Archive - March 19, 2013

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Acting Peace Corps Director Carrie Hessler-Radelet (Western Samoa 1981-83) will host a Town Hall for RPCVs on April 2
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Review of Ben Berman's (Zimbabwe 1998-2000) Strange Borderlands

Acting Peace Corps Director Carrie Hessler-Radelet (Western Samoa 1981-83) will host a Town Hall for RPCVs on April 2

Acting Peace Corps Director Carrie Hessler-Radelet (Western Samoa, 1981-83) will be hosting a Town Hall for RPCVs on April 2, 2013, from 6:00 – 7:30 p.m. EDT.  She will discuss and answer questions about important topics identified by the RPCV community.  RPCVs should submit their topics and questions – along with their name, country and dates of service – in advance to thirdgoal@peacecorps.gov (please refer to “Town Hall Question” in the subject line) or tweet them at @PeaceCorps with the hashtag #PCtownhall. RPCVs around the world are encouraged to join via our live-stream broadcast at the URL here: http://www.ustream.tv/channel/pc-town-hall-meeting RPCVs in the Washington area are welcome to attend in person at Shriver Hall, Peace Corps Headquarters, 1111 20th Street NW, Washington, D.C., although seating is limited.  You can sign up to attend the event in person or request an email reminder of the live-stream event by registering to participate. Hessler-Radelet will also be . . .

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Review of Ben Berman's (Zimbabwe 1998-2000) Strange Borderlands

Strange Borderlands (Poems) By Ben Berman (Zimbabwe 1998-2000) Able Muse Press, $18.95 80 Pages 2013 Reviewed by Jan Worth-Nelson (Tonga 1976-78) As an unwilling alumna of a Peace Corps tragedy during my service many years ago – the 1976 murder in the Kingdom of Tonga of one volunteer by another, I quickly attuned to heart-pulsing themes of violence and cultural dislocation in Ben Berman’s riveting first poetry collection, Strange Borderlands. I have never quite recovered from the shock and senselessness of that murder, not to mention the unceasing parade of vivid, direct, in-your-face carnage – chickens, cats, dogs, horses, whales, the old woman in the hut behind me – what seems, in persistent memory, to be a daily, bloody assault, often in startling contrast to banal quotidian life. During a powerful earthquake during my first year, I stumbled out of my hut shrieking with fear – I would die 9,000 . . .

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