Both of these ladies were ecologically conscientious, even though they never received an education about the environment. Despite this, I would have thought that by now, decades later, there would be more of a focus on environmental education (EE) in schools. And though a search on Google Scholar shows a lot of research about EE, it doesn’t show a ton of applications of EE in contemporary schools.

EE perspectives are present in many ideologies, such as ecopedagogy, egocentrism, anthropocentrism, autopoiesis intrinsic value theory, ecofeminism, green socialism, eco-Marxism, etcetera (Lummis, 2002). And yet I am interested in EE programs, and there are shockingly few of them.

Value education is based on cognitive and affective development. The main aim of education, according to value education, is to create a “good citizen” for a “good society” (Lickona, 1999; Rest, 1974). The most important side of these education programs is to develop self-awareness, helping people to become aware of the larger world (Kollmuss and Agyeman, 2002, p.257; Rest, 1974, p.461).

Awareness is directly related to ego development, and to thinking critically. Experimental programs are needed, and a person’s cognitive structure needs to interact with the environment to develop their ego. The main subject here is being “interactionist”  (Rest, 1974). I would like to define this term, environmentally, as “to have an interaction with the natural environment and to have individual outputs.” I understand that in terms of EE, value education should trigger environmental awareness.

There are experimental studies ongoing in the hopes of achieving environmental awareness. Unfortunately, none of these studies mention value education. This is a shame, as the typical properties of value education (Rest, 1974) and EE overlap: to develop responsibility and awareness, cooperative learning, to think critically, and to develop behavioural changes in the long-term.

Value education should be an important part of EE because educational philosophy plays a critical role in shaping teaching programs. Teachers and administrators should first think about the philosophical roots of their aims. Rest (1974) says that value education is based on the thoughts of Plato, Hegel, Dewey, and Piaget; in other words, “progressivist” approaches. Pierre Walter (2009) also mentions the progressivist origins of EE.

We should not forget that we first encounter value education in our families. Value education and EE may also be evaluated in terms of education children learn from watching adults/parents. A lot of research highlights the importance of parental education (Kasapoglu and Turan, 2008; Gokdere, 2005).

Unfortunately, current research shows there is a gap between theory and practice in EE (Bolstad and Baker, 2004; Elliott, 1999; Hart and Nolan, 1999; Mansaray, Ajiboye and Audu, 1998). This gap may close with the use of value education, but there is significant overlap between the two disciplines. Using one to develop the other is a method that has not yet been tried, but could lead to future improvements in both disciplines.

References
Gokdere, M. (2005). “A Study On Environmental Knowledge Level Of Primary Students In Turkey”. Asia-Pacific Forum on Science Learning and Teaching, Volume 6, Issue 2.
Hart, P. & Nolan, K. (1999). “A Critical Analysis Of Research In Environmental Education”. Studies in Science Education, Volume 34’ Issue 1, p. 1-69.
Kasapoglu, A., & Turan, F. (2008). “Attitude Behaviour Relationship In Environmental Education: A Case Study From Turkey”. International Journal of Environmental Studies, Volume 65, Issue 2, p. 219-231.
Kollmuss, A., & Agyeman, J. (2002). “Mind The Gap: Why Do People Act Environmentally And What Are The Barriers To Pro-Environmental Behaviour?”. Environmental Education Research, Volume 8, Issue 3, p. 239-260.
Lickona, T. (1999). “Character education: The cultivation of virtue”. In Charles M. Reigeluth (Ed.), “Instructional design theories and models (Volume II)”. Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, New Jersey.
Lummis, G. (2002). “Globalisation: Building A Partnership Ethic For A Ecopedagogy In Western Australia”.  Australian Journal of Teacher Education, Volume 27, Issue 1, Article 2, 1-1.
Rest, J. (1974). “Developmental Psychology As A Guide To Value Education: A Review Of "Kohlbergian" Programs”. Review of Educational Research, Volume 44, Issue 2 (Spring, 1974), p. 241-259.

Land in my country was state property and it was divided into collective farms like this one. Mom worked for the only state bank in our town and was expected to come out once a year and check the procedures on this collective farm.

I enjoyed coming here with her. Walking among the vines, I wondered how those dry trunks could produce such a juicy fruit. I suspected that rain and the sweat drops of the kooperativists had contributed to the process.

I loved the outdoors, yet the reason I wandered as far as possible from where Mom kept comparing numbers was something else. You see, Mom was a pure Communist at heart. She would not eat grapes she hadn’t paid for. And I wouldn’t dare eat them either, at least not in front of her.

“C’mon Comrade Liri, eat some,” her colleagues would insist. “Don’t be so self-righteous. Everybody else eats these grapes. It’s no big deal.”

And I secretly agreed. What harm would eating some grapes do to the huge harvest of this collective farm? Mom shook her head stoically to these objections while I sneaked outside to the tempting juicy globes.

In my country nobody owned anything other than the clothes they had on and the food on their table. Everything else was state property. Yet, the state was us, the people; so in a sense everything belonged to everybody in general and nobody in particular. This was confusing enough to make me give into temptation.

After finishing one big cluster of grapes, I started picking randomly juicy balls here and there, selecting the biggest ones, which were shining like jewels under the sun. Meanwhile I listened to the talk of the workers as they snapped the grapes from branches with large scissors. They were talking about some important members of Political Bureau, a top organization within the Socialist Party, who had come all the way from the capital to visit their successful collective farm. They were now having lunch with the foreman. The workers, it seemed to me, picked the grapes with diligence, as if to impress the PB members.

Later the talk shifted to plain gossip and I was losing track of it when all of a sudden somebody started blowing a whistle. Whoever was blowing the whistle so loudly intended to challenge his lungs to full capacity and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had blown his brains into the whistle.

Everybody around dropped their scissors and hurried in one direction, which was a good enough reason for me to run along, perspiring profusely.

The crowd gathered in front of the white stucco building. The foreman stood on the front steps, whistle in hand, brain intact, taking in the view of the sweat drenched kooperativists and the vineyard shimmering under the sun.

“Comrades,” he shouted when everybody had gathered, “something despicable has happened in our exemplary Kooperative. This wretched person,” he said pointing to a middle-aged man who stood apart, head bowed, not moving to even wipe his sweat from his face, “this person with no conscience, no morals, this degenerate was caught red-handed stealing grapes.”

All turned around to the degenerate, noticing that he still held a bag half full with grapes. I found Mom among the onlookers. Her face seemed a mix of unreadable emotions. Contempt? Anger? Pity? My mind, out of its own volition started estimating whether the amount of the grapes in my tummy came any where close to the amount in the bag, while I searched for the whereabouts of my conscience. Feeling my cheeks blush, I wished I had stuck to Mom’s resolution of not eating grapes that belonged to everybody.

“Comrades,” continued the foreman, “this man is an enemy of the proletariat and his act will not be overlooked. He dared violate the code of work, the fruit of his comrades’ sweat. What do you have to say?” the foreman sternly asked the red-handed enemy. The once-comrade spoke, without raising his eyes to look at the people who were co-workers, his neighbors, his relatives.

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.” His voice broke into sobs and tears joined drops of perspiration on the edge of his chin. I felt my spit dry in my mouth.

A couple of fellow kooperativists spoke in turns, shaming their brother and at the same time, trying to appease the anger that, like rain clouds, had started to gather on the PB members’ faces. As they say, wet wood burns along with the dry wood.

“Comrades,” Finally, the oldest PB member spoke as the whole crowd shifted on their feet. “We will set up a makeshift court right here, right now and condemn this shameless act.”

He asked the foreman to appoint someone from the crowd to take part in jury.

“Comrade Lavdi.” The foreman startled my mom and made my heart skip a beat. “Would you volunteer to be part of the jury?”

Even a thirteen-year-old girl as myself knew that the question was only a formality, because the Party people never took no for an answer.

The three Bureau members went into the building, my mom in tow, while the crowd scattered to sit under the shades of the two big oaks. The “enemy” remained on foot under the sun. Three wasps flew in a circle around the bag, trying to get in, without worrying about guilt or sin.

I don’t know how long we waited for the verdict, but I suspect it was long enough that we began to worry that something had gone wrong. Finally one of the Bureau members came out and whispered something to the foreman, who was fanning himself with his hat.

The foreman jumped to his feet and they both went inside again. The person closest to the foreman, who had overheard something of the whispered message, passed it around with no delay. Somebody was refusing to sign the verdict!

As people gasped at the news, my heart trembled with recognition that that somebody had fixed himself for big trouble. That somebody risked being declared an enemy of the people, getting a large stain on their personal reference records and would face grave consequences.

“That somebody can’t be my mom,” I remember convincing myself wishfully. “She hates dishonesty, especially stealing. She wouldn’t mind if they hanged the man.”

Yet, I couldn’t think who else could possibly break the unanimity that every decision required in our country, a place where dissidents did not exist. I couldn’t imagine the three Bureau members disagreeing. They even walked in concord, like soldiers in a military parade.

Finally they came out. Mom, pale as a dead woman, walked out last. Fear gripped my heart. I remember only vaguely what happened afterwards: the shock of the crowd upon hearing the death sentence, the pleading eyes of the guilty, my Mom’s right hand trembling and her transfixed gaze that betrayed disappointment.

All were dismissed. Mom and I walked home on the dusty road after refusing a ride in the PB members’ jeep, the guilty man inside. Mom cried silently all the way home holding my hand in a tight grip, as if the ground was slipping under our feet.

That night I woke up to my mom’s muffled cries and my father’s soothing words.

“I can’t believe it,” Mom was saying, sniffing, “sentence a man to death for a bunch of grapes! What is happening?” demanded my mom, raising her voice. “This is not Communism. This is despotism!”

“Shshshsh. Somebody will hear,” worried my dad.

“They made me sign the verdict,” she continued in revolt. “They threatened me. They said unanimity was a must, otherwise people would think that the Party could be wrong. They assured me that the death penalty was just to frighten people, that a higher court will overrule it and sentence the man to prison for a couple of years. But, what if they don’t?”

Mom paused to catch her breath than continued: “This is not what my father fought for in the war to liberate this country. This is not what they promised Communism would be.”

Both of them fell silent. Only Mom’s occasional sobs spoiled the dark silence. I don’t know if Mom became an enemy of the people that night, but she surely wasn’t a die-hard Communist anymore.

Weeks later we heard that the higher court did indeed overrule the death penalty, sentencing the thief to five years in prison. Mom never spoke of that day and everything went back to normal, except that her eyes never shone again upon hearing the victories of our country under the lead of the Socialist Party, and she never reminded me what a fortunate people we were to be living in the last stronghold of Communism in Europe.

Years later, long after Communism had collapsed and the land had been privatized, Mom came home one day with a black plastic bag in one hand and red-rimmed eyes. She said that a man had thanked her for a signature she had hesitated to give so long ago and had given her grapes in a plastic bag saying, “Eat them with a clean conscience sister! They are the fruits of my pure perspiration and of my honest toil in my own land under the sun.”

Mirkena Ozer is pursuing MA in women studies at the University of Georgia, Atlanta.

You see, Auntie Kristina (that’s what a girl with manners should call her) was a friend of my family. She had visited us more times than I could count, but I had never been allowed to visit her, because her husband was unwell (and, I thought, probably couldn’t stand noise). They had no relatives in town. Their only daughter had married and moved to a distant city. So they lived alone in our small town, where everyone else had been there since Adam. It seemed to me that as outsiders they really appreciated the friendship of my parents. Also my father would fix any electrical appliance that broke in their house, free of charge. I guess Auntie Kristina and her husband loved my father like the son they had never had.

Auntie Kristina had the strangest ability to mend clothing like no one else could. She could patch a hole or sew a tear so that it was no longer there, as long as you had extra fabric. You couldn’t detect where a patch had been, even with my grandpa’s glasses on. Ask my mom if you don’t believe me.

So, I was ready to sprint toward her house when my teacher delivered her final instruction. “Be careful. Don’t drop the trousers anywhere. They are very expensive. And,”-that’s when my heart froze-“tell her these are your father’s trousers.”

You might have asked why, but I didn’t. I knew the reason. Auntie Kristina had stopped doing this kind of work for quite some time now. She had turned down such requests lately because the job put a strain on her aging eyes. But there was only one person she wouldn’t turn down: a dear friend asking a favor. And that was my father. If you wonder how my teacher knew that, then I suppose you’ve never lived in a small town full of gossip.

Yes. I knew it was a lie, but after having had this same neurotic teacher for 3 years, a teacher who had pulled my hair in first grade for writing crooked letters, I knew better than to say no.

I lowered my head and dragged myself out of the school. As I watched my shadow slide over the stones on the dusty road, I tried to think of a way out. The first scenario that played in my head was telling Auntie Kristina the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“Auntie, my teacher sent me with a pair of trousers which have two holes, one big and one small on the left leg. These trousers belong to my teacher’s brother-in-law, who is our ambassador in some far away country and who burned them accidentally during a reception. (No, I am not making anything up. I overheard my teacher talking to her assistant during recess.) Since these trousers are far too expensive to throw away and since it is very, very important that the representative of our glorious country doesn’t go around with holes in his trousers, would you kindly repair them, please?”

She would politely decline and I wouldn’t blame her. Why strain one’s eyes to save the fancy pants of a careless diplomat?! However, this kind of answer would spell disaster for me. I abandoned this scenario and switched to the next.

I would go to her house; pretend I had knocked till my knuckles hurt, then turn back to tell my teacher that the seamstress wasn’t home. My teacher would believe me because: number one, I hadn’t lied before, and number two, she believed that the child who could lie to her had not yet been born. (She told us this herself, but if you can keep a secret, I will tell you-she is wrong. Two of my friends lied to her once, and they didn’t even flinch when faced with her lie-detecting stare.)

Anyhow, I would try, if it would end my misery. Yet, I knew like two plus two equals four that she would send me again the next day and then the next until I found the seamstress home. Chances are she would send another envoy with me after the second attempt. Then, I would have to convert that classmate into an accomplice, which was about as easy as swallowing a bull.

As I swallowed my saliva and wiped my sweaty forehead I realized that I had arrived at Auntie’s house. Standing in front of her door with my fist raised to knock, I couldn’t think of a way out of this dilemma: Shall I lie to my teacher or to Auntie Kristina? To tell the truth, the first seemed a lesser wrong but with greater consequences. I would have the same teacher for another two whole years.

I knocked twice, wishing hard that Auntie Kristina had moved to another city without letting anyone know, or had gone to see her daughter long enough for his Corpus Diplomaticus to go back to that far-away country. Have I told you that I am not that lucky? Well it’s time you knew.

Auntie Kristina opened the door with a big smile that made me blush to the tip of my ears.

“Hello Auntie! My parents send their regards to you. My father’s trousers need some repairs.” My voice trembled like I was begging for food. “Some extra fabric is in the bag.” I handed the bag to her with shaky hands. As soon as Auntie saw the shiny, high quality pants she looked at me over her spectacles, perplexed. She inspected the holes and fell silent. The longer the silence lasted, the hotter my face got. Auntie Kristina, who probably knew how many fillings my father had in his mouth, could quite easily guess that my father, a modest electrician, would more likely land on the moon than own those fancy trousers. I lowered my head and waited for a shame-on-you slap but instead I got:

“O.K. Come and pick them up tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? I was worried. I will have to go through all this again my mind protested.

“Yes, “she said. “I don’t have time today.”

“Tell your parents I said hi,” she reminded me. I nodded. You would expect me to take a deep breath once she closed the door, right? Instead I felt like I was choking and there was only one way for my lungs to get air: let the tears that were knotted in my throat flow. And I did. I didn’t care who might be watching. I hated my teacher. I detested her mindless brother-in-law. I loathed pant-burning cigars. I hated myself. I was a bad girl. I was a liar. I continued to cry to my heart’s content, until my eyes were dry and I could breathe again.

The next day my teacher’s face brightened up when she examined the repaired trousers.

“Unbelievable!” she exclaimed. “One thousand witnesses are needed to prove that there was a hole in these pants.” She turned to me with a smile and said, “Well done.” Her praise, rare as rain in the desert, didn’t make me at all happy this time. In fact, it inflamed my guilt which was burning holes inside me. All I could do was to wait for the flame to die out.

Three weeks later, when the fire of my guilt had somewhat subdued, something happened that blew the ashes away and exposed the embers. It was the day of my older sister’s wedding. As I was busying myself, getting into everybody’s way, I heard Auntie Kristina’s voice greet my father. I jumped out of my skin and hid behind my bedroom door. Peaking through the keyhole, I saw her hand Mom a wrapped gift for my sister. Only for a split of a second did she scrutinize the outfit my father had on. Although it was his best gray suit, it stood a hundred light-years away from those fancy trousers.

She smiled at him and proceeded to the sitting room. She sat on the sofa exchanging pleasantries with both my parents while her coffee was being made. I glued my ear to the wall so that I could hear and started to reconstruct the puzzle of their conversation from what I could hear. When she asked where I was, suddenly finding a hiding place was more urgent than hearing what she had to say next. If I knew one thing about my mother, who stuck to the rules of manners like no other, it was that she would be looking for me in no time. It is considered rude for children to not greet guests, especially when the guests deigned to ask about them. I wasn’t mistaken. Mom rushed into my bedroom calling my name. I was sweating in my closet, hiding among racks of clothes. Did Auntie tell? Is Mom angry? Am I in trouble? I wondered. I could sense she was annoyed and impatient. Somebody called Mom from the kitchen with urgency so she stopped looking for me. I stayed inside until I heard Mom thank Auntie for coming and say goodbye.

I couldn’t spend my whole life inside a closet, so finally I decided I had to come out. On my way to the front yard, Mom called: “There you are! Here, take this. It’s from Auntie Kristina. She said you are a good girl,” Mom related with satisfaction. I don’t know why, but parents are really happy when their children are praised. “Isn’t she a nice lady?” Mom asked. Without waiting for my answer she hurried to greet another guest standing at the door. My mom had placed a bag of candies in my hand. My eyes welled up, but I pushed the tears to the corners. Something that felt good was happening inside me. The holes of emptiness were being patched. My soul was being mended.

“Yes,” I whispered to myself. “She is a nice lady, and the best seamstress of all.”

Mirkena Ozer is pursuing MA in women studies at the University of Georgia, Atlanta.

He lived in a hamlet, one of several a mile or two apart on the same road, stretched over a fertile area at the centre of which was a small market town. On this day, a Friday, Amjad had walked into the town early. He had entered the mosque before midday, and settled into a state of earnest petitioning of God, begging to be relieved of his hardship. He had remained in that state of earnest pleading before his Creator right through the prayer service and then stayed on in the mosque, still petitioning, until, otter the mid-afternoon prayer, he emerged and joined the throngs in the market-place. He needed a job and had prayed for the same, and had been, while praying, full of hope. Yet he did not find his prayer answered. He asked shop-keepers and waiters in restaurants if they could help him to get work. But no-one was able to offer him a job. The hope he had felt quickly evaporated. At that point, he had turned homeward, disconsolate, not wishing to go home, but with nowhere else to go.

The people he had asked for help had looked at him (he felt) without sufficient concern or respect. He was sure, likewise, that his parents (and especially his father) thought him a shiftless, good-for-nothing. Whereas, in his own heart, he knew himself to be as diligent and willing to do work, any work, as any of his friends who had found jobs. Who will offer to measure the depth of indignation a young man feels who can find no place to put his own feet and stand on his independence, and from that place make his own way forward in the world? The anxiety that Amjad felt is, quite probably, a good quality in a young man, but he had became impatient, and in his impatience was falling into a bad mood. In that bad mood, he made a bad decision. He said to himself as he approached his home: This is the last day I will spend in a house where I cannot pay anything towards the cost of my food and lodging. This sentiment would have shocked his parents, who loved him and cared nothing for the cost of having him with live with them.

After the sunset prayer, which he did hastily and inattentively, he went into his room and changed out of his best Friday clothes. He made a bundle of some other things and put them in a canvas bag which he hung over his shoulder. He then stole out of the house without greeting or informing his parents. He walked briskly out of the hamlet and into the night, its gathering darkness softened by a bright half-moon.

He passed through the next cluster of houses, still walking briskly and ignoring the call to prayer. He could not hold together in his mind the intention of prayer to God and the other intention which he had formed but which he had yet to put into effect. Thinking of it made him sweat and tremble, partly with excitement, partly with fear. By the time he reached the next hamlet, he was ready, and the conditions were right, to carry out this other intention. The main street was quite empty of people, and there were no lights on in any of the houses. He turned off into the side lanes where the houses cluttered against each other. He counted the left and right turns and memorized them: if he failed to remember accurately, he would not easily find his way out.

He approached the door of one house and pushed it gently. It was not locked. It opened onto a small mud courtyard, smelling strongly of goat. However, there was no goat there on this night. He knew the lay-out of houses like this — he had been to many as a child when his family visited relatives. He quickly walked across to the opening which led up a step to the main living area. Beyond it, there would be the kitchen. Out of habit, Amjad slipped off his sandals before stepping up, then walked softly towards the kitchen. It was lit from a high window. He knew almost exactly where to look: it was as if he was robbing his own house. (Are not Muslims brothers of one another?) He searched for the little pot in which a family such as this would keep any cash available to them. He was shocked to find that the woman who ran this household folded her paper- money exactly as his own mother did. He took it out and counted it: it was very little, less than in his mother’s kitchen. He began to sweat and tremble again, not out of fear or excitement, nor out of shame or guilt, but out of a kind of wild, indignant pity. He felt sorry for all the poor of the world, most especially himself. He put back the money. He went over to a little, low table in the corner. He took the cup which served as a lid for the pitcher and poured himself a drink. He had hoped it might be milk. It was water. He drank it, as he had been taught to do since early childhood, gratefully and in three, separate gulps. Then he re-covered the pitcher with the cup. He took the cloth off a bowl which he was sure would have dates in it. It did. He took a large handful, then changed his mind, counted out oven dates and put back the rest, replacing the cloth.

Amjad made his way quietly out of the house, retraced his steps to the main street, and then walked away from the village. The feeling that he had done the right thing changed into the feeling that he had been a coward, that he had lacked the courage to be a thief, He determined that he would not fail again. He picked up a heavy stick, readying himself to use violence if need be.

Some distance away he saw the figure of a man, bending down, picking up something, looking around, again bending down, picking something up, and so again many times. He approached nearer, taking care not to be seen. He was able to make out a mule lightly tethered to a bush, saddle-bags beside it on the ground. The man had obviously been travelling and was going to rest for what remained of the night. The young man now understood what the traveller had been doing: he had been collecting little pebbles and puffing them in a bag to serve as a pillow. After a while the man carried this pillow to the bush, took a blanket from one of the saddle-bags, lay down, covered himself, then put the pillow under his head and settled himself to sleep.

The young man too lay down, but stayed awake. He waited until he was sure the traveller was asleep. While he waited, he ate the seven dates he had taken. They tasted strange, even unpleasant, and did not satisfy his hunger. He walked over to the mule, holding his stick ready in case the man should wake. The mule made no sound. The traveller did not stir. The young man began to rummage inside the saddle-bags. The mule watched while he did so. He could find no money, nor any valuables. There was a book, some clothes, a small bag of, probably, dates, a canister of water. Again, he took a drink and, opening the small bag, helped himself to a handful of dates. If the traveller had any money, he must have it on his own person. The young man gripped his stick, wondering if he had the stomach to strike a sleeping man and steal from him. Then he thought: ‘What wealth can a man have who sleeps under the open sky with a bag of pebbles for a pillow? Shall I shed blood for a few pence?’ He patted the mule and went on his way. The mule made no sound but turned its head and watched him leave.

Only the last third of the night remained by the time Amjad reached the next sizeable hamlet. He was now tired, bewildered by his failure to get started on his career as a thief. ‘The very first house,’ he promised himself, ‘I shall take something, however little it may be, however poor the occupants.’ He entered the house as easily as the first time, since the door was not locked. The house seemed more than quiet, it felt empty. This was an error of judgement of a kind often made. Amjad had mistaken the simplicity and cleanliness, the peace and serenity, in this house for emptiness. Unknown to the young thief. an elderly widower, now living alone since the death of his only son, was doing the night prayer in the yard. When Amjad crossed in front of him, the old man was disturbed and rose from his prayer-mat. He was not angry, nor, after he observed that Amjad took off his sandals before stepping in, was he even alarmed or afraid. He stood and watched without comment as Amjad moved about in the kitchen, looking for something.

After a time, he deliberately shuffled his feet so as not to startle the intruder and then greeted him:

‘As-salamu ‘alaykum. What are you looking for? Perhaps I can help?’

Amjad froze, unable to answer.

The old man said comfortingly: ‘I am old and my sight is weak. Please help us both by lighting the candle for me. It is somewhere there by your right hand.’

Amjad answered: ‘Wa ‘alaykum assalam’, and then did as the man asked. He held up the candle and looked into the old man’s face. He had spent since the late afternoon convinced that he hated the world and mankind, and wanting to belong neither to the world, nor to any of the people in it. Suddenly, his mood was overturned: the old mans face was, Amjad could find no other word, beautiful. He longed to belong to this old man, to have a share in whatever he shared.

‘You are a traveller. And most welcome.’ The old man pointed to a cushion on the floor and to a table with the familiar pitcher-and-cup and the cloth-covered bowl. Amjad duly sat down, lowering his bundle from his shoulder, and drank and ate water and dates.

The old man too sat down and after Amjad had finished eating asked him: ‘What were you looking for? I was praying and did not hear you call before you entered. I am glad you came in.’

Amjad could not quite lie, nor yet tell the whole truth. He felt deeply ashamed, as one who has behaved with the most awful vulgarity toward one incapable of any action so ugly as to enter a private dwelling uninvited: ‘I am looking for work, O Shaykh. I am unemployed, and have left my village So and So in my quest.

The old man smiled. Amjad also, when he realized how ridiculous was what he had said, ‘A strange time and place for such a quest’, the Shaykh observed, but someone as strong and as well-mannered as yourself must soon succeed in finding work. Yet, permit me to say that a Muslim is not ever unemployed. We always have our work to do for God, and He is One who pays a most generous rate for the labour He asks of us. We are fortunate in this respect, for otherwise in times of difficulty we would find ourselves driven into all kinds of self-abandonment, hopelessness and indignity. There is a bucket and a jug behind the door. If there is not enough water in it, please draw some from the well around the corner from the next house. After you have prayed, sleep wherever you are comfortable, I am alone in the house.’

The Shaykh then became pensive and retired. Amjad, delighted to have something to do and no explanations to make, duly took the bucket and jug. He filled it from the well and then went some way from the houses to do what was necessary before he could wash in preparation for prayer. He reentered the Shaykh’s house, and did the prayer he had neglected earlier, and then continued in prayer, asking no more of God than to be forgiven and joined in the company of men whose faces in old age became beautiful like the Shaykh’s.

Amjad and the Shaykh did the dawn prayer together and shared a breakfast of bread and honey with some tea. The Shaykh studied Amjad’s face as he told his story; Amjad was aware of this and it did not trouble him. The Shaykh then explained his circumstances and offered Amjad a deal: ‘Work my small farm. Live in this house, share my table. After harvest, divide the crops into five portions, three for me, one for you, and one for the farm itself and to maintain the house. Do you accept?’

Before the young man could say yes or no, there was a knock at the door. The Shaykh asked Amjad to answer it. It was the traveller Amjad had failed to rob the night before. The traveller’s mule pushed its head into the doorway and nuzzled Amjad. ‘It seems to know you’, said the traveller. The Shaykh asked Amjad if he would kindly take the mule to the well and give it water. Amjad did so. When he returned he found the Shaykh and the traveller at the door; the latter, having concluded his business. was ready to resume his journey. The traveller looked straight into Amjad’s face so that Amjad had no doubt that the Shaykh had told him how he came to be in the house.

Do you know this mule of mine? asked the traveller. He certainly seems very comfortable with you:

Amjad was stunned with shame. He might easily have said No. But he could not. ‘I will explain, he said. He went inside and from his bag took out the handful of dates he had stolen. He came back with them and showed them to the traveller: ‘It is not me that the mule knows, it is these dates which I took from your bags last night, while you slept by the road. Can you forgive me?’

The Shaykh and the traveller both laughed and both ignored his question. The traveller took the dates with a formal bow, and said: ‘I recognize these goods and am glad to have them back unharmed, though I had not even noticed their absence. I wish for you some reward for not disturbing my sleep. But no matter, Now I must be off.’ So saying, the traveller bid farewell to them both and left.

The Shaykh took Amjad in and sat him down. The young man was trembling: he had been discovered and knew it. He feared that the opportunity opened to him would be closed now, he deserved no less.

But the Shaykh made no allusion to the incident he had just witnessed. He proceeded instead to relate to Amjad the reason for the traveller’s visit.

‘This traveller was a stranger to me, though I knew his father many years ago. I did that man some service which I have long since forgotten, but to repay me he has sent by his son this bag of money. It contains 50 silver dinars. As I never helped that man’s father in the expectation of any reward, I refused the gift. But the son insisted that I should take it – if not for myself, then to use in the way of God. I have since understood that these dinars were not meant for me, but are the wages for your night’s work from the One who employed you for that work. Take them.’

Amjad took the bag. his hands shaking. ‘What shall I do with this?’

The Shaykh said: ‘It is yours; your responsibility. Learn from this how God rewards those who labour for Him. By the kind courtesy of the mule, you were able to make amends with the traveller, If you have other amends to make, do it promptly. Then, come back and work for me. You know the terms. Are they acceptable?’

‘Wholly acceptable,’ said Amjad. He rose and shook the Shaykh’s hand, though he would gladly have kissed it, had this been permitted, he was so overwhelmed with gratitude.

‘Al-hamdu li-llah! That is all settled. Go now and do what you have to do.’

Amjad returned to the hamlet in which he had stolen seven dotes but he could not now recognize the house he had entered. He therefore went to the local trader and bought a sack of dates, took it to the mosque and asked the people to distribute the dates in the way of God, as he wished to thank God for his good fortune. This act of charity did not exactly make amends for what Amjad had done, but over the years he was glad that it did not, for it meant that he had an incentive to more acts of giving, in the hope, without the certainty, of expiation and forgiveness.

He returned to his parents’ house, to seek their pardon for his sudden, rude absence. It was no sooner asked than given. He told them his good news and they rejoiced with him. Briefly in danger of being alienated. Amjad accepted that he belonged to his faith, to his people and their customs and practices, and to his life. He remembered the beautiful face of the Shaykh and reflected how true was God’s promise in His Book, that he will remove all rancour from the hearts of His believing servants.

Recently, the population of the world has grown enormously, as has consumption of goods and services, and this has meant an enormous increase in the volume of waste. Many scientific studies have been undertaken to find solutions to the ‘garbage problem’, which is, of course, also a pollution problem. Some studies showed that for plastics to be broken down completely and absorbed naturally could take as much as 400 years. Environmentally sensitive consumers therefore turned to using paper instead of plastics. But were they right to have done so? Or was it just a bit o f clever advertising by paper manufacturers?

Paper or plastic?

Paper manufacturers initiated many ‘anti-plastic’ campaigns. David Jacobson (1990) notes that they had lost about 60% of their grocery bag market to plastics by the 1980s. Paper once 20% more expensive than plastics was by then double the cost. But cost was not the only factor in consumer preferences. Technological advances made plastics thinner and lighter, requiring less storage space and reducing delivery costs. Consumers increasingly preferred lightweight plastic bags with moulded handles, and stores were happy to push the cheaper bags. Stone Container Corporation (which claims about 40% of the paper grocery market and 20% of the total grocery bag market) launched a vigorous campaign to raise consumer demand for paper grocery bags in the test markets of Jacksonville, Florida, and Hartford, Connecticut. The 13-week campaign included full-page newspaper ads, billboard advertising and 30-second prime time TV spots. According to Jacobson, the campaign improved paper bag sales by about 3%.

Plastic manufacturers fought back quickly, arguing that paper was not environmentally better than plastic: they ‘publicized findings that nothing degrades in a landfill – even biodegradable paper bags – thus negating part of paper’s environmental claim’ (Jacobson, 1990).

According to ‘The Changing Bag Market’, a market research report published by Business Communications Co. Inc., ‘low energy costs and favourable consumer response to plastic bags could increase plastic’s market share to 56.2% by the year 2000’ (quoted in ibid.).

The battle has remained remarkably positive. Both plastic and paper manufacturers acknowledge that they want to increase sales, but both express genuine concern for the environment.

Another preliminary study, done by Bank of America’s Environmental Policies and Programs Department, indicated that ‘though plastic film requires a bit more energy to manufacture, it may be the better choice because.., made with less water and chemicals’ (Bank of America, 1996. p.1).

Degradable plastics

Unlike traditional plastics, which may last 200 to 400 years, degradable plastics may deteriorate in a matter of months (GAO, 1988, p.8).

The report of the US General Accounting Office (GAO) grants that ‘degradable plastics may thus be able to reduce the life span of litter in the landscape and at sea; they also diminish the amount of plastics accumulating in landfills. Technical uncertainties about the performance of degradable plastics, however, have stirred some questions about their ability to alleviate these problems. As a result, some experts contend that recycling and incineration …. may be more effective responses to the environmental problems posed by plastics…:

In addition to their potential environmental benefits, it must be noted that degradable plastics offer new opportunities for use with agricultural products.

The private sector, local state and federal government have promoted the use of degradable plastics. In a letter dated January 19, 1988, Senator John Glenn, Chairman of the Senate Committee on Governmental Affairs, asked the GAO to conduct a study of federal government activities in the area of degradable plastics. Subsequently, the GAO contacted officials and scientists in the federal government and private sector. They found that the US Department of Agriculture, the Department of Defense, the Department of Energy, and the National Science Foundation were together supporting 12 research and development projects directly related to degradable plastics, at a total funding level of $1.7 million in fiscal year 1988 (GAO, 1988, pp.8-13).

Recycling vs incineration of plastics

Incineration of paper or plastics is controversial: ‘… some people

object to the disposal of plastics [also paper] in waste-to- energy plants because, they say, plastics burned for energy are lost forever, but recycling allows the product to be used over and over again’ (Alexander, 1993, p. 138). Recycling is a better way of protecting the environment which has been gaining wider acceptance in recent years. Package goods titans such as Procter & Gamble and Lever Brothers, have both made commitments to use a percentage of recycled plastic resins in their detergent bottles and other consumer products. ‘Contrary to public presumptions, plastics are among the easiest materials to recycle, reports Amoco, one of two hundred companies re claiming millions of used plastic containers for conversion to paintbrush bristles, traffic signs, toys, floor tiles, wastebaskets, plastic lumber, and many other useful items…’ (ibid.)

As of 1990 about 20% of soft-drink bottles were being recycled for use in making textiles and fibres, appliance handles, etc. (Saunders, 1993, pp. 178-9). Among numerous other examples of applications for recycled plastics, McDonald’s Playlands are composed of partially shredded, worn-out tyres.

On the other side, while a number of US companies have adopted plans to buy recycled paper supplies, many have resisted instituting such policies because of concerns over cost or quality. Because of the current technology, recycled paper products can cost 50% to 60% more than new ones (Eisenhart, 1990, p.20).

For the present, then, it would appear that, contrary to common misconceptions; the use of plastics is better for the environment than the use of paper.

References

• ALEXANDER, i.E-I. (1993) In Defense of Garbage, Praeger. Westport, CT.
• BERNARD, K. & LAWLER, E.D. (1990) ‘Recycling, Yes. Buying recyclables? Well’, Business Marketing, 75(11), pp.30-2.
• EISENHART, T, (1990) ‘There’s gold in that garbage!’ Business Marketing, 75(11), pp.2O-5.
• GAO [=US General Accounting Office I (1988) Degradable Plastica: Standards, research, and development, Report to the Chairman,Committee on Govemmcntal Affairs, US Senate, Washington, DC.
• JACOBSON, 0. (1990) ‘Paper marketers aim to bag their plastics cornpetitors’, Business Marketing, 75 (11), pp.32-3.