After a six-year court battle, the Pennsylvania Supreme Court hands down a final decision on what it means to purchase a “haunted house.”

Plagued by unexplainable events, Janet Milliken files a lawsuit to return the house to its sellers.

A family moves across the country to leave a tragedy behind, but their new house has a horrific history of its own.

“The Arc of the Sun”

In “The Arc of the Sun,” Issue No. 50 of The Atavist Magazine, David Samuels writes about the South African Million Dollar Pigeon Race, in which 2,000 pigeons fly 325 miles in the greatest journey of their lives. Blair Braverman, author of “Welcome to Dog World!” Issue No. 49 of The Atavist Magazine, asked Samuels about the extraordinary bond between humans and birds and what his essay uncovered about his own relationship with the meaning of home.

BLAIR BRAVERMAN: There’s a tension between what pigeons seem to represent to enthusiasts—love, companionship, gentleness—and the history of their use for military purposes. After being immersed in this story, how do you reconcile this tension? 

DAVID SAMUELS: Humans can be gentle and feel love, and are magnetically attracted to the idea of home, but are also often employed for military purposes. So if there is a “tension” here, it is one that makes pigeons seem more human. 

In terms of the South African Million Dollar Pigeon Race, there’s a striking contrast between the large amounts of money associated with the race and the poverty that surrounds it. How conscious were entrants of this contrast? Did you feel that the race is truly integrated with its environment, its home? 

The contrast between wealth and poverty exists everywhere in the world, but is as stark in few places as it is in America. Growing up in lower-middle income housing in Brooklyn, I liked to think that I at least knew what poverty looked and felt like—namely, the emergency rooms where my mother worked and people dripped blood from stab and gunshot wounds onto the floor, or the Marcy Houses down the road, where the police were scared to go. I was quickly disabused of that notion once I started to travel widely in other countries, where I saw people living beneath sheets of plastic who didn’t have enough food to eat. It is a fact that, owing in part to the evils of colonialism and apartheid, South Africa is one of the few places where income disparities are even greater than they are in the United States. That said, putting any of the above on pigeon fanciers is silly. Why not golfers? Or people who own laptops or plasma TVs?  What’s most striking about pigeon fanciers as a group is that the thing they really, truly, deeply care most about is pigeons. Everyone wants a winning bird, and that singularity of focus allows people from radically different places to converse and relate to each other as equals in a genuine way, based on their common devotion to these birds and to the sport. I wish the rest of the world could work that way. 

“Pigeons are substitutes for family. They give love.” How does that dynamic play out between the owners of the pigeons and the handlers who spend their time with them?

Affection-wise, the handlers clearly get the better part of the deal at a one-loft race like the Million Dollar, where the birds are closer to avian lotto balls than pets. In the life cycle of a fancier’s loft, a race like the Million Dollar mainly serves to confirm and to advertise the qualities of a particular bloodline, although I did my best to use the drama of a big race to explain the very real emotional connections between fanciers and their birds, so that readers could better understand the sport and the powerful feelings that drive it. Most pigeon fanciers and racers are quiet people who spend enormous amounts of time with the prize birds that they use for racing and the even more valuable pairs that they keep in their lofts for breeding. Men and birds are united by bonds of trust and affection, and by the desire to be at home.

Throughout the story, you are particularly attentive to surroundings and landmarks, nature and livestock and people. How was your reporting process affected by a story so informed by ideas of place?

I’m not a highly abstract thinker. The way I approach the world is tactile and somewhat primitive. I know things by looking at them, touching them, feeling them, smelling them, eating them, or whatever it is that my kind of knowledge requires. Because I know this about myself, I try to write stories about things that I find attractive or abrasive rather than revolting or boring. It felt pretty intense to be in the middle of so many birds, and it was weird to look them in the eye and see their dinosaur ancestors. Their feathers felt like silk, and their wings and chests felt surprisingly strong. I loved driving half the length of South Africa in the back of a buckie over the course of a single day, and it was great to camp out by the river with the Afrikaner men, who were such a specific combination of incredible crudeness and tenderness. To feel any of it, you have to live with people, and see and touch the world that they see and touch. 

Has your time with pigeons shaped your idea of home? What was it like to return home after reporting this story?

It didn’t feel bad to me at all, even though my wife was furious with me for leaving her alone with our six-month-old baby while I followed the arc of the sun. To her, the idea of home is something lucid; it’s where she is and our baby is, and where I am supposed to be. Hearing that made me really happy, even if the sense of continuity and comfort that the idea of home seems to connote sometimes baffles and eludes me.  Read “The Arc of the Sun.”

“WELCOME TO DOG WORLD!”

In “Welcome to Dog World!,” Issue No. 49 of The Atavist Magazine, Blair Braverman writes about her time living in the sparse wilderness of an Alaskan glacier. The isolated camp was also a luxury destination for adventurous day-trippers. On a typical tour, the visitors flew to the camp in helicopters, then explored on dog-drawn sleds before heading back to their cruise-liners. Then, one day a storm stranded tourists and mushers on the ice. Joshua Hammer, author of “The Desert Blues,” Issue No. 48 of The Atavist Magazine, asked Braverman about the strange allure of the glacier and the people it attracts.

JOSHUA HAMMER: You embarked on this adventure several years ago, so how long has the idea been gestating and what made you decide to tell the story now? 

BLAIR BRAVERMAN: I started writing about the experience almost immediately. At that point, it was in fictional form, and the events were unrecognizable, but the themes—performance, control, danger—were all present. Since then I’ve come back to the project on and off. I drafted the nonfiction version four years ago. It took time to understand what had happened, to find the language, to shape the essay itself. I also had to figure out how other people on the glacier had understood the experience, which meant gathering the courage to call old co-workers and ask difficult questions. I’m not sure if this was your intention, but it’s hard not to read this question as specific to a narrative that deals with sexual assault. And in that regard, it’s exactly the kind of question I’ve been afraid of, because I question myself all the time: Why didn’t I say something sooner? Why did I choose to go back to Alaska? Sexual violence is incredibly common, and there’s almost every incentive not to share these stories. But silence can begin to feel a lot like shame. I never doubted that I would, at some point, tell this story. And even with that certainty, a strong support system, and a thoughtful editor, I think that publishing this piece has been one of the hardest things I’ve done.

You describe a pretty macho world on the glacier, where the men can treat one another, and especially the women with particular cruelty. What does that say about the physical environments in which you worked, and the kinds of people who are drawn to it? 

First off, a lot of women are drawn to these environments, too. But one thing that was striking for me, in going directly from Norway to the glacier, was how differently those two cultures responded to femininity. In northern Norway, there was space for women to be tough and feminine at the same time, if they wanted too; I remember once watching a woman knock a snarling dog to the ground, hold it down until it relaxed, then stand up and rearrange her shawl. At 18, that was a revelation for me: that being a girl and being tough could coexist without contradicting each other, and that here was a place that celebrated and made space for both of those things. It wasn’t until I went back a few years ago that I realized how much I had molded my adult self after those women in northern Norway. In Alaska—and I know that the glacier camp was a very small and limited experience of Alaska—I sensed that being female was negative, or at least being feminine was. To be taken seriously, I had to erase that part of myself: harden up, buy men’s clothing, wear vests to hide my curves. I tried to make my voice deeper. It was probably subtle from the outside, but a very conscious effort. For me, that was a kind of drag; it was one of the first ways that I came to feel that I was performing.  I know that you asked about men, and my answer was about women. But my point is, the physical environment in northern Norway was in some ways similar to the glacier, but the gendered environment was totally different. And your question is one I’ve often wondered about, especially when I compare those two places. I have a theory that the cruelty on the glacier—and glacier culture changed a lot, summer to summer, but in this case I’m talking about my second summer there—had to do with the fact that many of the staff members weren’t from Alaska. We had to prove ourselves, and the easiest way to prove toughness—what we read, culturally, as toughness—is through masculinity. The easiest way to prove you belong is to pick on someone else who doesn’t. I think the cruelty stemmed from insecurity, and a really isolated place where those insecurities could fester, not to mention the pressures of working in the service industry. Since everyone had to put on a face for the customers, those tensions played out in subtle and insidious ways. 

Do you think that tourism in such a fragile environment is a net negative or a positive? 

In some ways, the glacier we lived on struck me as hardy: it either melted or it didn’t, and I don’t think our camp made it melt faster. The company was careful about cleaning up after itself, and many of the tourists left, by their own declaration, with a renewed commitment to environmental sustainability. But even if the camp was relatively harmless, the helicopters themselves were certainly destructive—the carbon footprint for up to 40 round-trip flights a day must be huge. And obviously burning fossil fuels like that affects way more than just one glacier. If we step back from environmental questions—and I know that’s a big step back—then I think the tourism was a positive thing. We gave people a good and meaningful experience. Tourists talked about how they had looked forward to the trip for years, and how powerful it was to share it with loved ones. We heard the words “bucket list” a lot. Also, the dogs were happy for all the attention, and it was a way to keep them active during the summer months. And thousands of people were introduced to dogsledding. As a musher, I think that’s great.

How did the summers that you spent on the glacier shape the subsequent choices you’ve made in your work life, and your relationships?

Since leaving the glacier, I’ve become very aware of power dynamics in relationships, both romantic and otherwise. I’m not as easily intimidated by confidence or authority. My writing often returns to the environment, gender and justice, but I can’t say that’s because of my time in Alaska; I was interested in those things before I got there, although that experience certainly informed my understanding. And to some degree, my book—which borrows its title from a nickname for the glacier, even though it’s set in Norway—is an attempt to answer some of the questions that the glacier raised for me. I’ve spent three years traveling back and forth to a tiny village in the Norwegian Arctic, helping to open a historical museum and living with the owner of the only shop, who has become like family to me. The process of reporting this book has meant going back to a situation that was once difficult—an isolated, male-dominated northern landscape—but this time on my own terms. And really, really falling in love with it. Read “Welcome to Dog World!”

“The Desert Blues“

In “The Desert Blues,” Issue No. 48 of The Atavist Magazine, Joshua Hammer writes about two friends, Manny Ansar and Iyad Ag Ghali, whose shared love of music helped create the Festival in the Desert, a world-renowned event that celebrates Malian culture. In his deeply reported piece, Hammer tells the story of Ansar and Ghali’s powerful friendship, and how radical Islam tore them apart. Ronen Bergman, author of “Operation Red Falcon,” Issue No. 47 of The Atavist Magazine, asked Hammer about writing this heartbreaking account.

RONEN BERGMAN: How did this story first germinate? 

JOSHUA HAMMER: I’d visited Mali half a dozen times before the conquest of the north by the jihadists and Tuareg militants in 2012. These visits included a two-day stay at the Festival in the Desert in Timbuktu in 2008, where I first heard about Manny Ansar. I went to Mali in January 2013 to report on the French intervention for the New York Review of Books. Shortly after French forces began their military intervention, a noted Malian journalist told me the story of Iyad Ag Ghali. An American friend, a travel agent who had organized my 2008 visit to the Festival, mentioned in passing that Ansar had been a close friend of Ghali’s, and asked me if I’d like to meet him. I responded in the affirmative, and the following day she set up a meeting at my guest house, where Ansar proceeded to tell me about his friendship and falling out with the jihadist commander. Later, when I began researching a book about Al Qaeda in North Africa, I spent more time with Ansar, and learned more about the musical connection—especially their shared involvement with Tinariwen.

Music has been part of liberation movements throughout history. In the case of the Tuareg, did it have the effect of fueling or lessening the violence?

The music of Tinariwen and other Tuareg musicians served as a rallying cry for war in the 1980s and early 1990s. There’s no question that the music—passed around the desert tribes in the form of samizdat cassettes—helped to popularize the cause and convinced many young Tuareg to join the freedom fighters. The fact that the Tuareg dream of independence has never really dimmed can certainly be attributed in part to Tinariwen. But I’d also argue that the music served as an outlet for the frustration of many young Tuareg, by helping to dim their lust for violence and making them appreciate the potential value—culturally, politically, monetarily—of peace.

If you could interview Ghali, what would be the first questions you’d ask him?

I would want to know at what point exactly he decided to embark on a course of violence against the Malian government. After repeatedly assuring his close friend Ansar that his fundamentalism was peaceful, what made him change? I’d also want to know his exact role in the execution-style killings of nearly 100 soldiers at Aguelhok at the beginning of the war, perhaps the biggest atrocity of the entire conflict. And I’d want to know whether he directly ordered the stoning deaths of a young couple for having a child out of wedlock, and whether he now has any regrets.

Do you have an answer to the question that Ansar raises: How was it that Ghali so blatantly broke his promise to his old friend and turned to the brutal ways of extremist Islamism?

I can only surmise that something pushed him over the edge into violence, perhaps his time in Saudi Arabia. I’d want to ask him more about who he met with there, and how his thinking about Islam changed.

Is it difficult for you as a journalist to persuade editors to run stories about Africa? 

Surprisingly not. The Atavist went for it fairly quickly, and the book I’ve written about Mali during the jihadist occupation (The Badass Librarians of Timbuktu: And Their Race to Save the World’s Most Precious Manuscripts) was grabbed by Simon & Schuster a few weeks after my agent circulated a proposal. Admittedly it’s an arcane subject and a very foreign place, but I think the themes of music, the preservation of culture in the face of religious extremism and the making and breaking of a friendship, are universal and transcend geographical boundaries.

When I write about events in the Middle East, I’m always thinking of the right proportion of names, dates, places, and historical events, with which I can burden readers. I wonder if and how you wrestled with this problem.

I’ve got a tendency to overload a manuscript with foreign names and places—it’s a problem that bogged down my 2003 book for S&S about the Al Aqsa intifada. (The one criticism I heard over and over from readers was that they got lost in the morass of unfamiliar Arabic names.) Since that experience, I’ve tried to be very careful about minimizing the number of foreign names and places. As someone who has been a foreign correspondent for two-and-a-half decades I tend to lose perspective and I rely on my editors to help me.

You tried to end your story on a positive note, but isn’t it true that ultimately it’s a deeply pessimistic story about a continent everybody prefers to forget?

I’ve been observing Africa for 25 years and I’ve seen examples of both horror and hope. It’s impossible to generalize. The continent has a number of stable democracies and booming economies. A middle class is emerging across Africa and modern technology—smart phones, cellular networks—has definitely touched and transformed the landscape, so there’s reason for optimism. At the same time, it’s undoubtedly true that jihadism has had a malign and growing influence, and that’s a cause for great concern.  Read “The Desert Blues.”