One hears versions of this purported hadith (a saying of the Prophet Muhammad) across Pakistan. No authenticated hadith matches it precisely. It is, nevertheless, very much in the spirit of the Prophet's thinking about the responsibilities of people to one another in a good society, which to many Muslims is synonymous with an Islamic society. Everyone should be given help, provided relief, offered assistance, and given concern, congratulations, sympathy, medical aid, and commemoration. Many of the injunctions of the Quran and Sunnah if followed privately create public goods. Public welfare is a central theme of the Quran and sirat (life of the Prophet).

The life of the Prophet contained many important lessons, such as care should be given to all, even those who are hostile to us. According to a widely told story, a woman detractor showered the Prophet daily with a bucket of refuse as he made his way past her home. But he neither got angry nor changed his route. As he passed the woman's house one day without incident, he became concerned for her welfare and visited her to inquire after her health. The Prophet's example shows that even one who is hostile is deserving of care in times of need.

By establishing the essentially humanitarian spirit of Islam, this chapter, paired with Chapter 5, determines the span of the chasm between Islamic ideals and public (that is, governmental) practices. Some of this is attributed in part to past government eagerness to prioritize military spending and territorial security and past government interest in assuming resource of and controlling activities in the traditional Muslim charitable sector.

This chapter unpacks the hegemonic attitudes within the extensive anticolonial project of Cuban feature-length and documentary film from 1959 to 1989. The chapter first explores the centrality in and contributions to the New Latin American cinema movement of Cuba, the Cuban Film Institute (ICAIC), and Cuban film directors Julio García Espinosa, Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, Humberto Solás, and Santiago Álvarez. At the same time, the chapter makes visible the many accomplished though lesser-known creative agents who helped shape these directors’ model of auteur esthetics, demonstrating how films by Sara Gómez and Nicolás Guillén Landrián also constitute fundamental and critical contributions to the Cuban cinematic canon of the period, which typically privileged the contributions of white men.

On 13 September 1935, Muthusamy, an Indian coolie from the Haron Estate, Klang, in British Malaya (henceforth Malaya), was charged with enticing away a married woman, Thavakka, who was a coolie and the wife of Rengasamy, another coolie at the same estate. During the trial, it was established that Rengasamy married Thavakka in India in 1927, just before they arrived in Malaya at the Haron Estate. In his statement, Rengasamy claimed that Muthusamy had begun taking his meals with the couple from August 1934, and in March 1935 the latter enticed Thavakka away from him. Muthusamy, on the contrary, claimed that during the previous year he had been depositing all his earnings with Rengasamy for safe keeping, and in March 1935, when he demanded the money back from Rengasamy, the latter offered his wife instead of the money. Furthermore, Muthusamy tried to establish that he had initially refused the offer, but upon the pleas and eagerness of Thavakka, he agreed, and they proceeded to an estate in Ipoh where they began to live as ‘husband and wife’. After hearing the case, the magistrate convicted Muthusamy and sentenced him to three years of rigorous imprisonment.

The investigation and verdict on the Muthusamy and Rengasamy case was covered in a number of local newspapers, as were most ‘enticement’ cases in Malaya. Such cases were not uncommon in transnational migrant labour communities in colonial plantation societies. Colonial administrators, while dealing with incidences of domestic trouble, kidnapping, crimes of passion and other misdemeanors often used stereotypical labels of ‘victim’ and ‘enticer’ to categorise colonised subjects, but stereotyping did not always prove helpful for either administrators or their subjects. The frequent recurrence of incidents involving acts of ‘wife enticement’3, sexual jealousy and partner or spouse desertion amongst immigrant Indian coolies in Malaya sparked intense debate amongst colonial administrators both in India and Malaya from 1900 to 1940. The discourses that arose in the wake of such incidents offer many clues about the nature of Indian coolie life in British Malaya, particularly the nature of intimate gender relations.

Due largely to the demographics of early Indian immigration, historical research on Indian coolies in Malaya has tended to focus on male immigrants and their work as coolies, kanganis and chettiars. This emphasis has resulted in complete silence regarding Indian coolie women or gender relations between coolie migrants within colonial plantation societies.

This chapter on Cuba’s avant-gardes of the 1920s and early 1930s focuses on writers associated with the Grupo Minorista and the Revista de Avance, examining their cultivation of porous intellectual communities and the attention they paid to everyday expressive forms in seeking to translate Cuban orality into writing. These writers, the chapter argues, sought new ways of characterizing Cuban experience and identity, engaging critically with their surroundings and positioning themselves as consequential cultural actors. The chapter portrays the Minoristas’ approach to the tertulia as an affective assemblage that thrives on difference and artful disagreement, welcomes international visitors, and, while being capacious enough to include women, clings to gender stereotypes. It also draws connections between the group’s tertulias and the international cosmopolitan interactions forged by the conversational qualities of the Revista de Avance, with a literary and linguistic “art of eavesdropping,” stylistic self-consciousness, interstitial participant-observer positions, and hierarchical views of culture projected by such Minorista writing as the crónicas and essays of Jorge Mañach.

This chapter will explore best practices in assessing, diagnosing, and treatment planning for LGBTQ+ clients. Examining issues and trends with standardized assessment tools with an emphasis on biopsychosocial assessment will be discussed. Within this chapter, effective strategies and techniques to assess sexual-affectional and gender identity will also be presented with an in-depth critique of heteronormative and cisnormative values that can negatively impact the assessment process. Throughout this chapter, resource examples of LGBTQ+ affirming treatment plans with case examples of intakes with sexual-affectional minority women will be presented.

This chapter argues that reading music and musicians is fundamental to understanding Cuban literature and its temporality, geography, and community-formation. After tracing some of the standard ways in which critics have aimed to connect music to the literary, the chapter suggests more social approaches to what it might mean for literary or cultural studies scholars to take music in more fully as part of social life. This conception of the social, the chapter argues, is not one to which a new or revolutionary socialism aspired after Cuba’s revolution, but rather something more ancient, less prescribed, more improvisatory, and experienced with others. Attention to popular music and the worlds it forges through the chapter’s analysis of a postrevolutionary musical primer, as well as to lyrics, sounds, and even visuality, grounds the chapter’s conception of music as an entrée into epochs beyond the historical confines of a particular musical entity or event. The complete somatic experience of music’s nuance, irony, submerged histories, happenings, and temporal overlaps can enliven and expand what literary scholars might conceptualize as an individualized “close reading.”

Chapter 5 interrogates the multiple meanings of dismembered hands in the 1880s as the changes made by Reconstruction were steadily clawed back. Given the centrality and materiality of touch, the representation of hands is not only verbal but also visual – the author interrogates how hands are not just imagined in text but also imaged in drawings and cartoons. At the core of the chapter are some of the drawings Thomas Nast made about the politics around Reconstruction. Then the chapter moves from images of interacting hands to actual shaking hands during the twenty-fifth anniversary of the battle of Gettysburg, which brought together veterans of both the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia in 1888. The chapter ends with A Hazard of New Fortunes, by William Dean Howells. Hazard is especially interesting because of a secondary character, Berthold Landau, a German 1848-er who lost his hand in the Civil War. Overlaid by a North-South romance, Hazard’s ambivalence toward Landau and Howells’s decision to kill him off are another sign of the abandonment of white commitment to Black freedom.

Aishwarya Rai, India’s triumphant Miss World, was now Bollywood’s reigning queen and global crossover star. Time magazine listed her among the world’s most influential people and noted that Rai gets the

This was the early 2000s, and Bollywood’s global momentum was cresting. With the success of Aamir Khan and SRK via films like Lagaan and Devdas, Bollywood cinema was prominently visible around the world. While the discourse of Bollywood’s global success was generally male-dominated, the ethereal presence of Rai’s culturally transcendent beauty, ergo the possibility of her becoming Bollywood’s first crossover star, dominated the discourse about industry globalization. The beauty pageant network, fuelled by Rai and Sushmita Sen, winners of the Miss World and Miss Universe crowns, respectively, in 1994, followed by Amitabh Bachchan’s attempt to integrate the beauty pageant industry into the globalizing Indian entertainment sector, was now firmly entrenched in the Bollywood network. The beauty pageant industry and Hindi cinema were organic partners for one another, as both were similarly constituted by global flows of capital, industrial and institutional collaborations, and national cultural influence that were deeply ensconced in debates about gender and national and cultural identity.

This chapter addresses the developments in literary and intellectual culture following the 1959 triumph of the Cuban Revolution, including the complex debates about the relationship between form and content that featured in the literature and the literary landscape of the new revolutionary society. Outlining the national and international contexts in which cultural policy was being developed and implemented, and within and against which individual and grouped actors, discourses, and texts were contributing to a heterogeneous understanding of literature in the revolution, the chapter underscores the relationship in the 1960s and 1970s among literature, cultural trends, processes of legitimization, political actions, and newly founded state institutions. In this context, the chapter then investigates how intermedial creations – and,m more specifically, the testimonio, a genre portrayed as a “radical anticolonial and decolonizing experiment” – negotiate individual agency and collective identity.

Bounded linear operators form a natural class of maps between normed linear spaces: they are, by definition, linear and continuous, so that, in other words, they preserve, at least to some extent, the linear and the topological structures of the normed spaces involved. As it turns out, bounded linear operators from one normed linear space to another form a normed linear space themselves. Moreover, if the range space is complete, the space of operators is complete also, and is thus a Banach space. We note that we have already encountered examples of bounded linear operators on the previous pages of this book and discuss a score of new ones. Nor do we refrain from calculating norms of some of them.

This chapter analyzes the life writing of Mercedes Merlin, who wrote about Cuba, and other topics, entirely in French, after adopting Paris as her intellectual home. The analysis teases out the singularities and paradoxes of her relatively late inclusion – a process the chapter notes in other recent scholarship – in the historical imaginary of Cuban literature. That imaginary, the chapter argues, is prone to privileging signs of emancipation and racial justice in nineteenth-century writing, whereas Merlin, even as she depicted Cuban slavery’s cruelties, did not call for its abolition. Yet, even while her work exhibits some disturbing views of Black and mixed-race people, the chapter suggests that her nuanced considerations of Black subjects intimate a glimmer of proto-abolitionism. The chapter further demonstrates and details that, for Merlin, the rhetoric of life writing provided an avenue to tell her own story and that of other rebellious lives, such that her work projects a notion of freedom, not only in its subject matter but also in its inventive mix of autobiography and fiction.

After independence, the Indian government tended to project JMI primarily as an experimental institution à la Gandhi, focused on basic education and social reform. Although religion played a central part in JMI's ethos, the government was more likely to compare JMI to Visva Bharati, Tagore's experimental school in rural Bengal, than to AMU. AMU, by contrast, appeared to be the Muslim university par excellence. For many Muslims, it was a source of pride and a symbol of Indian Muslim culture. The institution epitomised Sayyid Ahmad Khan's efforts to uplift the community and preserve the legacy of the glorious Mughal past. However, due to the widespread support of teachers and students for the Muslim League in the 1940s, the university also came to be seen, in certain quarters, as a symbol of Muslim separatism. Long after the riots had ceased, it remained a lieu de mémoire of partition, crystallising resentment against Muslims’ supposedly communal and disloyal attitude.

Despite this prejudice, Zakir Husain strongly believed that AMU could contribute, more than JMI, to the development of an ‘integrated nationhood’. It was precisely because of its legacy as a centre of Muslim politics and educational reform that the university could, he believed, channel the efforts to ‘revive hope and faith’ among the ‘despondent Muslim masses’ and help them feel part of India's ‘secular democratic state’.

A few Congress leaders, particularly Nehru and Azad, shared a similar vision of the university's mission in post-independence India. In 1951, AMU became, along with Banaras Hindu University (BHU), one of the three central universities under the control of the central government. For Nehru, it was essential to ensure that, despite partition, Indian Muslims would feel part of the Indian nation in order to build a secular stat