PAKET UMROH BULAN FEBRUARI MARET APRIL MEI 2018




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saco-indonesia.com, Keberanian anggota Kelompok Sadar Kamtibmas (KSK) Lintas Tomang ini patut diacungi jempol.

Dede Iskandar yang berusia 24 tahun , telah berhasil menggagalkan aksi pencurian sepeda motor setelah membuat pencuri terjengkang dari motor curiannya lewat tendangannya.

Peristiwa yang telah terjadi di Jalan Rawa Kepa Ujung, Jakarta Barat, Selasa (27/1) sekitar pukul 17:00 juga sempat membuat gempar masyarakat setempat. Namun sayang ketika pelaku akan diringkus, penjahat tersebut juga langsung mencabut senjata api dari pinggangnya.

Karuan saja telah membuat Dede yang sehari-hari dipanggil Gudel ini telah memilih untuk kabur dengan sepeda motornya.

“Saya ditodong senjata api ketika saya mau menangkapnya. Daripada saya ditembak saya langsung kabur saja,” ujar Gudel yang kabur sambil berteriak rampok.

Pelaku yang menurut Gudel berperawakan sedang ini juga kabur menumpang motor Yamaha Mio warna putih rekannya yang mengiringinya dalam aksi kejahatan. Sementara motor Satria FU 150 F 4383 PI yang sempat dicuri pelaku ditinggalkan di jalan dengan kunci leter T yang masih menancap di stop kontak.

Aksi penggagalan pencurian sepeda motor ini menurut pentolan KSK Lintas Tomang H. Nanang Kurniawan ini bermula dari pantulan jajaran KSK.lewat HT (Handy Talky). Dikabarkan sepeda motor Satria FU F 4383 PI milik Agus telah hilang di Jalan Gelong Baru Timur. Agus saat itu tengah memfoto copy di sebuah warung.

Pantulan ini telah didengar Dede yang berada di Jalan Rawa Kepa Utama. “Saya lihat ada sepeda motor Satria FU seperti yang dipantulkan lewat. Saya juga minta ulang lagi nomor polisinya agar tak salah,” ujar pemilik call sign Ende 1 ini.

Setelah mendapat jawaban bahwa memang motor yang sedang dicurigainya itu benar motor curian Dede langsung memepetnya lalu menendangnya di Jalan Rawa Kepa Ujung. Hal ini telah membuat pelaku terjengkang dari motor curiannya.

Pelaku yang terjatuh langsung mencabut senjata api dan ditodongkan ke Dede.

“Saya kira pelakunya sendiri. Tak taunya ada temannya yang ikut mengiringinya,” ujarnya.

Sepeda motor yang gagal dicuri ini langsung diamankan ke Pos RW O13 dan selanjutnya dibawa oleh. petugas Polsek Tanjung Duren yang telah mengusut kejadian ini


Editor : Dian Sukmawati

ANGGOTA KSK GAGALKAN CURANMOR

Saco-Indonesia.com - Tidak usah takut orang-orang KPK asalkan bkerja tulus iklas karena Alloh untuk memakmurkan bangsa ini sehebat apapun dukun yang akan menyerang orang-orang KPK tidak akan mampu melawan kekuatan Alloh. karena orang-orang Koruptor itu jumlahnya kalah banya dengan orang-orang disakiti oleh Koruptor itu sendiri, jadi dengan banyaknya doa dari orang-orang tersakiti oleh koruptor maka santet apapun tidak akan berhasil untuk memerangi orang-orang KPK, terus berjuang tegakan hukum sesuai Quran dan Hadist. Percaya tidak percaya klenik juga berhubungan dengan Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi ( KPK ). Sejumlah paranormal menyebut ada upaya dari pihak sakit hati menyerang pimpinan lembaga antirasuah secara gaib.

Kabar itu makin santer ketika KPK mengusut dugaan korupsi yang menjerat dinasti Gubernur Banten Ratu Atut Chosiyah . Tanpa diminta beberapa paranormal datang untuk memberikan pengamanan.

Tokoh Banten Ahmad Subadri sempat bertemu dengan Ketua KPK Abraham Samad dan Wakil Adnan Pandu Praja agar tidak terpengaruh dengan serangan gaib. Sudah menjadi rahasia umum, Banten memang diidentikkan dengan hal-hal gaib yang demikian.

"KPK mengatakan tidak khawatir. Pak Abraham, Pandu mengatakan mereka siap lahir batin untuk memberantas korupsi di Banten," ujarnya.

Berikut cerita klenik di lembaga antikorupsi:

1. Ada serangan gaib, bola api & awan hitam masuk ke KPK

Serangan balik terhadap Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi (KPK) ternyata dilakukan juga secara gaib. Paranormal Permadi mengaku dapat melihat KPK 'dikerjai' oleh para koruptor yang memakai jasa dukun.


"KPK kalau malam ada bola api masuk, ada awan hitam masuk," kata Permadi di Gedung KPK Jalan HR Rasuna Said, Kuningan, Jakarta Selatan, Selasa (17/12).

Politikus Gerindra itu berpesan agar nyali lembaga anti korupsi tak ciut menghadapi serangan seperti itu. Pria yang dikenal gemar berpakaian hitam-hitam tersebut mengaku sudah membentengi KPK.

"Saya akan bantu KPK dengan Eyang Subur, enggak perlu takut. Saya sudah membersihkan KPK," kata mantan anggota DPR itu.

2. Santet diarahkan ke ketua dan wakil KPK

Paranormal Ki Sabdo Jagad Royo mendatangi Gedung KPK. Ki Sabdo mengaku datang ke KPK untuk memberitahu ada ancaman serius bagi para pimpinan KPK. Apa ancaman yang dimaksud Ki Sabdo?


"Ya banyak pokoknya. Dan itu dilakukan dengan cara-cara gaib yang tidak terlihat," imbuh paranormal asal Surabaya itu.

Saat ditanya siapa yang mengirimkan santet kepada pimpinan KPK tersebut, Ki Sabdo enggan menyebutkan secara detail. Menurutnya pihak-pihak yang saat ini ini sedang diendus korupsinya tidak senang dan akan menyantet para pimpinan KPK.

"Saya ingatkan kepada Ketua KPK dan wakilnya ada ancaman serius. Bahkan mengarah ke nyawa anda," ujar Ki Sabdo.

3. Ditemukan kantong plastik hitam isi kulit kayu

Gundukan tanah tidak wajar ditemukan di halaman KPK oleh petugas keamanan. Setelah digali ditemukan benda berupa bungkusan kantong plastik hitam berisikan kulit kayu berbau wangi kembang.


Selain itu ditemukan juga bungkus balsem dalam plastik putih. Benda-benda itu diduga sengaja dikirim oleh pihak bermasalah secara gaib dengan keperluan jahat seperti santet.

"Awalnya penjaga melihat ada gundukan tanah yang tidak wajar di halaman KPK, ketika digali kami menemukan benda tersebut," terang Juru Bicara KPK Johan Budi.

4. Anak buah hakim mau santet KPK

Hakim Agung Andi Abu Ayub Saleh mengungkapkan anak buahnya berencana mengirim teluh alias santet ke Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi (KPK). Menurut dia, anak buahnya, Suprapto, ingin melakukan itu karena takut ditangkap.


"Dia (Suprapto) bilang mau santet Mario, Djodi, KPK. Saya bilang, 'Mana bisa kau santet KPK'. KPK itu gedung," kata Andi.

Hal itu disampaikan Mario saat bersaksi dalam persidangan terdakwa kasus dugaan suap pengurusan kasasi perkara Hutomo Wijaya Ongowarsito di Mahkamah Agung dengan terdakwa Mario Cornelio Bernardo.

5. Serpihan garam di halaman KPK

Suatu hari para penjaga di Gedung KPK dikejutkan dengan berserakannya garam di halaman. Juru Bicara KPK Johan budi mengatakan hal tersebut memang sudah berulang kali terjadi.

"Ini bukan pertama kali kami menemukan benda-benda aneh di area gedung KPK," kata Johan.

 

Editor : Liwon Maulana

Sumber : Merdeka.com

Jangan Takut Dengan Beberapa Cerita klenik yang beredar di KPK

Orang-orang ini dikenal karena memiliki kebiasaan aneh ataupun kejadian unik yang dialaminya. Mulai dari orang yang tidak pernah tidur selama 30 tahun lebih! Ada pula pria yang punya kebiasaan aneh, yakni memakan benda-benda yang secara normal tak bisa dicerna tubuh manusia. Misalnya, sepeda, televisi, hingga pesawat Cessna 150. Astaga!

Berikut 6 pria paling aneh di muka bumi seperti dirangkum dari dari berbagai sumber:

1. Thai Ngoc, tidak tidur 30 tahun lebih

Pria Vietnam ini tak bisa tidur sejak menderita demam pada tahun 1973. Menurut media Vietnam, Thanh Nien, dia mengklaim tak pernah tidur selama 33 tahun. Selama itu, Thai Ngoc atau Hai Ngoc yang dilahirkan tahun 1942 ini menggunakan 'waktu luangnya' di malam hari untuk mengurusi lahan pertaniannya atau ronda menjaga lahannya dari pencuri. Ngoc memiliki lahan pertanian seluas 5 hektar yang terletak di wilayah kaki gunung di Que Trung, distrik Que Son, Thailand. Sehari-hari Ngoc sibuk bertani dan mengurusi hewan-hewan ternaknya, seperti ayam dan babi.

Anehnya, kesehatan Ngoc tidak terpengaruh dengan kebiasaan tidak bisa tidur tersebut. Sang istri pernah membawa Ngoc untuk memeriksakan kesehatannya dan dokter menyatakan, secara keseluruhan kondisi Ngoc sehat. Kecuali, ada sedikit masalah pada fungsi hatinya, namun tidak serius.

"Saya tidak tahu apakah insomnia yang saya alami mempengaruhi kesehatan saya atau tidak. Tapi saya merasa tetap sehat dan bisa bertani seperti yang lainnya," ucap Ngoc. Pria itu bahkan mengaku setiap harinya masih mampu membawa 50 kg karung pupuk sembari berjalan turun gunung sejauh 4 km.

2. Michel Lotito, pria pemakan segala

Michel Lotito yang lahir pada 15 Juni 1950 adalah seorang entertainer. Di Prancis, dia dikenal sebagai Monsieur Mangetout (Mister Eat-it-all) alias 'Pria Pemakan Segala'. Dalam atraksinya, Lotito gemar memakan benda-benda yang secara normal tak bisa dicerna tubuh manusia, seperti logam, kaca, karet. Bahkan juga benda-benda lain seperti sepeda, televisi, hingga pesawat Cessna 150. Benda-benda tersebut terlebih dahulu dibongkar dan dipotong-potong menjadi bagian yang lebih kecil, baru kemudian dimakannya. Lotito diketahui pernah memakan badan pesawat selama 2 tahun, dari 1978-1980

. Kebiasaan makan benda-benda tak lazim ini dilakukan Lotito sejak kecil dan mulai dipamerkan ke publik pada tahun 1966 silam. Meskipun kerap memakan benda-benda aneh, kondisi tubuh dan kesehatan Lotito seolah tak terpengaruh. Dia sama sekali tidak mengalami sakit apapun meskipun telah memakan benda-benda yang mengandung racun.

Ketika memakan berkilo-kilo logam atau benda aneh lainnya, Lotito dibantu dengan minyak mineral atau air dalam jumlah banyak untuk membantu pencernaannya. Menurut pemeriksaan medis, Lotito dinyatakan memiliki perut dan usus dengan ketebalan dua kali lipat dari ukuran normal. Selain itu, asam pencernaan yang ada di dalam lambungnya diperkirakan memiliki kekuatan luar biasa sehingga mampu mencerna benda-benda logam yang dia makan. Luar biasa!

3. Matayoshi Mitsuo, mengaku sebagai Yesus Kristus Politikus eksentrik Jepang ini mengaku dirinya adalah Yesus Kristus. Menurut visi Matayoshi, pria ini mengklaim akan melakukan penghakiman terakhir sebagai Kristus namun dengan cara yang benar-benar sesuai dengan sistem politik saat ini.

Matayoshi menuturkan, langkah pertama yang harus dijalaninya sebagai Juruselamat adalah dengan terpilih menjadi Perdana Menteri Jepang. Kemudian dia akan mereformasi masyarakat Jepang. Tidak hanya itu, Matayoshi juga meminta PBB untuk memberikannya posisi terhormat sebagai Sekretaris Jenderal PBB. Dengan demikian, Matayoshi akan bisa memerintah seluruh dunia dengan dua jabatan legal tersebut, tidak hanya secara agama tapi juga secara politik.

Matayoshi telah berulang kali ikut serta dalam pemilihan umum di Jepang, namun tidak pernah berhasil menang. Dia dikenal karena kampanyenya yang eksentrik -dia pernah menyerukan para rival politiknya untuk bunuh diri dengan melakukan harakiri.

4. Shoichi Yokoi, 28 tahun sembunyi di gua usai PD II

Yokoi tadinya seorang tentara yang tergabung dalam wajib militer di Tentara Kerajaan Jepang pada tahun 1941 silam dan tak lama kemudian dikirim ke Guam. Pada tahun 1944, ketika pasukan Amerika Serikat menduduki Guam, Yokoi memilih bersembunyi.

Hingga akhirnya pada 24 Januari 1972, Yokoi ditemukan di sebuah daerah terpencil di Guam oleh dua warga pulau tersebut. Selama 28 tahun, pria itu hidup bersembunyi di dalam gua bawah tanah di tengah hutan. Yokoi terlalu takut untuk keluar, bahkan setelah dia menemukan selebaran yang isinya menyebutkan bahwa Perang Dunia II telah berakhir.

Yokoi akhirnya dipulangkan ke Jepang sembari membawa senapannya yang telah berkarat.

5. Sanju Bhagat, 'mengandung' saudara kembarnya di dalam perut

Pria asal India ini memiliki kondisi perut yang tidak wajar, yakni membengkak seperti sedang hamil 9 bulan. Bhagat yang tinggal di Nagpur, India ini sering merasa sesak nafas karena kondisinya itu.

Sampai akhirnya pada suatu malam di bulan Juni 1999, Bhagat menjalani operasi di rumah sakit. Isi perut Bhagat yang awalnya diduga tumor ganas, ternyata merupakan sesuatu yang tak diduga sama sekali. Saat dioperasi, dokter menemukan sejumlah bagian tubuh manusia di bagian dalam perut Bhagat. Bagian-bagian tubuh tersebut ternyata milik saudara kembar Bhagat yang terjebak di dalam perutnya sejak lahir.

Dokter menyatakan, Bhagat mengalami kondisi medis teraneh di dunia, yakni janin di dalam janin lainnya. Sangat jarang terjadi bahwa sebuah janin bisa terjebak di dalam janin kembarannya sendiri. Menariknya, janin yang terjebak ini mampu bertahan hidup sebagai parasit dan menyerap darah dan makanan dari tubuh Bhagat, hingga dia bertambah besar dan mulai menyakiti tubuh Bhagat.

6. Mehran Karimi Nasseri, hidup di bandara sejak 1988

Pria yang juga dikenal sebagai Sir, Alfred Mehran ini merupakan seorang pengungsi asal Iran yang tinggal di Bandara Charles de Gaulle, Prancis sejak Agustus 8 Agustus 1988. Mehran tinggal di ruang tunggu keberangkatan di Terminal Satu bandara internasional di Paris itu selama bertahun-tahun karena tak memiliki dokumen.

Kisah Mehran ini dimulai ketika dia dipenjara dan dianiaya di Iran, kemudian dibuang keluar negeri. Mehran lalu berusaha mendapatkan suaka ke sejumlah negara di Eropa, tapi usahanya tidak membuahkan hasil.

Saat mencoba pergi ke Inggris, Mehran mengklaim bahwa dirinya dirampok dan tasnya dicuri orang saat akan berangkat menuju Bandara Charles de Gaulle untuk terbang ke Inggris. Dia pun berhasil naik ke pesawat dan terbang ke Inggris. Tapi setibanya di Bandara Heathrow di London, Inggris, Mehran yang tidak membawa dokumen-dokumen yang diperlukan, diterbangkan kembali ke Bandara Charles de Gaulle.

Kepada otoritas Prancis, Mehran tak bisa menunjukkan identitas maupun dokumen-dokumen yang membuktikan dirinya sebagai seorang pengungsi. Dia pun dipindahkan ke zona tunggu, sebuah tempat 'penahanan' bagi pelancong tanpa dokumen.

Kisah Mehran ini konon menjadi inspirasi bagi film 'The Terminal' keluaran tahun 2004, yang dibintangi oleh aktor Hollywood, Tom Hanks. Namun tidak seperti karakter yang diperankan Hanks dalam film tersebut yang tinggal di area transit bandara, Mehran justru tinggal di area keberangkatan, juga di dekat butik-butik dan restoran yang berada di lantai dasar.

Selama tinggal di bandara, Mehran terlihat jarang berkomunikasi dengan orang lain. Dengan membawa-bawa kereta dorong dan tasnya, Mehran tampak seperti pelancong biasa, tanpa ada yang menyadari bahwa dia sebenarnya adalah gelandangan.

Pria Aneh Di Dunia

Saco-Indonesia.com - Direktorat Jenderal Pajak Kementerian Keuangan memanfaatkan Wakil Gubernur Banten Rano "Doel" Karno untuk meningkatkan kepatuhan warga di wilayah yang terkenal dengan debus itu. Dari 4,6 juta warga Banten yang bekerja, baru 73 ribu yang tercatat menjadi wajib pajak, hanya meningkat 0,15 persen dari tahun sebelumnya.

"Jumlah wajib pajak Banten belum mencerminkan, artinya masih perlu digali," ujar Kepala Kanwil Ditjen Pajak Banten Muhammad Hanif saat memberikan sambutan pada e-filling SPT Tahunan PPh orang pribadi tahun pajak 2013, Banten, Selasa (18/3).

Dia berharap langkah Rano Karno dalam menyampaikan SPT 2013 bisa diikuti oleh warga Banten lainnya. terlebih lagi, penyampaian SPT secara online atau e-Filling membuat wajib pajak tidak perlu repot-repot mendatangi kantor pajak.

"Pejabat menjadi contoh panutan yang baik bagi masyarakat Serang dan Banten khususnya, agar tergugah untuk membayar pajak," jelasnya.

Hanif menguraikan realisasi penerimaan pajak di Banten tahun lalu sebesar Rp 21,2 Triliun atau melebihi target Rp 21,1 triliun. Dari 1,29 juta wajib pajak, baru 573.273 wajib pajak yang menyampaikan SPT tahunan 2013.

"Kalau nasional menargetkan harus 70 persen, di Banten masih 56,7 persen WP Orang Pribadi yang menyampaikan SPT. Ini masih rendah," ungkapnya.

Hanif mengaku jumlah wajib pajak yang sudah menggunakan e-Filling sebesar 113.759 orang. Sedangkan pendaftar e-filling sebanyak 44.000 wajib pajak.

"Ditargetkan 44.000, kita sudah mencapai 19,5 ribu, insya allah sampai akhir maret tercapai," tegasnya.

Editor : Maulana Lee

Sumber : merdeka.com

'Si Doel Anak Sekolahan' Dimanpaatkan Dirjen Pajak Tarik pajak

saco-indonesia.com, Peluang Arsenal untuk dapat menjadi juara Premier League telah kembali diragukan usai kali terakhir mereka dijungkalkan oleh Manchester City dengan skor 6-3 di Etihad Stadium. Arsene Wenger selaku pelatih utama tim rupanya maklum akan hal tersebut.

Sang pelatih telah menyebut itu sebagai hal yang biasa dan timnya harus belajar untuk bisa menghadapi keraguan semacam itu.

"Saat ini semua orang juga masih meragukan kami. Kami juga sudah lama tidak memenangkannya (gelar Premier League) untuk waktu yang lama, itulah mengapa banyak yang meremehkan kami," jelas Wenger pada halaman resmi klub.

"Hal tersebut telah membuat anda tertekan namun anda tidak bisa bermain di Premier League tanpa mengalami tekanan. Ada satu masa di mana tekanan menjadi lebih besar dan masa lain ketika tekanan sedikit mengendur. Anda juga harus hidup dengan itu dan melawan tekanan yang ada," tutup Wenger.

Dini hari nanti Arsenal juga akan menghadapi Chelsea di Emirates Stadium. Kemenangan akan jadi wajib untuk tuan rumah andai mereka ingin kembali merebut puncak klasemen dari Liverpool.


Editor : Dian Sukmawati

ARSENAL DIREMEHKAN

Since a white police officer, Darren Wilson fatally shot unarmed black teenager, Michael Brown, in a confrontation last August in Ferguson, Mo., there have been many other cases in which the police have shot and killed suspects, some of them unarmed. Mr. Brown's death set off protests throughout the country, pushing law enforcement into the spotlight and sparking a public debate on police tactics. Here is a selection of police shootings that have been reported by news organizations since Mr. Brown's death. In some cases, investigations are continuing.

Photo
 
 
The apartment complex northeast of Atlanta where Anthony Hill, 27, was fatally shot by a DeKalb County police officer. Credit Ben Gray/Atlanta Journal Constitution

Chamblee, Ga.
Fatal Police Shootings: Accounts Since Ferguson

Hockey is not exactly known as a city game, but played on roller skates, it once held sway as the sport of choice in many New York neighborhoods.

“City kids had no rinks, no ice, but they would do anything to play hockey,” said Edward Moffett, former director of the Long Island City Y.M.C.A. Roller Hockey League, in Queens, whose games were played in city playgrounds going back to the 1940s.

From the 1960s through the 1980s, the league had more than 60 teams, he said. Players included the Mullen brothers of Hell’s Kitchen and Dan Dorion of Astoria, Queens, who would later play on ice for the National Hockey League.

One street legend from the heyday of New York roller hockey was Craig Allen, who lived in the Woodside Houses projects and became one of the city’s hardest hitters and top scorers.

“Craig was a warrior, one of the best roller hockey players in the city in the ’70s,” said Dave Garmendia, 60, a retired New York police officer who grew up playing with Mr. Allen. “His teammates loved him and his opponents feared him.”

Young Craig took up hockey on the streets of Queens in the 1960s, playing pickup games between sewer covers, wearing steel-wheeled skates clamped onto school shoes and using a roll of electrical tape as the puck.

His skill and ferocity drew attention, Mr. Garmendia said, but so did his skin color. He was black, in a sport made up almost entirely by white players.

“Roller hockey was a white kid’s game, plain and simple, but Craig broke the color barrier,” Mr. Garmendia said. “We used to say Craig did more for race relations than the N.A.A.C.P.”

Mr. Allen went on to coach and referee roller hockey in New York before moving several years ago to South Carolina. But he continued to organize an annual alumni game at Dutch Kills Playground in Long Island City, the same site that held the local championship games.

The reunion this year was on Saturday, but Mr. Allen never made it. On April 26, just before boarding the bus to New York, he died of an asthma attack at age 61.

Word of his death spread rapidly among hundreds of his old hockey colleagues who resolved to continue with the event, now renamed the Craig Allen Memorial Roller Hockey Reunion.

The turnout on Saturday was the largest ever, with players pulling on their old equipment, choosing sides and taking once again to the rink of cracked blacktop with faded lines and circles. They wore no helmets, although one player wore a fedora.

Another, Vinnie Juliano, 77, of Long Island City, wore his hearing aids, along with his 50-year-old taped-up quads, or four-wheeled skates with a leather boot. Many players here never converted to in-line skates, and neither did Mr. Allen, whose photograph appeared on a poster hanging behind the players’ bench.

“I’m seeing people walking by wondering why all these rusty, grizzly old guys are here playing hockey,” one player, Tommy Dominguez, said. “We’re here for Craig, and let me tell you, these old guys still play hard.”

Everyone seemed to have a Craig Allen story, from his earliest teams at Public School 151 to the Bryant Rangers, the Woodside Wings, the Woodside Blues and more.

Mr. Allen, who became a yellow-cab driver, was always recruiting new talent. He gained the nickname Cabby for his habit of stopping at playgrounds all over the city to scout players.

Teams were organized around neighborhoods and churches, and often sponsored by local bars. Mr. Allen, for one, played for bars, including Garry Owen’s and on the Fiddler’s Green Jokers team in Inwood, Manhattan.

Play was tough and fights were frequent.

“We were basically street gangs on skates,” said Steve Rogg, 56, a mail clerk who grew up in Jackson Heights, Queens, and who on Saturday wore his Riedell Classic quads from 1972. “If another team caught up with you the night before a game, they tossed you a beating so you couldn’t play the next day.”

Mr. Garmendia said Mr. Allen’s skin color provoked many fights.

“When we’d go to some ignorant neighborhoods, a lot of players would use slurs,” Mr. Garmendia said, recalling a game in Ozone Park, Queens, where local fans parked motorcycles in a lineup next to the blacktop and taunted Mr. Allen. Mr. Garmendia said he checked a player into the motorcycles, “and the bikes went down like dominoes, which started a serious brawl.”

A group of fans at a game in Brooklyn once stuck a pole through the rink fence as Mr. Allen skated by and broke his jaw, Mr. Garmendia said, adding that carloads of reinforcements soon arrived to defend Mr. Allen.

And at another racially incited brawl, the police responded with six patrol cars and a helicopter.

Before play began on Saturday, the players gathered at center rink to honor Mr. Allen. Billy Barnwell, 59, of Woodside, recalled once how an all-white, all-star squad snubbed Mr. Allen by playing him third string. He scored seven goals in the first game and made first string immediately.

“He’d always hear racial stuff before the game, and I’d ask him, ‘How do you put up with that?’” Mr. Barnwell recalled. “Craig would say, ‘We’ll take care of it,’ and by the end of the game, he’d win guys over. They’d say, ‘This guy’s good.’”

Tribute for a Roller Hockey Warrior

Late in April, after Native American actors walked off in disgust from the set of Adam Sandler’s latest film, a western sendup that its distributor, Netflix, has defended as being equally offensive to all, a glow of pride spread through several Native American communities.

Tantoo Cardinal, a Canadian indigenous actress who played Black Shawl in “Dances With Wolves,” recalled thinking to herself, “It’s come.” Larry Sellers, who starred as Cloud Dancing in the 1990s television show “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman,” thought, “It’s about time.” Jesse Wente, who is Ojibwe and directs film programming at the TIFF Bell Lightbox in Toronto, found himself encouraged and surprised. There are so few film roles for indigenous actors, he said, that walking off the set of a major production showed real mettle.

But what didn’t surprise Mr. Wente was the content of the script. According to the actors who walked off the set, the film, titled “The Ridiculous Six,” included a Native American woman who passes out and is revived after white men douse her with alcohol, and another woman squatting to urinate while lighting a peace pipe. “There’s enough history at this point to have set some expectations around these sort of Hollywood depictions,” Mr. Wente said.

The walkout prompted a rhetorical “What do you expect from an Adam Sandler film?,” and a Netflix spokesman said that in the movie, blacks, Mexicans and whites were lampooned as well. But Native American actors and critics said a broader issue was at stake. While mainstream portrayals of native peoples have, Mr. Wente said, become “incrementally better” over the decades, he and others say, they remain far from accurate and reflect a lack of opportunities for Native American performers. What’s more, as Native Americans hunger for representation on screen, critics say the absence of three-dimensional portrayals has very real off-screen consequences.

“Our people are still healing from historical trauma,” said Loren Anthony, one of the actors who walked out. “Our youth are still trying to figure out who they are, where they fit in this society. Kids are killing themselves. They’re not proud of who they are.” They also don’t, he added, see themselves on prime time television or the big screen. Netflix noted while about five people walked off the “The Ridiculous Six” set, 100 or so Native American actors and extras stayed.

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But in interviews, nearly a dozen Native American actors and film industry experts said that Mr. Sandler’s humor perpetuated decades-old negative stereotypes. Mr. Anthony said such depictions helped feed the despondency many Native Americans feel, with deadly results: Native Americans have the highest suicide rate out of all the country’s ethnicities.

The on-screen problem is twofold, Mr. Anthony and others said: There’s a paucity of roles for Native Americans — according to the Screen Actors Guild in 2008 they accounted for 0.3 percent of all on-screen parts (those figures have yet to be updated), compared to about 2 percent of the general population — and Native American actors are often perceived in a narrow way.

In his Peabody Award-winning documentary “Reel Injun,” the Cree filmmaker Neil Diamond explored Hollywood depictions of Native Americans over the years, and found they fell into a few stereotypical categories: the Noble Savage, the Drunk Indian, the Mystic, the Indian Princess, the backward tribal people futilely fighting John Wayne and manifest destiny. While the 1990 film “Dances With Wolves” won praise for depicting Native Americans as fully fleshed out human beings, not all indigenous people embraced it. It was still told, critics said, from the colonialists’ point of view. In an interview, John Trudell, a Santee Sioux writer, actor (“Thunderheart”) and the former chairman of the American Indian Movement, described the film as “a story of two white people.”

“God bless ‘Dances with Wolves,’ ” Michael Horse, who played Deputy Hawk in “Twin Peaks,” said sarcastically. “Even ‘Avatar.’ Someone’s got to come save the tribal people.”

Dan Spilo, a partner at Industry Entertainment who represents Adam Beach, one of today’s most prominent Native American actors, said while typecasting dogs many minorities, it is especially intractable when it comes to Native Americans. Casting directors, he said, rarely cast them as police officers, doctors or lawyers. “There’s the belief that the Native American character should be on reservations or riding a horse,” he said.

“We don’t see ourselves,” Mr. Horse said. “We’re still an antiquated culture to them, and to the rest of the world.”

Ms. Cardinal said she was once turned down for the role of the wife of a child-abusing cop because the filmmakers felt that casting her would somehow be “too political.”

Another sore point is the long run of white actors playing American Indians, among them Burt Lancaster, Rock Hudson, Audrey Hepburn and, more recently, Johnny Depp, whose depiction of Tonto in the 2013 film “Lone Ranger,” was viewed as racist by detractors. There are, of course, exceptions. The former A&E series “Longmire,” which, as it happens, will now be on Netflix, was roundly praised for its depiction of life on a Northern Cheyenne reservation, with Lou Diamond Phillips, who is of Cherokee descent, playing a Northern Cheyenne man.

Others also point to the success of Mr. Beach, who played a Mohawk detective in “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit” and landed a starring role in the forthcoming D C Comics picture “Suicide Squad.” Mr. Beach said he had come across insulting scripts backed by people who don’t see anything wrong with them.

“I’d rather starve than do something that is offensive to my ancestral roots,” Mr. Beach said. “But I think there will always be attempts to drawn on the weakness of native people’s struggles. The savage Indian will always be the savage Indian. The white man will always be smarter and more cunning. The cavalry will always win.”

The solution, Mr. Wente, Mr. Trudell and others said, lies in getting more stories written by and starring Native Americans. But Mr. Wente noted that while independent indigenous film has blossomed in the last two decades, mainstream depictions have yet to catch up. “You have to stop expecting for Hollywood to correct it, because there seems to be no ability or desire to correct it,” Mr. Wente said.

There have been calls to boycott Netflix but, writing for Indian Country Today Media Network, which first broke news of the walk off, the filmmaker Brian Young noted that the distributor also offered a number of films by or about Native Americans.

The furor around “The Ridiculous Six” may drive more people to see it. Then one of the questions that Mr. Trudell, echoing others, had about the film will be answered: “Who the hell laughs at this stuff?”

Native American Actors Work to Overcome a Long-Documented Bias

Mr. Haroche was a founder of Liberty Travel, which grew from a two-man operation to the largest leisure travel operation in the United States.

Gilbert Haroche, Builder of an Economy Travel Empire, Dies at 87

THE WRITERS ASHLEY AND JAQUAVIS COLEMAN know the value of a good curtain-raiser. The couple have co-authored dozens of novels, and they like to start them with a bang: a headlong action sequence, a blast of violence or sex that rocks readers back on their heels. But the Colemans concede they would be hard-pressed to dream up anything more gripping than their own real-life opening scene.

In the summer of 2001, JaQuavis Coleman was a 16-year-old foster child in Flint, Mich., the former auto-manufacturing mecca that had devolved, in the wake of General Motors’ plant closures, into one of the country’s most dangerous cities, with a decimated economy and a violent crime rate more than three times the national average. When JaQuavis was 8, social services had removed him from his mother’s home. He spent years bouncing between foster families. At 16, JaQuavis was also a businessman: a crack dealer with a network of street-corner peddlers in his employ.

One day that summer, JaQuavis met a fellow dealer in a parking lot on Flint’s west side. He was there to make a bulk sale of a quarter-brick, or “nine-piece” — a nine-ounce parcel of cocaine, with a street value of about $11,000. In the middle of the transaction, JaQuavis heard the telltale chirp of a walkie-talkie. His customer, he now realized, was an undercover policeman. JaQuavis jumped into his car and spun out onto the road, with two unmarked police cars in pursuit. He didn’t want to get into a high-speed chase, so he whipped his car into a church parking lot and made a run for it, darting into an alleyway behind a row of small houses, where he tossed the quarter-brick into some bushes. When JaQuavis reached the small residential street on the other side of the houses, he was greeted by the police, who handcuffed him and went to search behind the houses where, they told him, they were certain he had ditched the drugs. JaQuavis had been dealing since he was 12, had amassed more than $100,000 and had never been arrested. Now, he thought: It’s over.

But when the police looked in the bushes, they couldn’t find any cocaine. They interrogated JaQuavis, who denied having ever possessed or sold drugs. They combed the backyard alley some more. After an hour of fruitless efforts, the police were forced to unlock the handcuffs and release their suspect.

JaQuavis was baffled by the turn of events until the next day, when he received a phone call. The previous afternoon, a 15-year-old girl had been sitting in her home on the west side of Flint when she heard sirens. She looked out of the window of her bedroom, and watched a young man throw a package in the bushes behind her house. She recognized him. He was a high school classmate — a handsome, charismatic boy whom she had admired from afar. The girl crept outside and grabbed the bundle, which she hid in her basement. “I have something that belongs to you,” Ashley Snell told JaQuavis Coleman when she reached him by phone. “You wanna come over here and pick it up?”

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Three of the nearly 50 works of urban fiction published by the Colemans over the last decade, often featuring drug deals, violence, sex and a brash kind of feminism.Credit Marko Metzinger

In the Colemans’ first novel, “Dirty Money” (2005), they told a version of this story. The outline was the same: the drug deal gone bad, the dope chucked in the bushes, the fateful phone call. To the extent that the authors took poetic license, it was to tone down the meet-cute improbability of the true-life events. In “Dirty Money,” the girl, Anari, and the crack dealer, Maurice, circle each other warily for a year or so before coupling up. But the facts of Ashley and JaQuavis’s romance outstripped pulp fiction. They fell in love more or less at first sight, moved into their own apartment while still in high school and were married in 2008. “We were together from the day we met,” Ashley says. “I don’t think we’ve spent more than a week apart in total over the past 14 years.”

That partnership turned out to be creative and entrepreneurial as well as romantic. Over the past decade, the Colemans have published nearly 50 books, sometimes as solo writers, sometimes under pseudonyms, but usually as collaborators with a byline that has become a trusted brand: “Ashley & JaQuavis.” They are marquee stars of urban fiction, or street lit, a genre whose inner-city settings and lurid mix of crime, sex and sensationalism have earned it comparisons to gangsta rap. The emergence of street lit is one of the big stories in recent American publishing, a juggernaut that has generated huge sales by catering to a readership — young, black and, for the most part, female — that historically has been ill-served by the book business. But the genre is also widely maligned. Street lit is subject to a kind of triple snobbery: scorned by literati who look down on genre fiction generally, ignored by a white publishing establishment that remains largely indifferent to black books and disparaged by African-American intellectuals for poor writing, coarse values and trafficking in racial stereotypes.

But if a certain kind of cultural prestige is shut off to the Colemans, they have reaped other rewards. They’ve built a large and loyal fan base, which gobbles up the new Ashley & JaQuavis titles that arrive every few months. Many of those books are sold at street-corner stands and other off-the-grid venues in African-American neighborhoods, a literary gray market that doesn’t register a blip on best-seller tallies. Yet the Colemans’ most popular series now regularly crack the trade fiction best-seller lists of The New York Times and Publishers Weekly. For years, the pair had no literary agent; they sold hundreds of thousands of books without banking a penny in royalties. Still, they have earned millions of dollars, almost exclusively from cash-for-manuscript deals negotiated directly with independent publishing houses. In short, though little known outside of the world of urban fiction, the Colemans are one of America’s most successful literary couples, a distinction they’ve achieved, they insist, because of their work’s gritty authenticity and their devotion to a primal literary virtue: the power of the ripping yarn.

“When you read our books, you’re gonna realize: ‘Ashley & JaQuavis are storytellers,’ ” says Ashley. “Our tales will get your heart pounding.”

THE COLEMANS’ HOME BASE — the cottage from which they operate their cottage industry — is a spacious four-bedroom house in a genteel suburb about 35 miles north of downtown Detroit. The house is plush, but when I visited this past winter, it was sparsely appointed. The couple had just recently moved in, and had only had time to fully furnish the bedroom of their 4-year-old son, Quaye.

In conversation, Ashley and JaQuavis exude both modesty and bravado: gratitude for their good fortune and bootstrappers’ pride in having made their own luck. They talk a lot about their time in the trenches, the years they spent as a drug dealer and “ride-or-die girl” tandem. In Flint they learned to “grind hard.” Writing, they say, is merely a more elevated kind of grind.

“Instead of hitting the block like we used to, we hit the laptops,” says Ashley. “I know what every word is worth. So while I’m writing, I’m like: ‘Okay, there’s a hundred dollars. There’s a thousand dollars. There’s five thousand dollars.’ ”

They maintain a rigorous regimen. They each try to write 5,000 words per day, five days a week. The writers stagger their shifts: JaQuavis goes to bed at 7 p.m. and wakes up early, around 3 or 4 in the morning, to work while his wife and child sleep. Ashley writes during the day, often in libraries or at Starbucks.

They divide the labor in other ways. Chapters are divvied up more or less equally, with tasks assigned according to individual strengths. (JaQuavis typically handles character development. Ashley loves writing murder scenes.) The results are stitched together, with no editorial interference from one author in the other’s text. The real work, they contend, is the brainstorming. The Colemans spend weeks mapping out their plot-driven books — long conversations that turn into elaborate diagrams on dry-erase boards. “JaQuavis and I are so close, it makes the process real easy,” says Ashley. “Sometimes when I’m thinking of something, a plot point, he’ll say it out loud, and I’m like: ‘Wait — did I say that?’ ”

Their collaboration developed by accident, and on the fly. Both were bookish teenagers. Ashley read lots of Judy Blume and John Grisham; JaQuavis liked Shakespeare, Richard Wright and “Atlas Shrugged.” (Their first official date was at a Borders bookstore, where Ashley bought “The Coldest Winter Ever,” the Sister Souljah novel often credited with kick-starting the contemporary street-lit movement.) In 2003, Ashley, then 17, was forced to terminate an ectopic pregnancy. She was bedridden for three weeks, and to provide distraction and boost her spirits, JaQuavis challenged his girlfriend to a writing contest. “She just wasn’t talking. She was laying in bed. I said, ‘You know what? I bet you I could write a better book than you.’ My wife is real competitive. So I said, ‘Yo, all right, $500 bet.’ And I saw her eyes spark, like, ‘What?! You can’t write no better book than me!’ So I wrote about three chapters. She wrote about three chapters. Two days later, we switched.”

The result, hammered out in a few days, would become “Dirty Money.” Two years later, when Ashley and JaQuavis were students at Ferris State University in Western Michigan, they sold the manuscript to Urban Books, a street-lit imprint founded by the best-selling author Carl Weber. At the time, JaQuavis was still making his living selling drugs. When Ashley got the phone call informing her that their book had been bought, she assumed they’d hit it big, and flushed more than $10,000 worth of cocaine down the toilet. Their advance was a mere $4,000.

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The roots of street lit, found in the midcentury detective novels of Chester Himes and the ‘60s and ‘70s “ghetto fiction” of Iceberg Slim and Donald Goines.Credit Marko Metzinger

Those advances would soon increase, eventually reaching five and six figures. The Colemans built their career, JaQuavis says, in a manner that made sense to him as a veteran dope peddler: by flooding the street with product. From the start, they were prolific, churning out books at a rate of four or five a year. Their novels made their way into stores; the now-defunct chain Waldenbooks, which had stores in urban areas typically bypassed by booksellers, was a major engine of the street-lit market. But Ashley and JaQuavis took advantage of distribution channels established by pioneering urban fiction authors such as Teri Woods and Vickie Stringer, and a network of street-corner tables, magazine stands, corner shops and bodegas. Like rappers who establish their bona fides with gray-market mixtapes, street-lit authors use this system to circumnavigate industry gatekeepers, bringing their work straight to the genre’s core readership. But urban fiction has other aficionados, in less likely places. “Our books are so popular in the prison system,” JaQuavis says. “We’re banned in certain penitentiaries. Inmates fight over the books — there are incidents, you know? I have loved ones in jail, and they’re like: ‘Yo, your books can’t come in here. It’s against the rules.’ ”

The appeal of the Colemans’ work is not hard to fathom. The books are formulaic and taut; they deliver the expected goods efficiently and exuberantly. The titles telegraph the contents: “Diary of a Street Diva,” “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” “Murderville.” The novels serve up a stream of explicit sex and violence in a slangy, tangy, profane voice. In Ashley & JaQuavis’s books people don’t get killed: they get “popped,” “laid out,” get their “cap twisted back.” The smut is constant, with emphasis on the earthy, sticky, olfactory particulars. Romance novel clichés — shuddering orgasms, heroic carnal feats, superlative sexual skill sets — are rendered in the Colemans’ punchy patois.

Subtlety, in other words, isn’t Ashley & JaQuavis’s forte. But their books do have a grainy specificity. In “The Cartel” (2008), the first novel in the Colemans’ best-selling saga of a Miami drug syndicate, they catch the sights and smells of a crack workshop in a housing project: the nostril-stinging scent of cocaine and baking soda bubbling on stovetops; the teams of women, stripped naked except for hospital masks so they can’t pilfer the merchandise, “cutting up the cooked coke on the round wood table.” The subject matter is dark, but the Colemans’ tone is not quite noir. Even in the grimmest scenes, the mood is high-spirited, with the writers palpably relishing the lewd and gory details: the bodies writhing in boudoirs and crumpling under volleys of bullets, the geysers of blood and other bodily fluids.

The luridness of street lit has made it a flashpoint, inciting controversy reminiscent of the hip-hop culture wars of the 1980s and ’90s. But the street-lit debate touches deeper historical roots, reviving decades-old arguments in black literary circles about the mandate to uplift the race and present wholesome images of African-Americans. In 1928, W. E. B. Du Bois slammed the “licentiousness” of “Home to Harlem,” Claude McKay’s rollicking novel of Harlem nightlife. McKay’s book, Du Bois wrote, “for the most part nauseates me, and after the dirtier parts of its filth I feel distinctly like taking a bath.” Similar sentiments have greeted 21st-century street lit. In a 2006 New York Times Op-Ed essay, the journalist and author Nick Chiles decried “the sexualization and degradation of black fiction.” African-American bookstores, Chiles complained, are “overrun with novels that . . . appeal exclusively to our most prurient natures — as if these nasty books were pairing off back in the stockrooms like little paperback rabbits and churning out even more graphic offspring that make Ralph Ellison books cringe into a dusty corner.”

Copulating paperbacks aside, it’s clear that the street-lit debate is about more than literature, touching on questions of paternalism versus populism, and on middle-class anxieties about the black underclass. “It’s part and parcel of black elites’ efforts to define not only a literary tradition, but a racial politics,” said Kinohi Nishikawa, an assistant professor of English and African-American Studies at Princeton University. “There has always been a sense that because African-Americans’ opportunities to represent themselves are so limited in the first place, any hint of criminality or salaciousness would necessarily be a knock on the entire racial politics. One of the pressing debates about African-American literature today is: If we can’t include writers like Ashley & JaQuavis, to what extent is the foundation of our thinking about black literature faulty? Is it just a literature for elites? Or can it be inclusive, bringing urban fiction under the purview of our umbrella term ‘African-American literature’?”

Defenders of street lit note that the genre has a pedigree: a tradition of black pulp fiction that stretches from Chester Himes, the midcentury author of hardboiled Harlem detective stories, to the 1960s and ’70s “ghetto fiction” of Iceberg Slim and Donald Goines, to the current wave of urban fiction authors. Others argue for street lit as a social good, noting that it attracts a large audience that might otherwise never read at all. Scholars like Nishikawa link street lit to recent studies showing increased reading among African-Americans. A 2014 Pew Research Center report found that a greater percentage of black Americans are book readers than whites or Latinos.

For their part, the Colemans place their work in the broader black literary tradition. “You have Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, James Baldwin — all of these traditional black writers, who wrote about the struggles of racism, injustice, inequality,” says Ashley. “We’re writing about the struggle as it happens now. It’s just a different struggle. I’m telling my story. I’m telling the struggle of a black girl from Flint, Michigan, who grew up on welfare.”

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The Colemans in their new four-bedroom house in the northern suburbs of Detroit.Credit Courtesy of Ashley and JaQuavis Coleman

Perhaps there is a high-minded case to be made for street lit. But the virtues of Ashley & JaQuavis’s work are more basic. Their novels do lack literary polish. The writing is not graceful; there are passages of clunky exposition and sex scenes that induce guffaws and eye rolls. But the pleasure quotient is high. The books flaunt a garish brand of feminism, with women characters cast not just as vixens, but also as gangsters — cold-blooded killers, “murder mamas.” The stories are exceptionally well-plotted. “The Cartel” opens by introducing its hero, the crime boss Carter Diamond; on page 9, a gunshot spatters Diamond’s brain across the interior of a police cruiser. The book then flashes back seven years and begins to hurtle forward again — a bullet train, whizzing readers through shifting alliances, romantic entanglements and betrayals, kidnappings, shootouts with Haitian and Dominican gangsters, and a cliffhanger closing scene that leaves the novel’s heroine tied to a chair in a basement, gruesomely tortured to the edge of death. Ashley & JaQuavis’s books are not Ralph Ellison, certainly, but they build up quite a head of steam. They move.

The Colemans are moving themselves these days. They recently signed a deal with St. Martin’s Press, which will bring out the next installment in the “Cartel” series as well as new solo series by both writers. The St. Martin’s deal is both lucrative and legitimizing — a validation of Ashley and JaQuavis’s work by one of publishing’s most venerable houses. The Colemans’ ambitions have grown, as well. A recent trilogy, “Murderville,” tackles human trafficking and the blood-diamond industry in West Africa, with storylines that sweep from Sierra Leone to Mexico to Los Angeles. Increasingly, Ashley & JaQuavis are leaning on research — traveling to far-flung settings and hitting the books in the libraries — and spending less time mining their own rough-and-tumble past.

But Flint remains a source of inspiration. One evening not long ago, JaQuavis led me on a tour of his hometown: a popular roadside bar; the parking lot where he met the undercover cop for the ill-fated drug deal; Ashley’s old house, the site of his almost-arrest. He took me to a ramshackle vehicle repair shop on Flint’s west side, where he worked as a kid, washing cars. He showed me a bathroom at the rear of the garage, where, at age 12, he sneaked away to inspect the first “boulder” of crack that he ever sold. A spray-painted sign on the garage wall, which JaQuavis remembered from his time at the car wash, offered words of warning:

WHAT EVERY YOUNG MAN SHOULD KNOW
ABOUT USING A GUN:
MURDER . . . 30 Years
ARMED ROBBERY . . . 15 Years
ASSAULT . . . 15 Years
RAPE . . . 20 Years
POSSESSION . . . 5 Years
JACKING . . . 20 YEARS

“We still love Flint, Michigan,” JaQuavis says. “It’s so seedy, so treacherous. But there’s some heart in this city. This is where it all started, selling books out the box. In the days when we would get those little $40,000 advances, they’d send us a couple boxes of books for free. We would hit the streets to sell our books, right out of the car trunk. It was a hustle. It still is.”

One old neighborhood asset that the Colemans have not shaken off is swagger. “My wife is the best female writer in the game,” JaQuavis told me. “I believe I’m the best male writer in the game. I’m sleeping next to the best writer in the world. And she’s doing the same.”

 
From T Magazine: Street Lit’s Power Couple

GREENWICH, Conn. — Mago is in the bedroom. You can go in.

The big man lies on a hospital bed with his bare feet scraping its bottom rail. His head is propped on a scarlet pillow, the left temple dented, the right side paralyzed. His dark hair is kept just long enough to conceal the scars.

The occasional sounds he makes are understood only by his wife, but he still has that punctuating left hand. In slow motion, the fingers curl and close. A thumbs-up greeting.

Hello, Mago.

This is Magomed Abdusalamov, 34, also known as the Russian Tyson, also known as Mago. He is a former heavyweight boxer who scored four knockouts and 14 technical knockouts in his first 18 professional fights. He preferred to stand between rounds. Sitting conveyed weakness.

But Mago lost his 19th fight, his big chance, at the packed Theater at Madison Square Garden in November 2013. His 19th decision, and his last.

Now here he is, in a small bedroom in a working-class neighborhood in Greenwich, in a modest house his family rents cheap from a devoted friend. The air-pressure machine for his mattress hums like an expectant crowd.

 

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Mike Perez, left, and Magomed Abdusalamov during the fight in which Abdusalamov was injured. Credit Joe Camporeale/USA Today Sports, via Reuters

 

Today is like any other day, except for those days when he is hurried in crisis to the hospital. Every three hours during the night, his slight wife, Bakanay, 28, has risen to turn his 6-foot-3 body — 210 pounds of dead weight. It has to be done. Infections of the gaping bedsore above his tailbone have nearly killed him.

Then, with the help of a young caretaker, Baka has gotten two of their daughters off to elementary school and settled down the toddler. Yes, Mago and Baka are blessed with all girls, but they had also hoped for a son someday.

They feed Mago as they clean him; it’s easier that way. For breakfast, which comes with a side of crushed antiseizure pills, he likes oatmeal with a squirt of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. But even oatmeal must be puréed and fed to him by spoon.

He opens his mouth to indicate more, the way a baby does. But his paralysis has made everything a choking hazard. His water needs a stirring of powdered food thickener, and still he chokes — eh-eh-eh — as he tries to cough up what will not go down.

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Mago used to drink only water. No alcohol. Not even soda. A sip of juice would be as far as he dared. Now even water betrays him.

With the caretaker’s help, Baka uses a washcloth and soap to clean his body and shampoo his hair. How handsome still, she has thought. Sometimes, in the night, she leaves the bedroom to watch old videos, just to hear again his voice in the fullness of life. She cries, wipes her eyes and returns, feigning happiness. Mago must never see her sad.

 

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 Abdusalamov's hand being massaged. Credit Ángel Franco/The New York Times

 

When Baka finishes, Mago is cleanshaven and fresh down to his trimmed and filed toenails. “I want him to look good,” she says.

Theirs was an arranged Muslim marriage in Makhachkala, in the Russian republic of Dagestan. He was 23, she was 18 and their future hinged on boxing. Sometimes they would shadowbox in love, her David to his Goliath. You are so strong, he would tell her.

His father once told him he could either be a bandit or an athlete, but if he chose banditry, “I will kill you.” This paternal advice, Mago later told The Ventura County Reporter, “made it a very easy decision for me.”

Mago won against mediocre competition, in Moscow and Hollywood, Fla., in Las Vegas and Johnstown, Pa. He was knocked down only once, and even then, it surprised more than hurt. He scored a technical knockout in the next round.

It all led up to this: the undercard at the Garden, Mike Perez vs. Magomed Abdusalamov, 10 rounds, on HBO. A win, he believed, would improve his chances of taking on the heavyweight champion Wladimir Klitschko, who sat in the crowd of 4,600 with his fiancée, the actress Hayden Panettiere, watching.

Wearing black-and-red trunks and a green mouth guard, Mago went to work. But in the first round, a hard forearm to his left cheek rocked him. At the bell, he returned to his corner, and this time, he sat down. “I think it’s broken,” he repeatedly said in Russian.

 

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Bakanay Abdusalamova, Abdusalamov's wife, and her injured husband and a masseur in the background. Credit Ángel Franco/The New York Times

 

Maybe at that point, somebody — the referee, the ringside doctors, his handlers — should have stopped the fight, under a guiding principle: better one punch too early than one punch too late. But the bloody trade of blows continued into the seventh, eighth, ninth, a hand and orbital bone broken, his face transforming.

Meanwhile, in the family’s apartment in Miami, Baka forced herself to watch the broadcast. She could see it in his swollen eyes. Something was off.

After the final round, Perez raised his tattooed arms in victory, and Mago wandered off in a fog. He had taken 312 punches in about 40 minutes, for a purse of $40,000.

 

 

In the locker room, doctors sutured a cut above Mago’s left eye and tested his cognitive abilities. He did not do well. The ambulance that waits in expectation at every fight was not summoned by boxing officials.

Blood was pooling in Mago’s cranial cavity as he left the Garden. He vomited on the pavement while his handlers flagged a taxi to St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital. There, doctors induced a coma and removed part of his skull to drain fluids and ease the swelling.

Then came the stroke.

 

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A championship belt belonging to Abdusalamov and a card from one of his daughters. Credit Ángel Franco/The New York Times

 

It is lunchtime now, and the aroma of puréed beef and potatoes lingers. So do the questions.

How will Mago and Baka pay the $2 million in medical bills they owe? What if their friend can no longer offer them this home? Will they win their lawsuits against the five ringside doctors, the referee, and a New York State boxing inspector? What about Mago’s future care?

Most of all: Is this it?

A napkin rests on Mago’s chest. As another spoonful of mush approaches, he opens his mouth, half-swallows, chokes, and coughs until it clears. Eh-eh-eh. Sometimes he turns bluish, but Baka never shows fear. Always happy for Mago.

Some days he is wheeled out for physical therapy or speech therapy. Today, two massage therapists come to knead his half-limp body like a pair of skilled corner men.

Soon, Mago will doze. Then his three daughters, ages 2, 6 and 9, will descend upon him to talk of their day. Not long ago, the oldest lugged his championship belt to school for a proud show-and-tell moment. Her classmates were amazed at the weight of it.

Then, tonight, there will be more puréed food and pulverized medication, more coughing, and more tender care from his wife, before sleep comes.

Goodbye, Mago.

He half-smiles, raises his one good hand, and forms a fist.

Meet Mago, Former Heavyweight

Ms. Rendell was a prolific writer of intricately plotted mystery novels that combined psychological insight, social conscience and teeth-chattering terror.

Ruth Rendell, Novelist Who Thrilled and Educated, Dies at 85

Mr. Paczynski was one of the concentration camp’s longest surviving inmates and served as the personal barber to its Nazi commandant Rudolf Höss.

Jozef Paczynski, Inmate Barber to Auschwitz Commandant, Dies at 95
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Many bodies prepared for cremation last week in Kathmandu were of young men from Gongabu, a common stopover for Nepali migrant workers headed overseas. Credit Daniel Berehulak for The New York Times

KATHMANDU, Nepal — When the dense pillar of smoke from cremations by the Bagmati River was thinning late last week, the bodies were all coming from Gongabu, a common stopover for Nepali migrant workers headed overseas, and they were all of young men.

Hindu custom dictates that funeral pyres should be lighted by the oldest son of the deceased, but these men were too young to have sons, so they were burned by their brothers or fathers. Sukla Lal, a maize farmer, made a 14-hour journey by bus to retrieve the body of his 19-year-old son, who had been on his way to the Persian Gulf to work as a laborer.

“He wanted to live in the countryside, but he was compelled to leave by poverty,” Mr. Lal said, gazing ahead steadily as his son’s remains smoldered. “He told me, ‘You can live on your land, and I will come up with money, and we will have a happy family.’ ”

Weeks will pass before the authorities can give a complete accounting of who died in the April 25 earthquake, but it is already clear that Nepal cannot afford the losses. The countryside was largely stripped of its healthy young men even before the quake, as they migrated in great waves — 1,500 a day by some estimates — to work as laborers in India, Malaysia or one of the gulf nations, leaving many small communities populated only by elderly parents, women and children. Economists say that at some times of the year, one-quarter of Nepal’s population is working outside the country.

Nepal’s Young Men, Lost to Migration, Then a Quake

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