?dant ? une analyse des divers types de t?moignages ? chartes, fresques, offices, canons et apologies ? c?l?brant ces deux personnages. La plus ancienne repr?sentation conserv?e de ces deux saints sur des peintures murales se trouve dans l'?glise Saint-Nic?tas pr?s de Skoplje. Les portraits associ?s de saint Simeon et saint Sa va situ?s sur le mur nord du naos de l'?glise datent de la deuxi?me d?cennie du XIV?me si?cle (avant 1316). Leur ex?cution pouvant ?tre situ?e apr?s la conclusion d'une paix ayant mis fin ? des conflits int?rieurs. Au tout d?but, le motif ?des pri?res de saint Sim?on et saint Sa va? a en fait trouv? place dans les clauses p?nales des chartes de l'?poque. Le r?le de la pri?re y est d'assurer une protection ancestrale et sacrale aux dons pieux du souverain actuel. Sur un plan plus large, ces pri?res visent ?galement ? assurer une protection c?leste aux conqu?tes du roi et aux garanties formul?es dans les documents de donation, mais aussi la protection de la patrie dont la prosp?rit? est fond? sur la fonction sot?riologique rendue possible par les pri?res des saints protecteurs. La premi?re mention d'une telle invocation invitant les deux saints serbes ? anath?matiser celui qui violerait les dispositions de l'auteur d'une charte, appara?t dans une charte de confirmation d?livr?e par Milutin au monast?re de Chilandar au sujet de la donation d'une cellule de Sainte-Parasc?ve sise au village de Tmorani pr?s de Skopje (1299/1300 : Chil. si., n. 9, 1. 67). Les pri?res des deux saints dans leur fonction de protecteurs de l'Etat et de la dynastie apparaissent ?galement dans d'autres documents de souverains datant du d?but du XIV?me si?cle. La mention de Vladislav, cousin du roi Milutin, au nombre d'h?ritiers potentiels dans les clauses p?nales d'une charte du roi Milutin d?livr?e au monast?re de Chilandar (Chil. si., n. 11), rend possible une nouvelle datation, plus pr?cise, de ce document entre 1314 et 1316. Cette charte nous fournit donc un cadre chronologique pour l'?tablissement des pri?res des deux saints serbes, lequel cadre co?ncide avec l'apparition de leur repr?sentation associ?e sur les peintures du monast?re Saint-Nicolas dans la r?gion de Skoplje, que le roi a offert ? Chilandar, par le biais de la charte mentionn?e. A cette ?poque-l?, au cours des deux premi?res d?cennies du XIV?me si?cle, le moine Tedosije, inspir? par la communaut? monastique de Chilandar, fut charg? de proc?der, selon les go?ts litt?raires et les besoins id?ologiques de l'?poque, ? une r?daction monumentale de la litt?rature hagiographique jusqu'alors cr??e, et de jeter les fondements du nouveau culte des premiers saints nationaux comme principal vecteur de l'id?e d'origine charismatique de la dynastie. La synth?se ainsi obtenue vers les ann?es vingt du XVI?me si?cle r?unit les exploits spirituels et les r?sultats des efforts convergents d'une ?lite rattach?e tant ? la cour de Serbie qu'au centre religieux de Chilandar. La co?ncidence d?j? relev?e entre les chartes, la peinture murale et l'apparition d'un nouveau culte s'inscrivant dans un programme politique plus vaste, avec sa c?l?bration en litt?rature, ne saurait ?tre fortuite. L'approche du centenaire du royaume repr?senta, sans doute, un moment crucial pour placer les saints nationaux au centre d'un complexe de programmes sot?riologiques, d?j? effectif au moment o? l'Etat serbe s'est activement tourn? vers l'Orient orthodoxe. L'unit? fondamentale et fonctionnelle du nouveau culte se manifeste par des actes miraculeux s'inscrivant dans un cadre clairement ?tabli, d?fini dans le sens spatial et national, et refl?tant un type de saintet? ?galement pr?sent chez les autres peuples du Moyen Age. La phase de repr?sentation de la dynastie devant le Christ est remplac?e par une signification plus vaste et sot?riologique de la repr?sentation de l'Etat, induite par les pri?res des deux saints. Ceci a entre autre abouti ? la symbolique polys?mique de Chilandar comme ? le nouveau Sion ?. La mention de saint Simeon et saint Sava dans les chartes de Milutin, publi?es durant les derni?res ann?es de sa r?gence, appara?t ?galement dans les documents de l'empereur Dusan (1331-1355). Cette reprise s'inscrit probablement comme un ?l?ment du concept complexe faisant du roi Milutin un exemple de la nouvelle fa?on de r?gner, lequel concept ?tait li? aux plans entrant dans la politique ext?rieure de l'empereur Dusan ? ? savoir une offensive sur les contr?es orientales de l'Empire grec ? pr?sent?e comme une poursuite des conqu?tes du roi Milutin. Etant les saints les plus importants de l'id?ologie monarchique serbe, Simeon et Sava seront c?l?br?s m?me apr?s la chute de l'Empire (1371). Ils sont peints comme un couple de saints, ou plac?s comme deux pendants, c?l?br?s comme ? les deux saints ? dans les chants. Ils sont devenus, ? travers leurs cultes r?unis, le fondement de l'id?ologie de l'Etat et de l'Eglise au cours de l'histoire serbe ult?rieure. .

(francuski) Le seigneur Konstantin Dragas ?tait un seigneur local qui r?gnait en Mac?doine orientale (1372-1395) sur des territoires situes a l?est du Vardar et plus avant, en direction de la vall?e de la Mesta. Sur cet espace et plus particuli?rement dans la partie sud-est de la r?gion montagneuse appel?e Skopska crna gora, il d?tenait plusieurs possessions h?r?ditaires ('patrimoine'), dont une ?glise d?di?e a la Pr?sentation de la Vierge, sise dans le village d?Arhiljevica pr?s de Presevo. A cette ?glise ?taient rattaches 19 villages avec la totalit? de leur population, de sorte que le seigneur Konstantin et sa m?re l''imp?ratrice' (d?pointa) Jevdokija ont adopte une s?rie de r?glements, appel?s 'Loi pour les gens de l'?glise' ?tablissant les obligations des paysans d?pendants de cette ?glise. Il est connu que les paysans vivant dans les anciennes terres serbes ?taient redevables d'un grand nombre de corv?es compare aux donations en nature restant faible, a la diff?rence des contr?es que le roi Milutin avait enlev?es aux Byzantins (1280-1283) ou ils ?taient redevables de fortes donations en nature, qui ?taient per?ues selon le syst?me de la 'dime'. Un telle pr?dominance des donations en nature n'apparait pas de fa?on aussi nette dans la ' loi pour les gens de l'?glise', qui devait ?tre appliqu?e (1379) sur les possessions de l'?glise de la Pr?sentation de la Vierge a Arhiljevica. Parmi les donations en nature figurent uniquement la ' dime' des moutons et la 'dime' des peaux, alors que sont absentes les 'dimes' de bl? et de vin. Au lieu du versement du dixi?me de leur production de vin, les paysans ?taient tenus de travailler, pour l'?glise, une partie de sa vigne dont la superficie correspondait a l'mat' (environ 965 m?). Le texte de cette'loi' ne mentionne pas non plus la ' dime' du bl?, mais, en contre partie, les paysans y sont tenus d'effectuer ' 3 jours de labour par an' pour le compte de l'?glise et d'accomplir, sur la surface travaill?e, tous les travaux des champs lies a la production de c?r?ales, allant des semailles au battage. L'obligation de ' d'effectuer 3 jours de labour' repr?sente approximativement un tiers de la grande obligation de labour concernant 9 ' mati', soit ' 8 jours de labour', dont ?taient redevables les paysans des anciennes terres serbes. Le second tiers de la ' dime' de bl? ?tait fourni par les paysans sous forme d'une donation de 4 kab?l (68,32 l) de bl?, ce qui repr?sente approximativement le tiers du dixi?me de la production correspondant a une moisson moyenne. En l'occurrence un agriculteur disposant d'une paire de b?ufs pouvait, au cours d'une ann?e, labourer et semer de bl? environ 2,5 a 3 hectares et obtenir, sur cette superficie, un peu plus de 2000 litres de bl?. Un dixi?me de cette quantit? correspond donc a 200 litres, de sorte que 68 l. repr?sentaient approximativement un tiers d'une ' dime' habituelle. Enfin, le troisi?me tiers de la ' dime' de bl? ?tait fourni sous forme de service de transport pour le compte de l'?glise, concr?tement le transport du bl? et d'autres choses depuis Arhiljevica jusqu'a la vall?e de la Struma. Il en ressort que la totalit? des charges des paysans ?taient approximativement identique sur tout le territoire de l'Etat serbe m?di?val et ce qu'ils soient tenus de verser des ' dimes' de bl? ou d'animaux domestiques ou se voient imposer de grandes corv?es de ' labour' ou sous forme d'autres travaux des champs.

(francuski) Depuis longtemps l'historiographie a ?tabli la pr?sence de princes (knez, pi. knezov?) sur les terres serbes m?di?vales, de sorte que les porteurs de ce titre ont fait l'objet de d?bat dans divers ouvrages. II y a d?j? un si?cle K. Jirecek a proc?d? ? une classification des princes en trois grands groupes. Celle-ci distingue : a) les princes, chefs de communaut?s valaques s'adonnant ? l'?levage; b) les princes, chefs d'agglom?rations urbaines ? de villes, voisines de lieux de march? (trg) ou de sites miniers; et c) les princes, chefs de certaines r?gions ou contr?es historiques, c.-?-d. les grands princes et les princes territorial. Ce travail s'int?resse exclusivement ? ce dernier groupe. En vertu des sources disponibles il a ?t? possible de constater que les porteurs de cette dignit? apparaissent sur les terres serbes durant la seconde moiti? du XII?me si?cle, soit qu'il s'agit des souverains de petits ?tats serbes vassaux, soit qu'il s'agit de princes territorial (princeps terrae, udeoni knez) des Etats de Serbie (Rascie) et de Bosnie. Au cours de la seconde moiti? du XIIeme si?cle les petits ?tats serbes s'?chelonnant le long du littoral adriatique tels que la Diocl?e avec Trebinje et la Terre de Hum (Humska zemlja) furent englob?s dans le cadre de la Serbie mais ne perdirent pas totalement, pour autant, leur autonomie politique en obtenant le statut de principaut? territorial (udeona knezevina). A leur t?te se trouvait un prince territorial ou un grand prince de la famille r?gnante des Nemanjic. Finalement, ce sont les ann?es cinquante du XIII?me si?cle qui firent la suppression des principaut?s territorial et de la dignit? de grand prince par le roi de Serbie Uros. Les principaut?s territorial existaient ?galement dans l'Etat bosniaque m?di?val, mais leurs caract?ristiques restent inconnues, tant en raison du manque de sources qu'en raison du d?veloppement plus faible de cette institution. Les seigneurs de principaut?s territorial jouissaient d'une autonomie politique relativement large, de sorte qu'au niveau de l'Etat ils partageaient effectivement le pouvoir avec le roi de Serbie. Ils reconnaissaient n?anmoins le pouvoir supr?me du roi, et leurs principaut?s ?taient consid?r?es comme faisant partie int?grante de l'Etat serbe. Suite ? l'extinction des principaut?s territorial en Serbie, le titre de prince (knez) n'est pas tomb? dans l'oubli pour autant. Dans les trois premi?res d?cennies du XIV?rne si?cle les rois de Serbie l'attribuaient parfois aux gouverneurs de certaines r?gions, en revanche la dignit? de prince territorial ?tait alors de plus en plus supplant?e par le titre de k?phal? g?n?ral d?j? fortement ancr? dans le pays. Apr?s le couronnement imp?rial de Stefan Dusan et l'introduction des principaux titres byzantins, de despote, s?bastocrator et c?sar, qui ?taient attribu?s aux parents de l'empereur, mais aussi ? ses gouverneurs en terres grecs, les anciens titres serbes ont retrouv? un regain de popularit? avec notamment l'attribution plus fr?quente des dignit?s de grand prince et grand joupan aux gouverneurs de l'empereur ? la t?te de terres serbes. Apr?s la mort de l'empereur Stefan Uros (1371) et la d?composition de l'Empire serbe il n'y avait plus personne pour d?cerner les titres serbes les plus ?lev?s, de sorte que ceux-ci ont rapidement disparu. Ils se sont transform?s en dignit?s port?es par certains seigneurs locaux ayant retrouv? leur ind?pendance comme cela ?tait le cas pour le prince serbe ou le grand prince Lazar. Le d?veloppement ult?rieur du titre de prince en Bosnie fut tout autre. Apr?s la suppression des princes territorial le titre de prince, mais non celui de grand prince, a ?t? attribu? ? tous les fils et descendants des princes territorial. Un tel processus contribua a cr?? une nette distinction entre le titre et la fonction, et le nombre de princes ne fit que cro?tre. Avec l'apparition de seigneurs locaux ind?pendants ce processus ne fit que gagner en intensit?, principalement en raison du lien ?troit rattachant les seigneurs locaux aux milieux dont ils ?taient issus, qu'il s'agissent de leur tribu que de leur fraternit?, de sorte que tout parent m?le d'un seigneur local recevait le titre de prince. Ce titre ?tait ?galement obtenu lors de l'anoblissement de serviteurs en raison de leurs m?rites. Malgr? cela la dignit? de prince territorial fut pr?cis?ment r?tablie par ces m?me seigneurs locaux qui l'introduisirent dans leur titulature. Ainsi l'herceg Hrvoje Vukcic s'enorgueillit jusqu'? la fin de sa vie du titre de prince des Donji Kraj(ev)i (des Contr?es Basses), et l'herceg Stefan Vukcic Kosaca de celui de prince drinski (de la Drina). Au d?but du XV?me si?cle le roi de Bosnie introduisit la dignit? de prince de Bosnie ou grand prince de Bosnie qu'il d?cerne au seigneur le plus fid?le et le plus m?ritant de Bosnie. Il s'agissait l? d'un l'?quivalent du cornes palatinus. De fait, par sa position le porteur de ce titre diff?rait nettement du prince drinski ou de celui de Donji Kraj(ev)i. .

“Human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them [...] life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.” (Garcia Marquez 165) Introduction The refugee experience is, at heart, one of rebirth. Just as becoming a new, distinctive being—biological birth—necessarily involves the physical separation of mother and infant, so becoming a refugee entails separation from a "mother country." This mother country may or may not be a recognised nation state; the point is that the refugee transitions from physical connectedness to separation, from insider to outsider, from endemic to alien. Like babies, refugees may have little control over the timing and conditions of their expulsion. Successful resettlement requires not one rebirth but multiple rebirths—resettlement is a lifelong process (Layton)—which in turn require hope, imagination, and energy. In rebirthing themselves over and over again, people who have fled or been forced from their homelands become both mother and child. They do not go through this rebirthing alone. A range of agencies and individuals may be there to assist, including immigration officials, settlement services, schools and teachers, employment agencies and employers, English as a Second Language (ESL) resources and instructors, health-care providers, counsellors, diasporic networks, neighbours, church groups, and other community organisations. The nature, intensity, and duration of these “midwives’” interventions—and when they occur and in what combinations—vary hugely from place to place and from person to person, but there is clear evidence that post-migration experiences have a significant impact on settlement outcomes (Fozdar and Hartley). This paper draws on qualitative research I did in 2012 in a regional town in New South Wales to illuminate some of the ways in which settlement aides ease, or impede, refugees’ rebirth as fully recognised and participating Australians. I begin by considering what it means to be resilient before tracing some of the dimensions of the resettlement process. In doing so, I draw on data from interviews and focus groups with former refugees, service providers, and other residents of the town I shall call Easthaven. First, though, a word about Easthaven. As is the case in many rural and regional parts of Australia, Easthaven’s population is strongly dominated by Anglo Celtic and Saxon ancestries: 2011 Census data show that more than 80 per cent of residents were born in Australia (compared with a national figure of 69.8 per cent) and about 90 per cent speak only English at home (76.8 per cent). Almost twice as many people identify as Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander as the national figure of 2.5 per cent (Australian Bureau of Statistics). For several years Easthaven has been an official “Refugee Welcome Zone”, welcoming hundreds of refugees from diverse countries in Africa and the Middle East as well as from Myanmar. This reflects the Department of Immigration and Citizenship’s drive to settle a fifth of Australia’s 13,750 humanitarian entrants a year directly in regional areas. In Easthaven’s schools—which is where I focused my research—almost all of the ESL students are from refugee backgrounds. Defining Resilience Much of the research on human resilience is grounded in psychology, with a capacity to “bounce back” from adverse experiences cited in many definitions of resilience (e.g. American Psychological Association). Bouncing back implies a relatively quick process, and a return to a state or form similar to that which existed before the encounter with adversity. Yet resilience often requires sustained effort and significant changes in identity. As Jerome Rugaruza, a former UNHCR refugee, says of his journey from the Democratic Republic of Congo to Australia: All the steps begin in the burning village: you run with nothing to eat, no clothes. You just go. Then you get to the refugee camp […] You have a little bread and you thank god you are safe. Then after a few years in the camp, you think about a future for your children. You arrive in Australia and then you learn a new language, you learn to drive. There are so many steps and not everyone can do it. (Milsom) Not everyone can do it, but a large majority do. Research by Graeme Hugo, for example, shows that although humanitarian settlers in Australia face substantial barriers to employment and initially have much higher unemployment rates than other immigrants, for most nationality groups this difference has disappeared by the second generation: “This is consistent with the sacrifice (or investment) of the first generation and the efforts extended to attain higher levels of education and English proficiency, thereby reducing the barriers over time.” (Hugo 35). Ingrid Poulson writes that “resilience is not just about bouncing. Bouncing […] is only a reaction. Resilience is about rising—you rise above it, you rise to the occasion, you rise to the challenge. Rising is an active choice” (47; my emphasis) I see resilience as involving mental and physical grit, coupled with creativity, aspiration and, crucially, agency. Dimensions of Resettlement To return to the story of 41-year-old Jerome Rugaruza, as related in a recent newspaper article: He [Mr Rugaruza] describes the experience of being a newly arrived refugee as being like that of a newborn baby. “You need special care; you have to learn to speak [English], eat the different food, create relationships, connections”. (Milsom) This is a key dimension of resettlement: the adult becomes like an infant again, shifting from someone who knows how things work and how to get by to someone who is likely to be, for a while, dependent on others for even the most basic things—communication, food, shelter, clothing, and social contact. The “special care” that most refugee arrivals need initially (and sometimes for a long time) often results in their being seen as deficient—in knowledge, skills, dispositions, and capacities as well as material goods (Keddie; Uptin, Wright and Harwood). As Fozdar and Hartley note: “The tendency to use a deficit model in refugee resettlement devalues people and reinforces the view of the mainstream population that refugees are a liability” (27). Yet unlike newborns, humanitarian settlers come to their new countries with rich social networks and extensive histories of experience and learning—resources that are in fact vital to their rebirth. Sisay (all names are pseudonyms), a year 11 student of Ethiopian heritage who was born in Kenya, told me with feeling: I had a life back in Africa [her emphasis]. It was good. Well, I would go back there if there’s no problems, which—is a fact. And I came here for a better life—yeah, I have a better life, there’s good health care, free school, and good environment and all that. But what’s that without friends? A fellow student, Celine, who came to Australia five years ago from Burundi via Uganda, told me in a focus group: Some teachers are really good but I think some other teachers could be a little bit more encouraging and understanding of what we’ve gone through, because [they] just look at you like “You’re year 11 now, you should know this” […] It’s really discouraging when [the teachers say] in front of the class, “Oh, you shouldn’t do this subject because you haven’t done this this this this” […] It’s like they’re on purpose to tell you “you don’t have what it takes; just give up and do something else.” As Uptin, Wright and Harwood note, “schools not only have the power to position who is included in schooling (in culture and pedagogy) but also have the power to determine whether there is room and appreciation for diversity” (126). Both Sisay and Celine were disheartened by the fact they felt some of their teachers, and many of their peers, had little interest in or understanding of their lives before they came to Australia. The teachers’ low expectations of refugee-background students (Keddie, Uptin, Wright and Harwood) contrasted with the students’ and their families’ high expectations of themselves (Brown, Miller and Mitchell; Harris and Marlowe). When I asked Sisay about her post-school ambitions, she said: “I have a good idea of my future […] write a documentary. And I’m working on it.” Celine’s response was: “I know I’m gonna do medicine, be a doctor.” A third girl, Lily, who came to Australia from Myanmar three years ago, told me she wanted to be an accountant and had studied accounting at the local TAFE last year. Joseph, a father of three who resettled from South Sudan seven years ago, stressed how important getting a job was to successful settlement: [But] you have to get a certificate first to get a job. Even the job of cleaning—when I came here I was told that somebody has to go to have training in cleaning, to use the different chemicals to clean the ground and all that. But that is just sweeping and cleaning with water—you don’t need the [higher-level] skills. Simple jobs like this, we are not able to get them. In regional Australia, employment opportunities tend to be limited (Fozdar and Hartley); the unemployment rate in Easthaven is twice the national average. Opportunities to study are also more limited than in urban centres, and would-be students are not always eligible for financial assistance to gain or upgrade qualifications. Even when people do have appropriate qualifications, work experience, and language proficiency, the colour of their skin may still mean they miss out on a job. Tilbury and Colic-Peisker have documented the various ways in which employers deflect responsibility for racial discrimination, including the “common” strategy (658) of arguing that while the employer or organisation is not prejudiced, they have to discriminate because of their clients’ needs or expectations. I heard this strategy deployed in an interview with a local businesswoman, Catriona: We were advertising for a new technician. And one of the African refugees came to us and he’d had a lot of IT experience. And this is awful, but we felt we couldn't give him the job, because we send our technicians into people's houses, and we knew that if a black African guy rocked up at someone’s house to try and fix their computer, they would not always be welcomed in all—look, it would not be something that [Easthaven] was ready for yet. Colic-Peisker and Tilbury (Refugees and Employment) note that while Australia has strict anti-discrimination legislation, this legislation may be of little use to the people who, because of the way they look and sound (skin colour, dress, accent), are most likely to face prejudice and discrimination. The researchers found that perceived discrimination in the labour market affected humanitarian settlers’ sense of satisfaction with their new lives far more than, for example, racist remarks, which were generally shrugged off; the students I interviewed spoke of racism as “expected,” but “quite rare.” Most of the people Colic-Peisker and Tilbury surveyed reported finding Australians “friendly and accepting” (33). Even if there is no active discrimination on the basis of skin colour in employment, education, or housing, or overt racism in social situations, visible difference can still affect a person’s sense of belonging, as Joseph recounts: I think of myself as Australian, but my colour doesn’t [laughs] […] Unfortunately many, many Australians are expecting that Australia is a country of Europeans … There is no need for somebody to ask “Where do you come from?” and “Do you find Australia here safe?” and “Do you enjoy it?” Those kind of questions doesn’t encourage that we are together. This highlights another dimension of resettlement: the journey from feeling “at home” to feeling “foreign” to, eventually, feeling at home again in the host country (Colic-Peisker and Tilbury, Refugees and Employment). In the case of visibly different settlers, however, this last stage may never be completed. Whether the questions asked of Joseph are well intentioned or not, their effect may be the same: they position him as a “forever foreigner” (Park). A further dimension of resettlement—one already touched on—is the degree to which humanitarian settlers actively manage their “rebirth,” and are allowed and encouraged to do so. A key factor will be their mastery of English, and Easthaven’s ESL teachers are thus pivotal in the resettlement process. There is little doubt that many of these teachers have gone to great lengths to help this cohort of students, not only in terms of language acquisition but also social inclusion. However, in some cases what is initially supportive can, with time, begin to undermine refugees’ maturity into independent citizens. Sharon, an ESL teacher at one of the schools, told me how she and her colleagues would give their refugee-background students lifts to social events: But then maybe three years down the track they have a car and their dad can drive, but they still won’t take them […] We arrive to pick them up and they’re not ready, or there’s five fantastic cars in the driveway, and you pick up the student and they say “My dad’s car’s much bigger and better than yours” [laughs]. So there’s an expectation that we’ll do stuff for them, but we’ve created that [my emphasis]. Other support services may have more complex interests in keeping refugee settlers dependent. The more clients an agency has, the more services it provides, and the longer clients stay on its books, the more lucrative the contract for the agency. Thus financial and employment imperatives promote competition rather than collaboration between service providers (Fozdar and Hartley; Sidhu and Taylor) and may encourage assumptions about what sorts of services different individuals and groups want and need. Colic-Peisker and Tilbury (“‘Active’ and ‘Passive’ Resettlement”) have developed a typology of resettlement styles—“achievers,” “consumers,” “endurers,” and “victims”—but stress that a person’s style, while influenced by personality and pre-migration factors, is also shaped by the institutions and individuals they come into contact with: “The structure of settlement and welfare services may produce a victim mentality, leaving members of refugee communities inert and unable to see themselves as agents of change” (76). The prevailing narrative of “the traumatised refugee” is a key aspect of this dynamic (Colic-Peisker and Tilbury, “‘Active’ and ‘Passive’ Resettlement”; Fozdar and Hartley; Keddie). Service providers may make assumptions about what humanitarian settlers have gone through before arriving in Australia, how they have been affected by their experiences, and what must be done to “fix” them. Norah, a long-time caseworker, told me: I think you get some [providers] who go, “How could you have gone through something like that and not suffered? There must be—you must have to talk about this stuff” […] Where some [refugees] just come with the [attitude] “We’re all born into a situation; that was my situation, but I’m here now and now my focus is this.” She cited failure to consider cultural sensitivities around mental illness and to recognise that stress and anxiety during early resettlement are normal (Tilbury) as other problems in the sector: [Newly arrived refugees] go through the “happy to be here” [phase] and now “hang on, I’ve thumped to the bottom and I’m missing my own foods and smells and cultures and experiences”. I think sometimes we’re just too quick to try and slot people into a box. One factor that appears to be vital in fostering and sustaining resilience is social connection. Norah said her clients were “very good on the mobile phone” and had links “everywhere,” including to family and friends in their countries of birth, transition countries, and other parts of Australia. A 2011 report for DIAC, Settlement Outcomes of New Arrivals, found that humanitarian entrants to Australia were significantly more likely to be members of cultural and/or religious groups than other categories of immigrants (Australian Survey Research). I found many examples of efforts to build both bonding and bridging capital (Putnam) in Easthaven, and I offer two examples below. Several people told me about a dinner-dance that had been held a few weeks before one of my visits. The event was organised by an African women’s group, which had been formed—with funding assistance—several years before. The dinner-dance was advertised in the local newspaper and attracted strong interest from a broad cross-section of Easthaveners. To Debbie, a counsellor, the response signified a “real turnaround” in community relations and was a big boon to the women’s sense of belonging. Erica, a teacher, told me about a cultural exchange day she had organised between her bush school—where almost all of the children are Anglo Australian—and ESL students from one of the town schools: At the start of the day, my kids were looking at [the refugee-background students] and they were scared, they were saying to me, "I feel scared." And we shoved them all into this tiny little room […] and they had no choice but to sit practically on top of each other. And by the end of the day, they were hugging each other and braiding their hair and jumping and playing together. Like Uptin, Wright and Harwood, I found that the refugee-background students placed great importance on the social aspects of school. Sisay, the girl I introduced earlier in this paper, said: “It’s just all about friendship and someone to be there for you […] We try to be friends with them [the non-refugee students] sometimes but sometimes it just seems they don’t want it.” Conclusion A 2012 report on refugee settlement services in NSW concludes that the state “is not meeting its responsibility to humanitarian entrants as well as it could” (Audit Office of New South Wales 2); moreover, humanitarian settlers in NSW are doing less well on indicators such as housing and health than humanitarian settlers in other states (3). Evaluating the effectiveness of formal refugee-centred programs was not part of my research and is beyond the scope of this paper. Rather, I have sought to reveal some of the ways in which the attitudes, assumptions, and everyday practices of service providers and members of the broader community impact on refugees' settlement experience. What I heard repeatedly in the interviews I conducted was that it was emotional and practical support (Matthews; Tilbury), and being asked as well as told (about their hopes, needs, desires), that helped Easthaven’s refugee settlers bear themselves into fulfilling new lives. References Audit Office of New South Wales. Settling Humanitarian Entrants in New South Wales—Executive Summary. May 2012. 15 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.audit.nsw.gov.au/ArticleDocuments/245/02_Humanitarian_Entrants_2012_Executive_Summary.pdf.aspx?Embed=Y>. Australian Bureau of Statistics. 2011 Census QuickStats. Mar. 2013. 11 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.censusdata.abs.gov.au/census_services/getproduct/census/2011/quickstat/0>. Australian Survey Research. Settlement Outcomes of New Arrivals—Report of Findings. Apr. 2011. 15 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.immi.gov.au/media/publications/research/_pdf/settlement-outcomes-new-arrivals.pdf>. Brown, Jill, Jenny Miller, and Jane Mitchell. “Interrupted Schooling and the Acquisition of Literacy: Experiences of Sudanese Refugees in Victorian Secondary Schools.” Australian Journal of Language and Literacy 29.2 (2006): 150-62. Colic-Peisker, Val, and Farida Tilbury. “‘Active’ and ‘Passive’ Resettlement: The Influence of Supporting Services and Refugees’ Own Resources on Resettlement Style.” International Migration 41.5 (2004): 61-91. ———. Refugees and Employment: The Effect of Visible Difference on Discrimination—Final Report. Perth: Centre for Social and Community Research, Murdoch University, 2007. Fozdar, Farida, and Lisa Hartley. “Refugee Resettlement in Australia: What We Know and Need To Know.” Refugee Survey Quarterly 4 Jun. 2013. 12 Aug. 2013 ‹http://rsq.oxfordjournals.org/search?fulltext=fozdar&submit=yes&x=0&y=0>. Garcia Marquez, Gabriel. Love in the Time of Cholera. London: Penguin Books, 1989. Harris, Vandra, and Jay Marlowe. “Hard Yards and High Hopes: The Educational Challenges of African Refugee University Students in Australia.” International Journal of Teaching and Learning in Higher Education 23.2 (2011): 186-96. Hugo, Graeme. A Significant Contribution: The Economic, Social and Civic Contributions of First and Second Generation Humanitarian Entrants—Summary of Findings. Canberra: Department of Immigration and Citizenship, 2011. Keddie, Amanda. “Pursuing Justice for Refugee Students: Addressing Issues of Cultural (Mis)recognition.” International Journal of Inclusive Education 16.12 (2012): 1295-1310. Layton, Robyn. "Building Capacity to Ensure the Inclusion of Vulnerable Groups." Creating Our Future conference, Adelaide, 28 Jul. 2012. Milsom, Rosemarie. “From Hard Luck Life to the Lucky Country.” Sydney Morning Herald 20 Jun. 2013. 12 Aug. 2013 ‹http://www.smh.com.au/national/from-hard-luck-life-to-the-lucky-country-20130619-2oixl.html>. Park, Gilbert C. “’Are We Real Americans?’: Cultural Production of Forever Foreigners at a Diversity Event.” Education and Urban Society 43.4 (2011): 451-67. Poulson, Ingrid. Rise. Sydney: Pan Macmillan Australia, 2008. Putnam, Robert D. Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2000. Sidhu, Ravinder K., and Sandra Taylor. “The Trials and Tribulations of Partnerships in Refugee Settlement Services in Australia.” Journal of Education Policy 24.6 (2009): 655-72. Tilbury, Farida. “‘I Feel I Am a Bird without Wings’: Discourses of Sadness and Loss among East Africans in Western Australia.” Identities: Global Studies in Culture and Power 14.4 (2007): 433-58. ———, and Val Colic-Peisker. “Deflecting Responsibility in Employer Talk about Race Discrimination.” Discourse & Society 17.5 (2006): 651-76. Uptin, Jonnell, Jan Wright, and Valerie Harwood. “It Felt Like I Was a Black Dot on White Paper: Examining Young Former Refugees’ Experience of Entering Australian High Schools.” The Australian Educational Researcher 40.1 (2013): 125-37.

Yul phyogs so so’i gsar ‘gyur me long (or The Tibet Mirror) is one of the first periodicals in the Tibetan language. It was published in Kalimpong, India, for 38 years (1925–1963) by a remarkable Tibetan religious and public leader Dorje Tharchin. Inspired by the liberal British press and willing to share with his compatriots both international and latest local news, Dorje Tharchin attempted to change the conventional Tibetan world outlook and at the same time to preserve Tibetan culture in the Indian-Tibetan border area by launching the first ever periodical in the Tibetan language issued by a Tibetan editor. Of a variety of possible approaches towards The Tibet Mirror, this paper chooses the one which aims to explore the periodical from a perspective of its input on the Tibetan literary activity. Yul phyogs so so’i gsar ‘gyur me long not only presents one of the first examples of Tibetan mass media, but also contains first pieces of the modern Tibetan writing which determined the future development of a new Tibetan literary functional style, a journalistic (or publicistic) style in particular. The examples of the new functional genres are presented in the paper based on the study of the actual content of the first six issues of the periodical (Vol. I No. 1–6, dated 1925–1926).