List of top Questions asked in CAT

I reported on the Iraq invasion as a “unilateral” journalist, which meant I rented an SUV from Hertz in Kuwait and sneaked across the border with the first US tanks. I wound up in Baghdad on April 9, 2003, and watched the Marines tear down the iconic statue of Saddam Hussein at Firdos Square. I returned to Iraq on several occasions to work on lengthy stories about the dismal turn of events as the occupation turned into a war of Americans against Iraqis, and Iraqis against Iraqis. The carnage, though heartbreaking, was almost the least shocking experience of my journeys between war in the Mideast and my home in New York City.
While Americans killed and got killed in Iraq, Americans back home shopped at Walmart and watched reality television. I had covered a lot of wars and thought I had grown accustomed to peaceful countries being unconcerned by other people’s quarrels. My unsentimental education had begun in the 1990s in Bosnia where I often had a Matrix-like experience. In the morning, I would wake up in Sarajevo or another cursed town that was blasted by bombs, frozen by winter and deprived of food. I would then begin my effort to get the hell out of hell. I would hope for a seat on what was known as Maybe Airlines. These were the UN relief flights that brought food into besieged Sarajevo. Maybe the shelling would be light enough for flights to land and take off, maybe not. If the flights were grounded, I could try to escape by driving along Sniper Alley and through a creepy no man’s land that constituted the only border that mattered in a nation cut and quartered by war. Distances are small in Europe. By the afternoon, I could be in Vienna or Budapest or London, enjoying the comfortable life that Europe offered many of its citizens: hot showers, good food, clean sheets, the certainty that I would not be killed by a mortar as I slept. I had a hard time believing these altered states existed in such close proximity. The contented Europeans eating apple strudel or shopping at Harrods on those 1990s afternoons– didn’t they realize war was being fought in their backyard? The answer was that they knew and didn’t care. Proximity isn’t destiny. Bosnia though close, wasn’t their home. Other people were killing and dying, not their people.
I had understood only half of it and learned the other half a decade later, on my return to America after sojourns in Iraq. Outside the tight-knit community of military families who cared deeply about the wars, nearly everyone in America went about his or her life as though Iraq and Afghanistan didn’t matter much. Nor had Americans been asked to change their way of life. It had become possible, I realized, for a nation to be at war without suffering the inconveniences associated with war– including the inconvenience of thinking about it.
World War II was a classic war in the sense of rationing, of drives for war bonds, of a draft the elite could not avoid with college deferments and of a ceaseless drumbeat in almost every sector of society that a great conflict was being fought that required great sacrifices of everyone. Even for families spared the loss of a loved one overseas, World War II was a visible– intentionally visible– aspect of life in the homeland; the nation’s leaders made it so. Life as it was before the war had to be suspended

In the 1980s there was a proliferation of poetry collections, short stories, and novels published by women of Latin American descent in the United States. By the end of the decade, another genre of U.S. Latina writing, the autobiography, also came into prominence with the publication of three notable autobiographical collections: Loving in the War Years: Lo Que Nunca Pasó Por Sus Labios, by Cherríe Moraga; Getting Home Alive, by Aurora Levins Morales and Rosario Morales; and Borderlands/ La Frontera, by Gloria Anzaldúa.
These collections are innovative at many levels. They confront traditional linguistic boundaries by using a mix of English and Spanish, and they each address the politics of multiple cultural identities by exploring the interrelationships among such factors as ethnicity, gender, and language. This effort manifests itself in the generically mixed structure of these works, which combine essays, sketches, short stories, poems, and journal entries without, for the most part, giving preference to any of these modes of presentation.br> In Borderlands/La Frontera, Anzaldúa presents her personal history and the history of the Mexican American community to which she belongs by juxtaposing narrative sequences and poetry. Moraga’s Loving in the War Years is likewise characterized by a mixture of genres, and, as she states in her introduction, the events in her life story are not arranged chronologically, but rather in terms of her political development. According to one literary critic who specializes in the genre of autobiography, this departure from chronological ordering represents an important difference between autobiographies written by women and those traditionally written by men. Getting Home Alive departs even further from the conventions typical of autobiography by bringing together the voices of two people, a mother and her daughter, each of whom authors a portion of the text. The narratives and poems of each author are not assigned to separate sections of the text, but rather are woven together, with a piece by one sometimes commenting on a piece by the other. While this ordering may seem fragmentary and confusing, it is in fact a fully intentional and carefully designed experiment with literary structure. In a sense, this mixing of structures parallels the content of these autobiographies: the writers employ multigeneric and multivocal forms to express the complexities inherent in the formation of their identities.

In the first scene of “Hitchcock Loves Bikinis”, a young mum is playing happily with her baby. Next comes a close-up shot of Alfred Hitchcock, the late movie director, smiling. Clearly, he is a man whose heart is warmed by this sweet glimpse of maternal love. In the next scene, we see a bikini-clad woman sunbathing followed by exactly the same shot of Hitchcock smiling. Instead of a benign grandfatherly figure, this time we see a lecherous old man. The moral of the story is simple: context is everything.
Mr. Kagan’s effort, “Psychology’s Ghosts,” consists of his assessment of four problems in psychological theory and clinical practice. The first problem is laid out in the chapter “Missing Contexts”: the fact that many researchers fail to consider that their measurements of brains, behaviour and self-reported experience are profoundly influenced by their subjects’ culture, time and experience, as well as by the situation in which the research is conducted. In his second essay, “Happiness Ascendant”, Mr. Kagan virtually demolishes the popular academic effort to measure “subjective well-being”, let alone to measure and compare the level of happiness of entire nations. No psychologist, he observes, would accept as reliable your own answer to the question: “How good is your memory?” Whether your answer is “great” or “terrible”, you have no way of knowing whether your memory of good or bad memories is accurate. But psychologists, Mr. Kagan argues, are willing to accept people’s answers to how happy they are as if “it is an accurate measure of a psychological state whose definition remains fuzzy.”
In the third and fourth essays, “Who Is Mentally Ill?” and “Helping the Mentally Ill”, Mr. Kagan turns to the intransigent problems of psychiatric diagnosis and treatment. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) “regards every intense bout of sadness or worry, no matter what their origin, as a possible sign of mental disorder.” Mr. Kagan laments. But “most of these illness categories are analogous to complaints of headaches or cramps. Physicians can decide on the best treatment for a headache only after they have determined its cause. The symptom alone is an insufficient guide.”
Nonetheless, the DSM is primarily a collection of symptoms, overlooking the context in which a symptom such as anxiety or low sexual desire occurs and what it means to an individual. It might mean nothing at all. What it means to an American might mean nothing to a Japanese. The same one-size-fits-all approach plagues treatment: “Most drugs can be likened to a blow on the head,” Mr. Kagan observes, they are blunt instruments, not precisely-tailored remedies. Psychotherapy depends largely on the clients’ belief that it will be helpful, which is why all therapies help some people and some people are not helped by any. No experience affects everyone equally — including natural disasters, abuse, having a cruel parent, losing a job or having an illicit affair — though many therapists wish us to believe the opposite