The Khan Chronicles

POTUS on The Daily Show!!!

2010-10-28T00:00:00.000-04:00

I heart President Obama!!! I <3 Jon Stewart!!! Can't wait for the Rally to Restore Sanity on Saturday!!!

Best Intentions lead to....the mall?

2010-02-20T17:01:00.003-05:00

Today I woke up late, after staying up late last night re-designing my blog and posting for the first time in months. I don't regret the extra sleep or the late bedtime, but I was supposed to go to a conference at Quinnipiac University on Women's Creativity today. The keynote was Judy Norsigean, one of the founders of the Boston Women's Health Collective, authors and publishers of Our Bodies, Ourselves, the best-selling, groundbreaking book about women's bodies and health. I was really excited to go- I haven't been to an academic conference in a while, and I've never visited Quinnipiac. There's a whole slew of academic conferences in the next few months about women's studies and the American left. I had hoped this would be the start to a great conference season. I thought Norsigan would be speaking during the lunch session and was bringing a copy of the book that belongs to my school's Center for Women's Studies to get an autograph. My sister and I were in the car on our way around noon, and its about a 45 minute drive. We checked the schedule and realized we missed the keynote and both morning workshop sessions. We would arrive during lunch, which was actually a free period, and then only catch one session. We decided to just turn back since it wasn't worth going all the way there for one workshop session. I have a mid-term this week and a bunch of papers due, so we pulled off the Merrit to turn around. We were by the mall we frequented in our childhood and adolescence- we hadn't been there in years. We decided to stop in, pick something up and see how different it might be.
Our walk-in turned into a marathon mall-rat experience. We hit up a bunch of stores, bought something in almost every one, got tons of awesome stuff on sale and even had lunch in the food court! I'm sure everyone who has been to a mall on the east coast knows about Bourbon chicken franchise-the sweet chicken folks who offer free samples in every food court. We enjoyed some samples, as everyone should feel free to, as we walked through the mall. I told off some young boys who were cussing loudly in the food court and was *appalled* at the shirt a man in his early to mid-thirties was wearing. He had a sexually explicit t-shirt on, one of those shirts with the figures they use on bathroom doors to delineate "men" and "women"who were in sexual positions. This man was with a child, in the food court of a mall, on a Saturday afternoon. This was not a frat party on a friday night on frat row. Gross and inappropriate. If I can, I'll post a pic of my awesome fall/spring coat from express that was only $30 on clearance, down from $180. That was the victory of the day! So instead of expanding my mind and my perspective, I expanded my closet. Some days, it's just the way to go.

Politico 44 President's Calendar

2010-01-13T03:36:00.001-05:00

Women are Persons too! Day in Canada

2009-10-18T15:21:00.003-04:00

On October 18, 1929, the Canadian Supreme Court determined that women are "Qualified persons under the law." This meant women could be appointed to the Senate, Judiciary, and were entitled to all the rights and privileges granted under the Canadian constitution, known as the British North America Act. Eighty years ago, Canadian women were fully enfranchised (except for the women of Quebec, who weren't granted the right to vote until 1940). Only eighty years ago-literally in the lifetime of our grandmothers. We've still got a long way to go for women to be fully equal citizens, both as the de facto reality of laws on the books and facts on the ground.

Check out some more info on Person's Day and October as Women's History Month in Canada here: http://www.cd.gov.bc.ca/women/whm/persons_day.htm

And the violence continues...

2009-10-18T14:29:00.003-04:00

I was going to post something fun today; a list of my favorite TV shows and other things I'm enamored with at the moment. But instead, when I woke up, I saw a friend's status saying that she was freaked out about the stabbing last night up at our main campus. I was slightly alarmed, but as violence seems to be a regular occurrence up there, I pushed it out of my mind and continued with my morning. My internet was down at home so I couldn't get online to check the sadly ubiquitous email from my school alerting us to the violence that had occurred. Typically, this violence is against women at the school, with frequent break-ins tied to sexual assaults, rapes, threats and attempted attacks. I headed to my local library and on the way got a text from a different friend asking if I had heard about what happened last night. I told her all I knew was there had been a stabbing, but knew nothing else.

It turns out that a student was stabbed in the middle of campus after a fire alarm was pulled, forcing everyone out of the Student Union. A fight ensued during the evacuation. This student was a 20 year old football player, a starting cornerback named Jasper Howard. He was stabbed multiple times, along with another student, and died shortly after in the hospital due to his injuries. This is, according to the Hartford Courant article, the third Connecticut college student murdered in the last 6 months. This is the first student of the three who was a man.
I have a paper to write and an exam to study for tomorrow, but I can't really focus. The stabber got away and is at large. I hope & pray that since so many people were around someone saw something that will help catch the killer. This is so tragic and terrible! UCONN has some serious issues with violence, security and safety of its student body that it needs to handle. What is so ironic about this murder and makes it even more tragic is that it comes on the heels of the 30th anniversary of the "Violence in Our Community" Metanoia, which means a changing of the mind. In 1979, there had been many incidents of racial violence and a brutal sexual assault of a grad student. Students demanded time to reflect and come to grips with what was happening on their campus. Campus was shut down for two days and all of the 10,000 students attended vigils, lectures and discussions on what was happening, why it was happening and how to try and stop it. Sadly, 30 years have passed, and as I mentioned before, we get emails all the time about violence at the main campus against women. The month of October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month, and UCONN is observing Metanoia all month long at all of our campuses. We have planned events that work to raise awareness, educate, and help those who have been victims of violence know they aren't alone. A major aim is to get the alarming facts out there: 90% of the time, a sexual assault victim knows their attacker; 1 in 4 women by the age of 21 have been victims of sexual assault; and most importantly, no matter what, it is not the victim's fault.

Violence in our community is clearly still happening, and at an alarming rate. A friend commented on this murder on fb asking the very serious question "How many deaths will it take till too many have to die?"
We're all waiting, working, praying, and hoping the answer is no more.

Like I breathe...

2009-10-17T22:57:00.004-04:00

I miss blogging. I miss writing. I miss the daily, weekly, even monthly chance to analyze, integrate and reflect on the madness of the world through the typed word in this forum, this wondrous medium of the blog. I don't even get to keep up with reading other people's blogs! It's quite ridiculous- tonight I read my bff's blog at its new address for the first time, even tho she moved it months and months ago- since around the last time I posted.

I hate twitter, but am beginning to think it might be a good way just to get all the cool, amazing, disturbing or must read links and features that I come across, since I don't really manage to send out mass emails to my friends and family to make them aware like i used to. FB only reaches so many folks, and since I hardly ever blog, I know the limited readership I once had I have pretty much lost. I hesitate to write now in ways I never did. I worry about the future, about whether giving these words an immortal life on the internet is something I really want to do.

Our super-plugged-in-around-the-clock-data-mining present has not lead to a more open, accepting, understanding and inclusive society; instead, it has lead to a more invasive, judgmental, prying, damning attitude that seeks to impose all the sexist, racist, classist, homophobic, misogynistic, xenophobic ideas and standards upon those of us who interact with the virtual world this way. That might be inaccurate- it's really imposing all of those oppressive, institutionalized standards on everyone in society, not just those who participate in web 2.0 through blogs, emails, post to boards, twitter, facebook/myspace/social networking sites, shopping online, listening to internet radio or downloading podcasts/mp3s/pictures/books/documents.

It really concerns me that Van Jones was recently sacked (he technically resigned) because of right wing pressure brought to bear on political views he held when he was younger (he admitted to believing in Communism) and on signing a petition from Color of Change, the progressive group he helped start focused on the needs and issues of people of color. He is the first Obama administration casualty of the right wing smear machine, but not the first Obama-related casualty since his campaign began (Obama had more than one coordinator of Muslim outreach resign during the campaign b/c of rightwing attacks on their past affiliations).
Since the right wing is so thorough and effective at painting progressives and anyone who disagrees with them as evil, unpatriotic undesirables who must be marginalized and punished, it worries me. Does it concern anyone else out there?

"There is nothing like a Dame"

2009-04-11T00:08:00.003-04:00

"Sailors, Seabees and Marines:
We got sunlight on the sand,
We got moonlight on the sea,
We got mangoes and bananas
You can pick right off the tree,
We got volleyball and ping-pong
And a lot of dandy games!
What ain't we got?
We ain't got dames!

We get packages from home,
We get movies, we get shows,
We get speeches from our skipper
And advice from Tokyo Rose,
We get letters doused with perfume
We get dizzy from the smell!
What don't we get?
You know darn well!
"We have nothin' to put on a clean white suit for
What we need is what there ain't no substitute for...

There is nothin' like a dame,
Nothin' in the world,
There is nothin' you can name
That is anythin' like a dame!
We feel restless, we feel blue,
We feel lonely and in grief,
We feel ev'ry kind of feelin',
But the feelin' of relief
We feel hungry as the wolf felt
When he met Red Riding-hood
What don't we feel?
We don't feel good!

Lots of things in life are beautiful, but brother,
There is one particular thing that is nothin' whatsoever
In any way, shape or form like any other.

There is nothin' like a dame,
Nothin' in the world,
There is nothin' you can name
That is anythin' like a dame!

Nothin' else was built the same,
Nothin' in the world
As the soft and wavy frame
Like the silhouette of a dame!

There is absolutely nothin' like a frame of a dame.
So suppose that dame ain't bright
or completely free from flaws,
Or as faithful as a bird dog,
Or as kind as Santa Claus,
It's a waste of time to worry
Over things that they have not,
We're thankful for the things they got!

There is nothin' you can name
That is anythin' like a dame!

There are no books like a dame,
And nothin' looks like a dame.
There are no drinks like a dame,
And nothin' thinks like a dame,
Nothin' acts like a dame,
Or attracts like a dame.
There ain't a thing that's wrong with any man here
That can't be cured by pullin' him near
A girly, womanly, female, feminine dame!"
-South Pacific

I've been trying to write a new entry for MONTHS. I've started countless posts that end up as drafts and little else, never to be finished or published. I'm listening to my pandora station filled with songs from musicals old and new and heard this hilarious song from South Pacific (above). I just busted out laughing when I heard it- it is admittedly sexist and objectifying, this I don't deny.

I was laughing at the baldness of it- the desperate male desire for women's bodies and sex that patriarchy can't seem to stamp out no matter how much our bodies and desire/participation in sex are degraded, dismissed, maligned and abused. Male desire for sex with women, which is constructed as insatiable, blue-ball inducing, gotta-have-it-all-the-time and take-it-anytime-you-can-get-it, is none the less built on an idea of male control of sexual situations. In order to maintain this perceived control of patriarchal male sexuality, women's sexual desire and participation is only framed as "dirty", "whore-like", "bad girl", "naughty", "slutty" etc. This isn't a surprise to anyone reading this post, I'm sure. I was just struck by the comedy of this. A woman has sex too quickly, she's no longer worthy of male respect, if she had it in the first place. If she is empowered in her sexuality and is ready to engage in sex, she is likely to be labeled negatively if it is "too soon" according to her male partner's expectations, or the expectations of the outer society (friends/family/colleagues of hers/his who find out about their sexual encounter).

I've been having a lot of conversations with a male friend lately, a Marine, who is very aware of the inequalities between men & women and the ridiculousness of patriarchal constructions of masculinities and the expectations tied to them. I'm not sure that he is as aware of how he is also victim of these pathologies, and that he carries the banner for them as he walks forward in the world. (I'm only focusing on him because the conversations have been recent, and the song echoed so much of what our conversation has focused on recently; not trying to pick on Marines here.)

When talking with me about a new (female) romantic interest in his life, he was telling me how as much as he enjoyed her company and her kisses, he had to keep control of himself, the situation (and her) in order to strike the right balance of not going too far while still enjoying themselves. When I inevitably asked why, he explained to me that going any further with this woman at such an early stage would place her in a lower category in his head. He respects her a great deal, he said, and he doesn't want to lose that by not following the now innate rules that he can't quite articulate. He has no accurate way of knowing when enough time will have lapsed in order for sex to be acceptable and for his respect to be intact.

This man is a decent, intelligent, considerate individual, believes in women's rights, is very supportive of female Marines in combat and attended our performance this year of The Vagina Monologues. He supported our fundraising for VDay, encouraged other men on campus to attend and he doesn't believe in violence having any place in sexual situations, porn, or male expectations of sexual situations. Knowing that I don't appreciate sexist/misogynistic or homophobic language, does his best to be conscious of his word choice. Whenever a story comes up where p***y or f****t are used (often in Marine conversations) he always tries to explain the context in which they are used as a way of apologizing for their use at all, and that the words he is repeating aren't his. I list these qualities because it is amazing to me that knowing all that he does, he is still under the social conditioning of our patriarchal system and is unaware of it. It's unfair of me to expect otherwise I guess, it takes real work to untangle the "gender knot" patriarchy catches us all in. He's much further along than many men (and women) I know, and his awareness and personality are even more admirable in my eyes because he is part of such the most intensely hierarchical, male identified institution one can be a part of (aside from the priesthood I suppose). He is somehow able to resist the parts of that hierarchical/male identified culture he disagrees with, but hasn't quite had the same luck with the larger society. I think I should probably take as a sign of hope that it is happening at all.

It's everywhere you look- this degration of female sexuality coupled with the objectification of women's bodies. "Motherfucker," "cocksucker"; I'm sure you, as the reader, can think of a million examples of this that you've seen/heard/experienced/used. All this projection of what is "moral" on women's bodies and behavior, from what we wear, where we go at night, who we go home with, whether/how much we drink, if we have sex, who we have sex with, how quickly we have sex and which archetype we are fulfilling (madonna/whore among many others). It's obviously incredibly frustrating and perplexing. I'm not sure what to do for or say to my friend to help him realize where he stands in terms of patriarchal conditioning. I'm hoping our continued conversations will help, but that's all I got. I know it is going to take a lot more than me talking to my male and female friends and associates to change this phenomenon, but each one teach one, right?

I could go through the song and deconstruct each verse, pointing out the obvious sexism there, but I think you've got it. Alarmingly in terms of rape as a war crime and the forced sexual servitude of comfort women, the lines, "We feel ev'ry kind of feelin',But the feelin' of relief, We feel hungry as the wolf felt when he met Red Riding-hood, What don't we feel? We don't feel good!" raise the specter of rape and supposedly uncontrollable male sexual urges.
On a much lighter note, "So suppose that dame ain't bright
or completely free from flaws," seriously?? LOL. Coming from a group of horny service men, that's hilariously rich. I'm telling you, I read these song lyrics and laugh and laugh.

There is one thing the song got right (though not at all the way they, the singing soldiers, intended it)- There is nothing like a Dame. Women and Vaginas rock!!!! :)

Happy Spring!!

2009-03-23T00:01:00.002-04:00

Springtime is here! It's been AGES since i've posted, though I've thought about posting almost every day and started quite a few posts, none made them onto here. Since i havent posted since before winter, I imagine it's time for some spring cleaning before i can move forward with my issue based posts.

life is interesting. this has probably been the one of most stressful semesters of my life, and i'm disappearing in front of my very eyes due to the stress. i'm taking six classes, learning a lot and pretty much am exactly where i need to be in life right now. i'm declaring a history double major and am super excited about the fall's history classes. due to the massive budget cuts being proposed on the state level, uconn stamford stands to be hit with a 9-10% budget cut. since we're a branch campus, we have very little fat in our budgets to begin with. so my political science pickings are slim. sigh. i had a really interesting professor this semester whose class evolved into the sort of class i had been dreaming college would be, but was then unable to finish the semester, so now we're starting the class over with a really nice and well meaning prof who has stepped in and is trying to make the best of it. i've joined (sought refuge in) the honors program b/c i couldnt deal with the asinine and banal contributions most of the my classmates offered in most of my classes and sought an intellectual refuge where knowledge and intelligence were celebrated and not suspected.

i'm planning on doing a research project this summer and taking classes- i decided against applying to all the amazing different programs, internships and opportunities that everyone has been emailing me about lately.

my campus organization, zero tolerance, is producing the vagina monologues in less than two weeks! can't wait!! i'm mostly just acting, but helping out as much as i can with the planning. looks like I'll be producing the week of... sounds fun... i hope!

Back in the Motherland

2008-12-18T04:05:00.002-05:00

I'm back!!!!!!

After an incredible adventure of incorrect travel itineraries, an unexpected overnight layover in London and 15.5 hours of flying, I returned to Hyderabad. They have a new international airport here now, named after the late Rajiv Gandhi which is a fabulous upgrade from the bus depot that was the airport at Begumpet. We brought 8 large (oversized!) suitcases, full of gifts for our long seperated relatives, which took us ages to collect. We also had 2 lbs of clementines and a pear that we had forgotten about that wouldn't make it past customs. rather than throw out good fruit that was safe to eat, we worked to finish off all the fruit. I was peeling clementines and eating them and offering them to passer-bys. This is my first trip to India with my family in tow, and it seems totally appropriate that we would begin our stay in India doing what we always do- trying to live our ideals despite the reactions of others. we were doing this by not wasting food, even though everyone around us thought we were weird and crazy for stuffing our faces full of fruit and offering strangers our straight-from-costco produce.

Welcome, 44th POTUS!!

2008-11-12T12:18:00.002-05:00

So. I have not posted anything since the election b/c I've been so busy and felt that when I did post I would need a lot of time to express all that I have been thinking and feeling since then. Obama's victory was one of the most exhilarating, heartening political experiences of my entire life. His speech moved me to tears and was so inspiring that I read and reread the text numerous times that evening before going to sleep and have reread it many times since. I have quoted it everywhere possible- my status messages, my away messages, used it in conversation- my favorite part was "The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America – I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you – we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government can’t solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it’s been done in America for two-hundred and twenty-one years – block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began twenty-one months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek – it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other."

I get chills just reading it again! This is the national call to service we've (in the national service community) been waiting for! It makes me so proud to be a part of the national service movement, an Americorps and City Year alumnus.

So strange I had to post... Obama Bollywood style....

2008-10-28T11:30:00.000-04:00

I have no words.... had to share this, lol, any impressions?

Obama is truly transformational, he can be anywhere, do anything! Including lip synch to old hindi songs!

Vote as if your life depended on it!!!

2008-09-30T00:08:00.000-04:00

This is from Feministscampus.org, the largest pro-choice student network in the world. I loved it. (Anyone recognize Wilson Cruz, who played Ricky in My So Called Life?) Check it out, and when you're done, be sure to sign the voter pledge.
Also, if you haven't signed already, the "Open Letter to Sarah Palin" sponsored by Planned Parenthood is waiting for your signature. They'll be delivering it to her at the first VP debate in St Louis.

Don't forget to call your legislators to thank them for not pushing through the huge mistake of a Wall Street bailout! If they voted for it- shame them. Tell them you wont forget and the next time this bailout bill comes up for a vote that you expect them to protect your interests as their constituents. Give them a call! Emails work too, but calls are more powerful. Go to the Senate or the House of Representatives web sites and find your legislator. Call and give them an earful! We need to make our voices heard!

Michael Moore's advice on how to get involved to make sure we're heard (excerpted from his letter sent out yesterday titled "The Rich are Staging a Coup this Morning":

"1. Call or e-mail Senator Obama. Tell him he does not need to be sitting there trying to help prop up Bush and Cheney and the mess they've made. Tell him we know he has the smarts to slow this thing down and figure out what's the best route to take. Tell him the rich have to pay for whatever help is offered. Use the leverage we have now to insist on a moratorium on home foreclosures, to insist on a move to universal health coverage, and tell him that we the people need to be in charge of the economic decisions that affect our lives, not the barons of Wall Street.

2. Take to the streets. Participate in one of the hundreds of quickly-called demonstrations that are taking place all over the country (especially those near Wall Street and DC).

3. Call your Representative in Congress and your Senators. (click here to find their phone numbers). Tell them what you told Senator Obama.

When you screw up in life, there is hell to pay. Each and every one of you reading this knows that basic lesson and has paid the consequences of your actions at some point. In this great democracy, we cannot let there be one set of rules for the vast majority of hard-working citizens, and another set of rules for the elite, who, when they screw up, are handed one more gift on a silver platter. No more! Not again!

Yours,
Michael Moore"

Pitbull with lipstick, even to RAPE VICTIMS.

2008-09-16T23:15:00.000-04:00

This link from USA Today is about how Governor Palin, as mayor of Wasilla, CHARGED RAPE VICTIMS FOR THEIR RAPE KITS. Yes, you read that correctly.

Here's an excerpt:

"Until the 2000 legislation, local law enforcement agencies in Alaska could pass along the cost of the exams, which are needed to obtain an attacker's DNA evidence. Rape victims in several areas of Alaska, including the Matanuska-Susitna Valley where Wasilla is, complained about being charged for the tests, victims' advocate Lauree Hugonin, of the Alaska Network on Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault, told state House committees, records show.

In cases when insurance companies are billed, the victims pay a deductible.

It is not known how many rape victims in Wasilla were required to pay for some or all of the medical exams, but a legislative staffer who worked on the bill for Croft said it happened. "It was more than a couple of cases, and it was standard practice in Wasilla," Peggy Wilcox said, who now works for the Alaska Public Employees Association. "If you were raped in Wasilla, this was going to happen to you."

I'd also like to point out that after these women have been raped, Palin does not want them to have access to abortion services.

Here's a Huffington Post article with further information on the issue- check it out. It has a copy of Wasilla's 1998-1999 financial budget that's cover page notes the mayor's responsibility for the budget.

I am INCENSED, OUTRAGED, DISGUSTED- there aren't enough words to describe how despicable this is, and no font/type face can symbolize my shock and utter dismay at this.

I need to hear some comments from yall. Did you know about this?? What do you think of this madness?

Sarah Palin & Hillary Clinton on SNL decrying sexism

2008-09-16T00:04:00.000-04:00

Anyone seen this opening skit from SNL last week? HILARIOUS!!!! Tina Fey and Amy Poehler are AWESOME! They nail both Clinton and Palin. Enjoy!!!

7 Year Sadness

2008-09-11T21:54:00.000-04:00

Today is September 11; a day we all know will never pass during our generation without a somber, solemn, immensely sad remembrance/commemoration/reflection on that tragic day in 2001. All day I have been listening to the radio reports of remembrance happening at ground zero, in the footprint, with the families, the various legislators and those that were reading the list of the 2900+ names of victims out loud. I listened to family members on the air with Amy Goodman, talking about how they didn't want war or violence in their names, in their loved ones' names. Democracy Now! was also interviewing Dave Isay, creator of Story Corps. He was asked by the Lower Manhattan Rebuilding Corporation to set up a Story Corps booth at the WTC site, and the Sept 11 Initiative, a mission to get at least one interview from family members of each of the victims killed during the attacks of September 11, was born.

Tonight, I am watching PBS which is airing "New York Remembers 9/11" a collection of short segments with surviving victims, perished victims' families and individuals related to the Towers as legislators, administrators, emergency workers, etc. I am watching a part of the segment which is all about health in lower Manhattan since the attacks for those who were emergency medical responders, undocumented immigrants who were hired by private contractors with federal money to clean the buildings and all the people who spent time around ground zero in the months after the attacks. It makes me incredibly sad and tearful to hear these stories, see these pictures, relive these traumas. But as sad as it makes me feel, it is so right to remember.

We must remember, but not in the pro-vengeance way some who tout the "we will never forget" motto do. We, who are alive and able to, must remember the people who were lost, the lives that were tragically disrupted, the heroism shown that day and since, and the fact that violence and hate are what ended these lives. We should not encourage and sponsor more violence or hate in their names- it will never bring them back. We must honor their memories by working to spread understanding and cross cultural communication, working to stop violence and hate, terrorist, street, state-sponsored, domestic, sexual or otherwise. What better way could we honor the victims than to create a more peaceful, loving world that they would be proud of?

As happens each year around the anniversary, stock is taken of how safe the country is or isn't in the years since, the general public mood towards the so-called "war on terror," osama bin laden's continued freedom/evasion of capture, and the annual increase in profiling of and racism/discrimination/violence towards American Muslims, Arab Americans, Sikh Americans and South Asian Americans. This year is no different, except that discrimination and racism towards American Muslims and those perceived to be Muslim is getting even more accepted and in fact, being codified into federal law.
This opinion piece from the Hartford Courant is a good article about this strengthening, inherently un-American practice. It's called "Will America Tolerate Anti-Muslim Discrimination?"
Check it out. I'd love to hear some feedback. Some more articles reflecting the chilling of opportunity, access to resources and blatant racism and discrimination that Muslims are facing all over America, throughout American life, follow as well. I hope to blog more about this when I have some time to do the topic, along with the growing body of work both reporting and analyzing this phenomenon, justice.

The first one is a recent article by Omad Safi from Beliefnet about Senator Barack Obama's Muslim Outreach Advisor/Coordinator getting sacked less than a week after being hired due to inferred suspicions about his completely innocent and necessary ties to the American Muslim community. It's called "Obama and the Kevin Bacon Game of Persecuting Muslims" from the Progressive Revival blog on Beliefnet.

There was once a little school called the Khalil Gibran International Academy that planned to open as the first dual language (bilingual) Arabic/English charter school in New York city that was planned with great hope and some fanfare, only to get sidelined and virtually destroyed by racist right wing attack dogs who claimed it would be a bastion of Islamist thought and would indoctrinate children to become Islamist sympathizing terrorists. Does this story ring a bell or sound familiar? The school's wonderful, perfectly suited headmaster, Debbie Almontaser, was removed from the school because of this racist smear attack campaign against her led by the absolute shithead Daniel Pipes.
(Don't know who he is? Find out. He might next choose to profile and smear you, whomever you are, just because you are reading this blog, written by an American Muslim. According to Pipes, being an American Muslim by definition makes you a bad American and an Islamist sympathizer. Pipes thinks that by speaking to, hearing from, reading words written, spoken or thought of by a Muslim makes YOU a sympathizer too. What a fucking idiot. But yeah- find out who he is, if you don't know. He also believes that regular, moderate, everyday Muslims and the people that know and love them are ""providing the political cover for jihad." )
The school was completely changed and not allowed to adhere to its originally Dept of Education approved mission of immersion bilingual Arabic education that also focused on Arabic culture and history. It has been moved from a central, public transportation accessible area in Brooklyn in a largely Arab American community to a far flung neighborhood, with little allowed involvement of concerned parents.
Just some updated context to bring you up to speed of what has happened since the below NY Times articles were written.
Some articles about this topic:
"Head of City's Arabic School Steps Down Under Pressure"
"Critics Cost Muslim Educator Her Dream School"

Hope everyone was able to remember and observe this seventh September 11 anniversary with some clarity and quiet, and leaves you with some peace.

Here is the link to today's Democracy Now! show that I mentioned before. It is really a wonderful reflection of the full circle of life since the attacks.

May God grant all those affected by the attacks peace and solace and bring some sanity back to our foreign policy.

Today is Women's Equality day!!!

2008-08-26T12:57:00.000-04:00

So as you see, today is a great day! Let's take a moment to remember the many countless women who worked for this, and the male allies (though few) that helped bring about this immense change. Taking a moment to reflect, the movement for women's equality has not been stopped by the rampant misogyny or sexism throughout our society. We have to keep pushing back against anti-women forces throughout goverment, policy makers, the judiciary, law enforcement, the media (hello chris matthews and fox news bleh), entertainment (yeah hollywood, talking to you, you anorexic producing, drug addled, old boys club, white standards of beauty perpetuating misogynistic media factory), religion, social attitudes and behaviors.

Go forth and be the change!!!!!

Michelle- sister girl, we need to talk! Part duex

2008-08-26T12:32:00.000-04:00

Watch the video of Michelle Obama's speech here. My expanded critique follows.

After checking out feministing.com this morning to check out the online responses
to Michelle Obama's speech, I didn't feel so frustrated. I'm glad I wasn't the only person watching the speech who was annoyed by the contrived nature of the speech and the resulting family tableau, and the over-emphasis of Michelle's existence and achievments as a mother, daughter and wife.

Very little mention was made of her accomplishments or her work. There was so much vocabulary used that is anti-feminist; all these terms from the "family values" lexicon, calling her dad her family's provider, her brother her protector, mentioning that Barack worked in the South side of Chicago as a community organizer in depressed neighborhoods full of frustrated black men who couldn't get jobs to provide for their families with. No mention of the millions of single mother led families throughout America, especially in the African American community, especially in Chicago's South side.

The time she should have mentioned it was when she referred to the parents who work the day shift, come home, kiss their children goodnight and then head out to the night shift. She said "parents" when she could have easily have said "mothers." She mentioned men as providers multiple times during the speech, but didn't mention women as providers once. She touched on Barack's single mother, but that was the only mention of the overwhelming reality for so many mothers, so many families.

There is nothing wrong with women being mothers or very dedicated mothers; in fact the overwhelming amount of work that women do in order to be nurturing mothers is immense, and is work that society consistently devalues except during photo-op settings like the speech. Because of this, the emphasis on Michelle's motherhood being key to her being a good woman and wife (and potential first lady) as evidenced by her statement "the first thing I think of in the morning is my daughters, the last thing I think before I go to sleep are my daughters" (and many supporting statements by Michelle's brother and mother) is negative. Depicting our potential future first lady as a super mom with no professional life just reinforces all the archetypes and lifepaths that we as feminists reject as social expectations for women! Pandering to the "center" full of these white middle and working class voters by towing this narrow line of what family is in American life is really ridiculous.

I didn't like Michelle's referral, more than once, to Barack's funny name. Barack's funny name is not his albatross, it is his strength. Trying to run from his Muslim step father or his experience within the Muslim community and reinforcing Islamophobia by working so hard to prove his Christian-ness and emphasizing how bad it would be if he were Muslim is also reinforcing the bigotry and racism of society. How is that the politics of change?

I also didn't appreciate Michelle's mention of Hilary Clinton's 18 million attempts to break the glass ceiling and her work to do so enabling our sons and daughters to dream a little bit bigger. To me, it made it sound like a woman in the White House would be achieved by the next generation instead of in the near future. Maybe I'm being too critical, and it's true we have to pick our feminist battles, but since Michelle is so eloquent and such an inspiring speaker, I was expecting more than what was offered and am annoyed that no one in the mainstream media (so far) seems to have noticed the obsequeous, family values tone to the whole speech in any of its negative connotations.

Michelle's mention of the enduring American Dream was disingenuous outside of her own experience. A generation ago, when she was born into a nuclear family on the South Side of Chicago, her parents were able to provide her a home with a stay at home mother and a working class father who worked for Chicago's water plant. Through this family set up and scrimping and saving, both Michelle and her brother were able to attend an Ivy league school, Princeton. That is so far from the realities working families, poor families and middle class families face today that simply mentioning her and Barack's journies as improbable wasn't enough. If the American Dream was so accesible and enduring, her journey and Barack's journey wouldn't be so improbable, and we'd see a lot more of it amongst my generation.

Oh, and the "Isn't She Lovely" theme song for her speech? WTF? Glad to see others were confused/appalled/annoyed by that choice as well. She is lovely, but that isn't the point. Being a good first lady has nothing to do with your looks or whether or not you are "cute." Again- WTF? at Barack's dimunitive compliment of his wife after the speech? I thought maybe I misunderstood and he was really talking to his younger daughter who was saying "Hi daddy!" and "I love you daddy!" I really hope that is what was going on, but it didn't seem like it. While Barack was beaming after the speech, his response to it was utterly lame. "now you see why I asked her out so many times?" Okay Barack. Come on. Your wife gives what you call the "best speech of the campaign" and that's your response? Bleh.

Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't vote for McCain for anything in the world. But as an American Muslim Third World feminist and early Obama supporter, I am increasingly disappointed with the path that Obama's campaign has taken and the movement to the center of his positions on many issues.

Michelle, sister girl- we need to talk!

2008-08-26T00:34:00.000-04:00

After watching Michelle Obama give her opening speech at the democratic national convention tonight, I am sure her speech writers are no doubt delirious after tonight's supposed slam dunk. I, however, was less than impressed! I was shocked!

I will give an in depth analysis when i have time to treat it properly... but did anyone watch the speech? it was a 1950s throwback! as we know, michelle obama is many things, including accomplished lawyer, community activist, supporter and proponent of national service, but in tonight's speech, was reduced to being simply a daughter, wife and mother! The language used and the story illustrated was so old-school, complete with nuclear family and references to frustrated men in chicago's south side that couldn't get jobs to provide for their families once the steel mills shut down. not a single mention of the lives of single mothers, even when a chance arose during a line about "parents who work the day shift, come home to kiss their kids goodnight, and leave for the night shift" this would have been the perfect place to mention the millions of single mother led families out there, especially african-american ones! I was astounded by the completely anti-feminist tone the entire speech took, though i understand trying to pander to the working class white masses out there, forging a connection to them, proving to them that despite Barack's "funny name" he's still american, with good old family values and hopes of the american dream for all. what i was more astounded by were the many tear filled eyes filling the convention hall!!!! while my sisters and i were apalled at the speech, apparently many delegates were deeply touched. BLEH! Also, when Michelle referred to Hilary Clinton and the 18 million cracks she put in the glass ceiling, she said that it was Clinton who allowed America's sons and daughters to dream bigger and higher htan they did before, apparently for the potential woman president to come. Uh- why do we need to wait another generation before a woman can fill the Oval office? Does that strike anyone else as a strange choice of words and sentiment?

Here is the link to the text and the video of Michelle's speech, but scroll down to the bottom of the page to read the full text and see the video.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/08/25/michelle-obamas-democrati_n_121310.html

More to come!

Please weigh in- does anyone else see what i did? a total pander?

Progressive Muslims: Why so often an oxy-moron?

2008-08-11T11:23:00.000-04:00

I've been asking myself this question for much of my life, but especially lately. I read an article this morning on Beliefnet.com by Omad Safi, a professor at UNC titled "Tricky Terrain: 'Progressive' and 'Religious'" . It deals with this tension within the Muslim community, and it pushed me to finally write about this, though I've been talking and thinking about it often as of late.

I had the great fortune of appearing on the UK television network Channel 4's special Shariah TV series about life for young American Muslims in the post-Sept 11th world. The episode I appeared on was focused on our lives in America called "Pledging Allegiance." It was about how we as young American Muslims navigate American culture and remain true to our Muslim identities. Where do we cut corners? What are we comfortable with? It was a truly interesting experience, with an incredibly diverse panel of young people coming from all over the spectrum of America's Muslims. Many of the young people were activists within their Muslim communities, working to make their communities better places. That was a first for me- meeting Muslim peers who are also involved in activism and social justice but from a particularly faith-based perspective, as opposed to my civic-minded, secular perspective. I met a fellow progressive (and Sagittarius!) that day on the show, and we clicked. We've been having really interesting and useful conversations about what being progressive young American Muslim women means, and how we feel within our greater Muslim communities as a result of our staked out ideological and social positions. We have had decidedly different experiences, but definitely both feel isolated within the Muslim communities we've experienced in addition to the progressive communities we've been a part of.

Being a woman within the framework of speaking about Islam and being Muslim is an incendiary position to be in. I find that speaking to other Muslims, my Islamic authenticity is challenged and questioned, as if believing in equal rights for all people, not supporting injustice of any kind and being pro-social justice makes my shahada (declaration of faith) less valid. People, including a coworker last week, will literally quiz me on the pillars of Islam or details regarding the proper way to pray or verses from the Quran that all Muslims must memorize in order to be able to pray. I find these interactions incredibly insulting and frustrating- I self identify as a Muslim, therefore I am.

I believe in one God, whom I refer to by the Arabic name of Allah. I believe in the same God that Jesus, Moses and Adam all prayed to and were messengers of, and count them among the prophets of Islam (peace be upon them all). I believe in the books that were revealed by Allah/God- the Torah, the Bible and the Quran.

Granted, I do believe that both the Torah (the Old Testament) and the Bible (the New testament and the Gospels) have been changed many times over the centuries by those in charge of the transcribing and translation in order to fit political and social convenience and gain.

None of this faithful belief infringes on my ability to think that women should have control over their bodies always and under all conditions and that women deserve nothing short of reproductive justice and freedom- all the time, no matter what. That includes everything from access to abortion, birth control, family planning, right to marry or not marry as one chooses, the right to an education, the right to move freely where and with whomever and wherever a woman pleases, the right to work, the right to pursue any occupation, career or life path a woman might ever want, the right to love whomever she wants, and the right to protection against all forms of rape, genital mutilation, assualt, harrasment, domestic violence, molestation, and any type of intimidation or coercion that puts any girls or women in any kind of danger.

My beliefs in Islam do not in any way hinder my dedication to developing an active, informed civic society on all levels of our citizenry, regardless of race, class, gender, sexuality, education levels, religion, geographic allegiance, political orientation, economic standing, incarceration status, immigration status. Islam is not opposed to democracy or social justice in any way. In fact, my belief in Islam supports all my beliefs in social justice and activism.

I would argue (supported by many scholars, activists and important historical figures) that Islam exhorts its adherents to oppose injustice at any turn and to always fight for those voiceless, marginalized people who cannot fight for themselves, and to aid those who are fighting for self determination, justice, respect and their human rights.

Speaking to many members of the various progressive communities I'm a part of, you'd never know those above statements are true or even possible. By declaring myself a Muslim woman, many in the progressive community think that I am oppressed and need their help. think I am acting out of sheer defiance of my "oppresive, violent" faith in having the ideals I do and organizing on behalf of non- Muslims, women, people of color, gays and lesbians, civic engagement, national service and my anti-war beliefs, to name some. Although, according to them, since I don't wear hijab and since I speak (rather loudly and often) about what I believe I must not be all that oppressed.

On the other hand, sometimes I get embraced in a rather ferocious way because I am willing to discuss the rampant misogyny I've seen abroad in undereducated, economically depressed and oppressed Muslim communities and the violence against women and the insistance of some ultra-conservative immigrant families on keeping their daughters from getting higer education, getting their drivers licenses and getting their daughters married off very early, often to a member of the extended family. This ferocious reception and acceptance is strange, and sometimes makes me feel strange about my position as a dissenter. I in no way mean to provide ammo to Islamophobes, xenophobes or anti-religious people. I do my utmost when discussing what I see as unjust amongst Muslim communities to educate my listeners to understand Islam and the true nature of what the Quran intended, as opposed to the way American media, and Western media in general depicts my faith and the many misconceptions many people have about it as a result.

I'm not trying to badmouth my faith or my fellow Muslims. I am deeply critical of this oppressive, dangerous patriarchal behavior that people try to pass off as being couched in Islam. It isn't. Racism, classism, materialism, sexism, misogyny, imperialism and oppression have no place in Islam or in the culture of Muslims.

I've been recently introduced to the group Muslims for Progressive Values and was overjoyed. Finally, a group that embodies all the progressive values that are vitally important to me, completely in harmony with Muslim values and people who don't see a need to change Islam, but the way Muslims regard Islam and its practice!

Also, after reading Omad Safi's article this morning, I checked out his new collection of essays online, called Progresive Muslims: On Justice, Gender and Pluralism and also found the book Quran and Woman: Rereading the Sacred Texts from a Woman's Perspective and plan to get both of them. I hope to find more information to strengthen my sometimes lonely positions.

There is a new masjid being built and started in my hometown that many people I know are actively involved in. One of the recipients of the various articles I send out every day recommended that I attend some of the board meetings to bring "the sister's perspective" to the planning process of what function this masjid is going to serve for the surrounding community. I think it is equally important to have progressive voices represented during this process as well. Just wish I had more support and allies to work with me on this. We'll see....

In Russia, sexual harrasment keeps humanity going!!

2008-08-05T14:53:00.000-04:00

Anyone see this ridiculousness?

Apparently, in Russia, Sexual harrasment is condoned, even encouraged by the Russian judiciary! A young Russian woman lost a sexual harrsment case against her older male boss becuase the judge reasoned that the boss acted "gallantly" and that sexual harrasment ensures the continuation of the human race (aside from all the rest of the absurdity and disgusting nature of this case,it's as if there aren't over 6 billion humans on the planet!).

Here's the link: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/russia/2470310/Sexual-harrassment-okay-as-it-ensures-humans-breed,-Russian-judge-rules.html

Just a small excerpt from the short article:

"She alleged she had been locked out of her office after she refused to have intimate relations with her 47-year-old boss.

"He always demanded that female workers signalled to him with their eyes that they desperately wanted to be laid on the boardroom table as soon as he gave the word," she earlier told the court. "I didn't realise at first that he wasn't speaking metaphorically."

The judge said he threw out the case not through lack of evidence but because the employer had acted gallantly rather than criminally.

"If we had no sexual harassment we would have no children," the judge ruled.

Since Soviet times, sexual harassment in Russia has become an accepted part of life in the office, work place and university lecture room.

According to a recent survey, 100 per cent of female professionals said they had been subjected to sexual harassment by their bosses, 32 per cent said they had had intercourse with them at least once and another seven per cent claimed to have been raped. "

So- instead of standing up for women's rights and trying to fight against this clearly pervasive issue that renders women's quality of life and safety at almost zero, this judge gallantly stands up for the entitled men throughout this patriarchy. With attitudes like this rampant amongst Russian men, along with political and economic insecurity in the country, it is not a suprise that Russia's birth rate has been significantly declining for years.

Despite Vladimir Putin's call in 2006 for subsidies and cash incentives for women to have children, and the import of motherhood and Russian families, respect for women has not risen accordingly. Through not adressing the widespread problem of sexual harrasment women in Russia face, and especially through this judicial ruling condoning this criminal behavior, it seems that the Russian state simply wants women to have sex and babies, and has little concern or respect for them otherwise.

Unbelievable.

Democracy Now!

2008-06-12T11:58:00.003-04:00

It's not everyday you get to meet to your hero. It's not everyday you get the opportunity to listen to them, make eye contact with them, speak with them, let alone interview them. Especially when that person is the indefatigable, undefeatable, incomparable, Amy Goodman. To say that this woman has impacted my life is to understate the importance her work and example plays in my life. since September 11, America has become a hostile and chilly place for dissenting view points, social justice activists, Muslims Americans, Arab Americans, South Asian Americans, and anyone who tries to stand up for the maligned, misunderstood and racially profiled. America has become a place where blatant hatred and discrimination in government policy, the media, pop culture, and social institutions is acceptable and rampant again. America is waging 2 wars and threatening to wage another against Iran. Throughout this process of war and hate mongering, Amy Goodman has been a beacon of reason, compassion, acceptance and willingness to intellectually, calmly, and with context, approach all sides of any news that happens. Goodman, along with Juan Gonzalez, take a stand against bigotry, hate, posturing, war cheerleading, and repeating the official line of any government on their daily multimedia news show, Democracy Now! You can listen to today's show along with all archives at democracynow.org .
I was interested in her background; how had she gotten in journalism? where did she grow up? what was her family like? how is she able to do what she does?
I got to interview her, my first interview ever! I borrowed a colleague's tape recorder (you read that right, it had a cassette in it!) and ended up in a heavy metal cafe (who has ever heard of such a thing? Only at Wesleyan I guess). It was so unbearably loud in there, but I persevered, asking all the questions I could think of, as the owner of the tape recorder listened and occasionally moved the tape recorder closer to Goodman's low voice. After the interview was over, my colleague put the tape recorder next to his computer and made a faint digital recording of the interview, which i now have. The file is huge and hard to hear, but if I can manage, I'll post it. A friend of mine had a proper digital voice recorder, but after half a day of journalism workshops, it was out of battery and not an option. To get the interview, I basically caught Goodman off guard, in the bathroom, after she first arrived on campus. Before speaking to us, she darted into the restroom to freshen up, and I happened to walk in as she was standing there at the sink. I was so surprised to see her in person, but I instantly asked if I could interview her after her lecture. She agreed and said that this is definitely the way to get an interview- catch someone off guard and ask them for info/an interview/cooperation. I was hugely complimented that she said yes and was gracious enough to turn my potential faux pas into a journalistic strength. After the interview, we all had dinner, and I was sitting at the same table as her. I remember that the year before, upon hearing that a friend's grandmother was close to Goodman, I commented that I know I'll have made it when I get to have dinner with Amy Goodman. I clearly haven't made it yet, but thank God for gifts delivered early! It was an awesome day.

Investigative Journalism Workshop in Honor of David Halberstam

2008-06-10T10:35:00.000-04:00

Morning Folks!

I'm writing from Wesleyan University on Tuesday morning. I'm at Camp Take a Stand, an investigative journalism workshop in honor of David Halberstam, sponsored by The Center for the Study of Responsive Law, Ralph Nader's advocacy group. Ralph Nader came and spoke to us! It was so cool! He's really interesting. Nader and Halberstam grew up together in Winstead CT and were lifelong friends. After David Halberstam was killed last year, Nader contacted many of Halberstam's friends and colleagues in order to try and honor David's legacy in a journalistic manner. David spent a lot of time in his prolific life encouraging, mentoring, and lecturing young journalists and students in journalism. He was killed leaving a speech to Berkeley journalism students. Jim Wooten, an ABC correspondent for World News Tonight who was one of David's best friends came and talked to us about David. Many of David's childhood friends from CT and colleagues who had worked with him throughout his life at the NY Times and other publications were here to share his memory with us and to actively remember his legacy as the finest American journalist of the last fifty years. Nader came to speak with us under these auspices and gave each of us 3 books to read, one he co-wrote. Very cool! Then he hung around for much of the day with us. Roberta Baskin, corporate misconduct investigative journalism from WJLA tv in DC came to speak with us. She was the most interesting faculty member of the day. She has done so many imporatant stories that have changed public policy- she's a huge advocate for consumer protections and does as much as she can to expose the filthy scandals of corporations. She's very cool! She couldnt stick around more than yesterday b/c she has another workshop to go lecture at. The coolest thing that happened yesterday was last night. We each have to write an aritcle about the workshop during this week and post it to our online newspaper/blog. my assignment is to interview AMY GOODMAN!!!!!!! More on that in a few hours, after lunch she's giving us a workshop about the art of the interview.... SWEET!!!! I'm super excited....

My Angry Vagina!!! My Vagina Monologues Performance;)

2008-05-04T16:00:00.001-04:00

On April 11, 2008, UCONN Stamford held their 3rd annual performance of the Vagina Monologues on V-Day. This year is the 10th annivesary of the V-Day: Until the Violence Stops movement. This year's official V-Day celebration was held in New Orleans, in honor of the victims of Katrina. So while I was a Vagina Warrior in CT, there were thousands of Katrina Warriors in New Orleans, working to help the many women and girls affected by the natural, and administrative, disaster. Check out the website- it's amazing and inspiring. V-Day!!

The Vagina Monologues is an amazing play by an even more amazing feminist activist artist named Eve Ensler. She wrote the play in the 1990s after interviewing hundreds of women about their experiences growing up, their experiences in relationships, their experiences of physical and sexual abuse and rape, their experiences of sex, their experiences of birth and ultimately of their vaginas. It is an incredibly powerful piece of writing that is performed every year to raise funds for organizations that fight violence against women and girls and organizations that support survivors of that sexual and physical violence.

As Eve Ensler performed this play all over the country, she was inundated by women wanting to share their stories of violence and abuse. She decided after that to begin the V-Day:Until the Violence Stops movement. In the last 10 years it has grown to an international movement, being performed all over the world and in the name of all women. Violence against women and girls is not simply a women's issue; men are ovewhlemingly the perpetrators of this violence, as fathers, husbands, boyfriends, soldiers, gang members- the list goes on. This is a women's and men's issue, because women alone cannot stop it. We need male allies to stand against all violence against women and girls, in deed, word and thought. Where do you stand?

Earth, part 2

2008-03-26T13:00:00.000-04:00

We were watching the Deepa Mehtha film Earth in my History of Modern India class today. As I ran out of class right at the moment the film stops being lighthearted and starts being incredibly depressing, I wondered at the story I was running away from. Having seen the film once and been deeply impacted by it, I had no need to see it again to relive the horrors of Partition. Since watching the film, these horrors have become very real to me and have stayed in my head, able to be replayed a moment's trigger. Here I am, a year and a half after my first view of the film, a seasoned traveler of Mother India, with much more hands on and historical context than the first time I watched it. I heard Partition stories from North Indian Muslim families while in India, have learned and read so much more about India's history, her people, her cultures, her realities.

So what am I running away from? Partition happened, and as Lenny-baby puts it in the film, changes the subcontinent forever. The violence that is unleashed on the people, by the people is apocalyptic- the earth is forever stained with the communal blood of countless victims. The story up until the point I left is of a Parsi family and their charmed, peaceful life in Lahore in pre-Partition India. You hear background noise of Independence at first, like static on the radio dial as you're trying to listen to your favorite regularly scheduled programming. As the days pass and the story moves forward, the radio show is completely eclipsed by the all encompassing chaos of the static. This story is essentially an every person, every family story, of a regular life, horribly altered by the workings of the world.

There is a poignant moment before the madness of Partition begins when Lenny's beautiful upper class Parsi mother, dressed immaculately in a silk sari, is giving her young daughter (a pampered young girl with a leg brace) a dance lesson on the Waltz. She remarks that in her opinion, the best thing the British gave India was not the steamship, but the waltz. They dance quietly, sharing a mother-daughter moment interrupted by Lenny's question about the position of Parsis in British-controlled Lahore. Lenny repeats a statement she's heard that "Parsis are British bum-lickers." Lenny's mother tries to explain to her that Parsis have always been like chameleons to survive, taking on the culture of the land they were living in. Then she relates a parable about a wise old Parsi man who sends a gift to the Indian prince that didn't want to allow Parsis to find refuge in India after fleeing persecution in Persia. The wise man sends the prince a bowl of milk with sugar. He tells the prince, "We Parsis will be like the sugar in this milk. Sweet, but invisible." "Understand?" she asks her daughter hopefully. "Yes," she answers. "Parsis are not bum-lickers, we're invisible."

To me- to me- this moment hits so hard. The daughter's sharp sense of the world she is living in combined with the innocence to ask her mother for answers...that mother can never know what lies ahead; that the identity that she is trying to impart to her daughter is going to be what determines who lives or dies in their city, in their country, even their own household, in a few short days.

This might be what I'm running from. Identity is such a personal thing, especially my own; it is so close to me, to my essence, the questions of my identity, of what grows from the roots that tie me to a civilization beyond these shores, to names, faces, arms and hearts across many oceans, to a religion whose community is of every color, geographic location and culture, whose center lays in the most contested region in the world, to my life, which began and has happened on these shores, full of spacious skies and mountains majesty, side by side the constitution, history of activism and systems of oppression that I can call my own- to the identity that I forge in the fire of my own experiences- the abuse, discrimination, xenophobia, misogyny, marginalization, invisibility; the joys of validation, of discovery, of wonder, of love of people, of human beings, of culture, of nature, of everything!; of self actualization, of education, of learning critical analysis as tool for change, a means of exacting a penetrating, magnifying gaze on our American society and hegemony, of interpersonal relationships with radical overtones b/c we're different, so different, yet love each other while learning from each other-

My identity, informed by centuries of tradition, immigration, conquest, suppression, oppression, faith, expression, assimilation, education, freedom fighting, co-opting, reclaiming, diaspora moving - how can that be something a person can be judged on? killed for? My deep seated anguish over the communal violence and attitudes that bedevil human kind- I bear witness, I record it in the pages of my deepest self, and I want to run. Sometimes, like today, I do run, too terrified to see the pain and the sheer ugliness of that place in the human pysche and human history that sanctions and condones these terrible abuses against our fellow selves.

And it all continues...

London, London, London, we going down~

2007-12-02T13:05:00.000-05:00

I got super lucky last month and got to spend a week in one of my favorite cities (which, as you might have guessed from my title was) across the pond in London, England. I had this fabulously unexpected opportunity through the fabulous service organization, City Year, I gave two years of my life to. It was essentially a four day business trip, full of back to back meetings to learn about the burgeoning youth service movement in Britain and gauge the possibility of bringing CY there. Our hotel was the Royal Horseguards Thistle Hotel, which is steps from the Millennium Bridge and down the street from Trafalgar Square (it's the one with the big lion statues) and the National Gallery. We got a great deal because it was the off season, otherwise there is no way our little non profit could have afforded it. It was beautiful! We got a full delicious English breakfast each morning as part of our stay, where I dined on eggs, hash browns (which were more like tater tots or latkas than American hash browns) and baked beans!!! That might sound gross, but trust me, they're great! I don't eat baked beans in America, they are disgusting. English baked beans, however, are so delicious, they are enjoyed on toast. Their orange juice wasn't fresh though; it was from concentrate! Gross. Needless to say, because of our crazy meeting schedule, I didn't get much time to enjoy our close proximity to Buckingham Palace, 10 Downing Street, St James Park or any other wonderful, historic tourist attraction. Luckily I have been to London many times and did not feel the need to see the sites, so I wasn't missing out. It was nice just to stroll or drive by them as we went to our many engagements. Surprisingly, London in the middle of autumn was much milder than I expected, not at all the dreary, depressing mess I had heard about for so many years. I guess global warming is doing something right. It was quite lovely, and I loved being able to walk around and soak up the atmosphere.

I spent a great deal of my time translating the cross-cultural communication we were doing. I did my best to bring a bunch of Yanks up to speed on both the major parts and the minutiae of British life. Schooling in Britain is different than America, all the way through college, which they call university. Compulsory schooling ends at 16 there. To them, college is the two years of school post high school (from ages 16 thru 18) where students decide on the subjects they want to study in college, learn only those, and prepare for huge exams in these subjects. The results of these exams, called A-levels (Harry Potter fans might recognize them as "O.W.L.s") determine which universities each student will place into and whether or not they will get admitted into the program of their choice (ie accounting, engineering, medicine, law). There is no liberal arts system there, and if you don't know what you want to do with the rest of your life at 16, well, tough luck.

Many young people can't wait to age out of the system. Since jobs, training programs and engaging opportunities for these minimally educated young people is scarce, they end up in the category of NEETs. NEETs is a govt term referring to young people, 16-18 yrs old, who are Not engaged in Education or Employment Training. They are not contributing to society and are beyond the scope of welfare. They are seen as a marginalized threat that is burden on their community. It is believed that many turn to delinquent behavior (drugs, alcohol, out of wedlock births, crime) with nothing to do. There is currently a huge push to direct money, both public and private, to organizations that offer some credible alternative for these NEETs.

London is hosting the 2012 Olympic Games, and like any host city in ther years leading up to it, there is a great deal of money floating around to improve it. This giant honey pot is both public and private. A lot of this funding is looking for a home with non profit organizations that are engaging youth to better their communities and build the culture of service. What better organization than my very own? We found a real need for our kind of proven service model and quantifiable results. We also found an extremely stratified society in terms of race, class, education level, ethnicity, among other things. This society is so segregated that people from different backgrounds and classes almost never have the opportunity to meet or interact, let alone work together for anything. There are no institutions where people can meet, make connections, build relationships, work together toward a common goal or share in a culture and experience together. Basically, these people need City Year!! The English folks we met with were interested in our program model and in our almost two decade track record. They were often unconvinced that City Year's cheerful, cheesy, peppy, multicultural organizational culture would fly with the staid, stiff upper lip conservative British folks.

They had some crazy impression that all Americans were cheesy, cheerful, silly and had no problem making fun of themselves in public. They thought that we were able to Power Greet (when CY corps members greet guests to our events with raucous songs, chants, applause and helpful directions) the masses, legions of starry eyed, idealistic Americans lining up to don the red jacket and donate to our cause. Yeah flipping right. Every year, there are corps members who hate starting their day with powerful PT (Physical Training), who hate the powerful unifying symbol of the uniform, who chafe under rules instructing what to do, how to dress, look and behave and are definitely not cheerful. They get over it. If they don't, they leave. It's that simple. When you dedicate a year of your life to service with City Year, you take a pledge (often each day) to put the community your serving before your own needs. You vow to work with your fellow corps members, putting your idealism to work in order to build the beloved community, bridging the gaps of difference by being the change you want to see in the world. It's some pretty powerful stuff if you take it seriously. British folks could get to be a part of it someday too, stiff upper lip not withstanding.

We've expanded to Johannesburg, South Africa and that corps has added so much to our culture, we've now use a lot of those things across the American network of CY sites. I can't even begin to imagine what British young people would contribute to the culture. Probably looser rules about alcohol, lol.

It was a great experience, and I was honored to go on CY's behalf. I got to meet some other alumni who were very cool. I also got to meet some of CY's founding board members. Talk about wealthy! My gosh... The highlight of the trip for me was getting to see my cousins, Naz and Kamal, and my new cousin (Kamal's wife) Sarah. We sat in a restaurant the day I arrived (after I hadnt slept in about 30 hours) and just talked. We havent ever had the chance to just talk, get to know one another and catch up since we've all been adults, and it was FANTASTIC. What fabulous people! I'm so glad we're related:) They certainly make up for the complete disappointment that is my paternal family tree. We talked about politics, the economies in both our countries, culture, cross cultural identities, India/Pakistan- it was AWESOME. I can't wait to go back this summer for a paternal cousin's wedding so I can see them and spend more time with them. By then, inshallah, there should be a niece waiting for me too!! :)

If you look very carefully, behind our dazzling red jackets, there is Big Ben, hidden in the darkness.

Here is Big Ben as we drive by on my last day.

My cousins Kamal, Sarah and I in the beautiful lobby.

The giant flower arrangement that lent the lobby beauty and fragrance the week I was staying at the Royal Horseguards Thistle Hotel. :D

My room, check out the twin beds pushed together!

My marble bathroom.

View outside the hotel entrance.

The fireplace in the lobby that always had a fire going.

World AIDS Day

2007-12-01T03:54:00.000-05:00

Today is World AIDS Day. Get tested! Donate money to fund research to find a cure! Talk about it, learn about, teach about it; the more we talk about it, the less stigma there will be. Here's a Washington Post article on the state of HIV/AIDS in the nation's capitol.

Study Calls HIV in DC A 'Modern Epidemic'

Here's another Washington Post article about the rise in AIDS cases around the nation.

Where's your red ribbon?

It takes a village...

2007-12-01T01:11:00.000-05:00

Hey everyone. It's me. It's been almost an entire semester since I've written, and it is nice to just be writing whatever pops into my head. These last few months have been so hectic and yet uneventful at the same time. I've been taking two amazing Women's Studies classes that have deepened my (ahem! already broad and informed!) understanding and awareness of the world. I have as yet been completely unlucky in the search for a entry level, modestly paying full time gig, although I have landed a substitute teaching gig at a local preschool.

I've been doing it for the last two months and am dedicated to branch out into temping. The politics and petty unprofessionalism of many employees of said preschool is too much for me. These individuals seem to care more about their alliances than the children, more about their outfits than giving the kids attention and more about controlling the children than teaching them. So many times during my break I have wished for a computer handy so that I could document all the jumbled thoughts running through my head. In my classes, I've been learning all about the nature of gender segregated work and the fact that most jobs in America, over 80%, are predominantly one gender or the other. Of those gendered occupations, jobs that care for, serve or nurture others are the least valued, the least paid and often the least trained. Unfortunately, childcare often falls into that category.

Everyday, I see in real life what the studies and readings from my Gender in Everyday Life and the Evolution of Black Feminist Thought discuss. I feel like I'm watching a sociological study unfold in front of me. The women who teach at the school are mostly women of color and most have only their high school educations. They aren't qualified, aren't salaried, don't have contracts and don't know much about child development. The not being salaried and not having contracts isn't their fault, it's the fault of a system that doesn't regard childcare and education a priority. As a result, they aren't paid well, don't have much job security and are often in these paid positions because they have no training and can't do anything else. Since they are paid so poorly, they can't pay for classes to get certified and trained either.

The preschool/childcare center caters to mostly economically disadvantaged families. As a result, the center gets money from the state to cover many children, and the center is often cash strapped. These children are the ones who would benefit the most from trained, skilled, qualified teachers who know how to teach pre-literacy skills and how to recognize learning disabilities and speech problems. The teachers come out of pocket to buy almost all of their supplies for their classrooms and activities. These children would benefit most from state of the art facilities where all their senses were constantly engaged, where computer use was daily for each child, along with intensive vocabulary and individual reading time. The state of CT is very progressive compared to most other states in terms of defraying childcare costs and legally requiring the safety, health and facilities available to all the state's children. It has declared that by 2020, all childcare workers will be qualified in early care and education and early childhood development. Unfortunately, that doesn't immediately help any of these aforementioned teachers who are not certified or academically trained.

My mother, on the other hand, is a childcare professional, with two decades of experience, fully qualified and a degree in early childhood development under her belt. She loves children, all children, and is amazing at interacting with, teaching and challenging them. She teaches at this preschool, and is constantly pushing everything forward with her work and example. I watch all the children at the preschool lean to her, like small flower buds leaning toward sunlight, because she gets on their level, interacts with them, talks to them, sings with them, plays with them, comforts them, and is always thinking of new ways to show them new things. Many of the other teachers, none of whom are qualified, resent my mother's skill, training, innovative ideas, creativity and sheer love of the children. They watch her, in turns amused and annoyed, as she chases the children on the playground, engaging with them, interacting with them and validating them. Around her, they feel safe, loved, and challenged. She finds ways to teach them about everything in a fun science-focused way that turns even seemingly mundane task into a new discovery. Those other teachers are right to feel insecure, she's amazing at what she does.

Yesterday afternoon I got to cover the afternoon shift with the two year olds classroom, where I had spent a week subbing. I got a chance to run, play, sing, and dance with the kids, and they were GLOWING. We ran around outside in the playground for 15 minutes, just going in circles, chasing each other and laughing. I was elated to get to spend so much joyful time with them. I sang a welcome song with them, sitting on the ground so that I was at eye level with them, and we sang it in different voices, at the suggestion of one of the children. All eight children clamored around, sticking their hands out to shake mine, taking turns and suggesting which of their friends should get a turn next. They were so excited! It was nice weather outside, so we stayed out for an entire half an hour, instead of going in early like we normally do. The kids couldn't get enough. It was beautiful, getting to interact with them, watching their eyes light up, having them sing along and participate 100% in the song "If you're happy and you know it," do the Hokey Pokey, sing "Five little ducks" and then want to chase and be chased for 15 minutes. These are two year olds and almost two year olds; 15 minutes of anything is a big undertaking for them. I just wanted to hug and tickle them, shower them with all the love and energy I had. I enjoyed it so much because there was nothing but the children to occupy my attention. Just their little, new lives in a big world that they haven't discovered yet.

These kids have two teachers who never play with them, certainly don't run around with them, and don't even hug them. (One teacher tells the children not to hug her so as not to ruin her clothes.)

When we finally went inside, they had to sit and watch Barney. Not nearly as exciting as running around outside, but you can't really replace the big purple dinosaur. He's their sacred cow. I made a point to tell the parents how much fun we had playing outside, and the parents were almost as excited as the children. "Got a chance to get some exercise today for a change, huh? That's great!" one parent responded.

Don't get me wrong; it's not a bad center. But it is not a great center, with the exception of my magnificent mom. It could be so much better. I have enjoyed the children I have gotten to know, marveled at the things I have been able to teach them, lamented if they regress, celebrate as they learn and grow each day, and loved all of them. It's amazing how developed and solid the personality of a child can be, only having been in the world for a series of months. They are little people, with their own tastes, likes/dislikes, moods and joys. The things they notice, pick up and know- it is just a wonder to behold. I guess parents feel like that as they watch their children grow. But I think teachers get the best opportunity to witness these changes, eccentricities and developments. I am proud to say that I got to be a small part of the village actively raising this community's children; they're beautiful.

Having been through this experience, I am reminded of the world I want to see. I want to be part of a world where the village it takes to raise our children is a well funded, well paid, well trained, adequately qualified, universally insured, loving village where our children are our biggest priority.

What about you?

Heights I'll never reach

2007-08-18T19:37:00.000-04:00

Some pictures from my afternoon in Jackson Heights, NY

I spent the afternoon in Jackson Heights, Queens, also known as Little India. It is a few blocks of Indian grocers, music stores, jewelry stores, restaurants, dvd/video stores, vendors selling kulfi (rich, creamy Indian ice cream) and paan (gross leaves filled with gross stuff that stain your mouth red that Indians like to eat as a breath freshener or something.... I ask why not chewing gum?) line the streets. Women in shilwar khameezes, saris, and various versions of Indian influenced Western dressed fill the sidewalks, stores and crosswalks. Men in kurtas, wearing kufis, open toe sandals (with eternally ashy feet!), Bryl cream or tayl (oil) styled in their hair, potbellies gently spilling over waistbands and belt loops. Some English mixed with Hindi, Urdu and other languages I didn't recognize peppered the air. Store windows laden with gold, glitter, sparkle, bling and gaudy triflings fought with the loud remix music thumping out of shotgun hallway stores hawking the latest masala hit
songs for my senses. Leering male eyes along with disapproving female pairs followed me on tarmac, in store and restaurant. My mom chafed at the leering eyes while I notice the disapproving ones; a reflex action ingrained after an adolescence spent as a black sheep.

I hadn't been to Jackson Heights in years, at least three, if not more. I was pleasantly surprised i remembered my way around. I was amazed at how many more desi folks seemed to be around- there were way less non brown folks walking around. The last time I had been to JH, many non desi folks filled the stores, sidewalks and restaurants. My mom & I spent the day enjoying our brownness; we ate lunch at our favorite Afghani kebab house, savoring the tandoori cooked, wonderfully spiced chunks of meat, drowned in my favorite thick spiced yogurt sauce. We visited a large Indian grocery store, full of vegetables native to the dishes I ate growing up, spices that fill my home, brands I recognized from India, even snacks I enjoyed while stuck on insanely long train rides were there. We went into this grocery primarily to pick up tubes of mendhi, the paste made from the henna plant, for a woman who would be doing "henna tattoos" on Uconn students during Welcome Week. We ended up buying some spices, veggies and snacks that our pantry was low on. I had to ask for help in finding some products in the aisle and felt that familiar sense of not being "Indian" enough. I knew what I needed but not how to ask for it in Hindi. The employees at the store looked at me like I was an interloper. I almost had to check my skin tone, but no use. I felt the need to pepper my conversation with mom with stories from India, or the Hindi words I knew for things.

It didn't help me feel anymore comfortable. It was like a movie where you follow the lost, hapless protagonist as she bumbles around a place she doesnt belong, offending the locals and not getting the hint. I bumped into large old Sikh men whose "excuse mes" didn't make it through my haze of insecurity and displacement. This continued throughout the day. On our visit to a clamorous corridor that served as a masala music store, I was treated like an idiot. This despite knowingly exactly what i wanted and an inquiry into local bhangra events. After being rude and short with me, as I left the guy tried to make a sale and offered me his bhangra titles. No thanks, ya jerk! We went into a fancy bridal boutique to check out the latest formal Indian clothes. Treated like crap again by another brown male shopkeeper, I had had just about enough of this. Everyone on the street was acting as if the dog spoke when I tried to ask them for service, as if i was the strangest thing they had come across. Me, with my non-accented English, full sentences and proper grasp on pronoun use and verb conjugation. We walked to the other side of Little India near the movie theater. We sat down in Jackson Heights Diner for a drink and were treated rudest of all. This waiter put my mom's chai down so abruptly and turned away so quickly that her tea spilled all over the saucer and the table. As we called to him to come back and clean up, he didn't even turn around. Bastard. No tip for him. (Don't go there if you're ever in the neighborhood! It's very hyped among the non-desi set, but as you can see, the service is HORRIBLE! Don't give them your business)

We went to Kebab King after to get some delicious chicken kebabs. There was a large enough mix of desis that I didn't feel singly different. As I was waiting in line for the bathroom, I realized that I'll never fit in. A year in India didn't help me relate to this Indian cultural experience closely tied to the Motherland. I can no sooner relate to the immigrants that populate this neighborhood as the Indian girls I met while in the country could relate to my independence or educational career. Different worlds, different lives. I have a bigger clue into what the Indian cultural experience is, knowing the brands of the products most used and most popular, the Indian business families, the Bollywood titles, even the tv shows everyone watches. I can understand enough basic Hindi to follow along a conversation or some tv shows. My life and ideals fly in the face of these cultural trappings though. I am Indian through my ethnic ancestry and my cultural upbringing, but that is not all I am.

I am not against equality of human beings, I do not believe money, education or status makes you any better a person, I do not believe in having servants to do household chores, I do not believe that lighter skin is better or more beautiful, I do not believe in increased militarism or proving a country's growing international power by building a nuclear program, I do not believe in sectarian violence or discord. I do not believe in vapid pop culture that pushes messages of consumerism on its brainwashed, often impoverished citizens. I do not believe in patriarchy, or that my role as a woman is biologically determined. I do not believe in racism, colorism, sexism, classism or denying education to those who aren't in the highest social class. I hope these things do not take away from my Indian-ness. But after a lifetime of being cast out of whatever brown community I encounter because of my difference, after a year spent in the Motherland, I don't feel like my ideals have much of a place in this community. I know amongst the diaspora, there is room for the grass roots, ideals driven activism and lifestyles that some are working towards. It just feels like there isn't much.

Below is a link for a beautiful song that Juan sent me- its all about loving and missing the Patria, of Fatherland. The lyrics are translated in the clip, check it out. When I heard it, I felt an intense sadness that I don't have that connection to the Motherland. I do feel an intense love and patriotism towards my homeland, America, but it isn't an ethnic connection. Certainly not in a country that seems to constantly tell brown folks we don't belong, aren't wanted and are a security threat. Eff those folks. Enjoy the song.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=sGEGo_j9XH4&mode=related&search= "Patria" by Ruben Blades and Robi Draco Rosa.

Bet on it, bet on it, bet on it.....

2007-08-17T22:08:00.000-04:00

High School Musical 2 just premiered, and it's so much fun! If you haven't seen the first one, please do yourself a favor and watch it. The songs are fantastic and the cast sufficiently cute. The second one is cute, with some super catchy songs, but I could have done with more full cast numbers. All in all, it's cute, fun and sing along worthy. Can't wait to hear these songs for the next year. I'm ready for the next one, I dunno about anyone else...

Bridezillas

2007-08-14T21:20:00.000-04:00

Not to follow one morose and miserable entry with another a month later but here we are. I am officially anti-wedding. I have had a group of close girl friends for many years now, wonderful, considerate amazing accomplished women who i felt blessed to count as my inner circle. they have been here for me through thick and thin, supporting me, advising me, laughing and crying with me. in the many years we've been friends, we've grown up. We're now grown women with adult lives and responsibilities. During those years of growing up, we would discuss everything! All the potential for life that lay before us. We laughed, dreamt and discussed what might happen, always with a focus on our inevitable weddings. we always played a part in each other's fantasy weddings, helping plan, making toasts, selecting dresses, dancing together at the reception. Little did we know the reality of weddings that awaited us.

best friend #1 got engaged at chistmas, the very first of us to get a proposal, a ring and a ticket into unknown territory. Years of watching wedding shows on tv did nothing to prepare us for what was in store. We (myself and another best friend) were asked to be maid of honors at this joyous event. The wedding was a mere 7 months from the engagement and was to be a quasi destination wedding. I say quasi because her fiance is from the British Virgin Islands and wanted the wedding at his family's church. So not a destination wedding for him or anyone from his family, but certainly so for us and her family. Incredible stress and drama arose from every angle of this planning process. Any time we tried to ask questions or move the process along, we were shut down by a bride who had too much on her plate and didn't want to deal with the wedding. ( Case in point: The invitations didnt go out until 6 1/2 weeks before the wedding. ) We were up all hours of the night, trying to plan her bridal shower and bachelorette party, trying to keep her calm, prod and poke her relatives to get passports or look at tickets to come to the wedding. The flights were expensive, the dresses (they were ordered late, obviously) cost exorbiant amounts of money and crucial details like "where will we stay?" "who is dropping us off at the airport once you've left for your honeymoon?" "who is doing our make up the day of?" "do we need to get our nails/hair done before hand?" "how will we get food?" were not considered, let alone addressed. Despite our bang up amazing surprise bachelorette WEEKEND in Atlantic city, our bride seemed to become withdrawn and damn near entitled as the weekend progressed. Months of work and very little genuine thanks in return. Same (but worse) with the bridal shower. Not only was the bride not so appreciative, the guests were rude! I felt excluded at the party i planned and was hosting! Unbelievable. But that was not all. I had no idea that consenting to be a maid of honor meant consenting to servitude in its most noxious form. "Worked like a Hebrew slave" is a phrase i heard and thought during the week, even after the months of stress, shouldering the incredible costs of planning, drama with her family and friends..... At the end of it all, we didn't even get a shout out at the reception. We got attitude after the wedding for not scurrying along fast enough to grab her cathedral veil & train off the ground. Mayhbe I'm insensitive, maybe i just don't give a rat's ass after all this, but isnt that why the wrist loop is on the underside of the train? So that the bride can HOLD UP HER OWN DRESS?!?!?!

Beyond getting mistreated, being unappreciated, feeling like outsiders and not getting fed enough, the worst part of this entire occasion has been the feeling of losing best friend #1 completely. she so completely left her family, friends and old life behind to cleave to her new husband, life and family of her own that it feels as though she's gone forever. Her new priority and duty in life, according to her Baptist wedding vows, is her husband. And since West Indian cultural traditions expound that a wife should never air her husband's or her marriage's dirty laundry to anyone, the chances she'll confide in us, or me, are slim to none. So we've been outmoded, out manuevered and made obsolete. During her relationship with her now-husband, she retreated from her friendships with us and spent almost all of her time with him. My hope for her time or attention now that she has firmly entered married life is slim to none.

Losing one best friend to the married life isn't so bad, right? That's only one out of a few really good friends i've been blessed with. I'll miss her, but at least i've got others. Or so I thought.

best friend #2 got engaged at the same time! Right before Christmas, 2006. Cept i didn't know. in fact, she didn't tell me until i returned from india and finished school FIVE MONTHS later. Hurt and a little dejected that i wasn't able to celebrate this momentus occasion with my best friend, i was even more hut by her brush off when i asked, beqildered, why she would wait, not tell me for so many months and then ultimately tell me in such an offhand way! Given that we've been best friends since we were 16 (8, almost 9 years for those counting)and had spoken numerous times of each others' involvement in our wedding plans, I expected to be asked to be part of the wedding party. Honestly, considering how bitter a taste my maid of honor experience left me with, I think even wanting to attend another wedding is good on my part. I love my friend so much that not only do i want to attend, I want to help! So months pass, and I assume she is merely waiting for the craziness with friend #1's wedding to die down before she asks. My dumbass is even thinking she might make me a maid of honor! How wrong I was. Today, as I caught up with her face to face for the first time in an entire YEAR, she casually mentioned how she hasnt even found dresses for "the girls" yet. It was at that moment that my insides crumpled and I realized that not only was she not going to ask me to be her maid of honor, she wasn't going to have me in her wedding at all. I feel pathetic for caring so much, but i was so hurt and sad i wanted to cry. This is my best friend! I have to find out this way that she doesnt consider me so in return? It hurt so much! It was like being dumped, cut from the varsity team, having my pumpkin smashed on halloween, having my puppy run over and being told that well, I'm just not that important or special. For eight years (almost 9) this friend has been an important part of my life, one of the most important people, period. We never had the chance to go to high school or college together, our friends were always different, but we were always tight. Or so i thought. The most painful thing about it was that it seemed to come out of left field! I had no idea we weren't as close anymore :( I spent my year abroad in india, sent postcards, emails, even tried calling from there, but with no response. My friends are one of the greatest priorities in my life and i do my best to keep up with them, to help them, to stay in touch with them, support them, see them. It hurts when it isnt returned, and when it seems that after everything, our friendship just doesnt mean that much.

In short, weddings suck. They have taken two of my best friends from considerate caring women who love me back and turned them into bridezillas who emotionally smack me around and then leave me for something better. i could really title this "i hate weddings!" or "i welcome some of my close friends to get married and be nice to me along the way, while we retain our fabulous friendships even with all the marriage mayhem."

My life is all I have; my rhymes, my pen, my pad.....

2007-07-12T02:38:00.000-04:00

So! It has come to my attention in the last week that I have not posted for the last TWO MONTHS! Maybe it makes sense that as a result my life has felt upside down-not writing is usually a recipe for disaster, or a symptom of it. When really stressful things start to come up in my life, I find that nowadays, I have no desire to write about it. I don't want to look at it on paper, I don't have the energy to rehash it once again. Hence the not writing. This has the unintended effect of throwing whatever might be harmonious in my life off balance, since when i don't write, portions of myself go unexamined, unexpressed and unsupported.

Ever had the felt like King Midas? You know, he's the king from the old stories who loved gold so much he was cursed with a touch that turned everything into gold, even his loved ones. I feel like that right now, but instead of it being a golden touch, it's a shitty touch.

I have felt unmoored since I have been done with my year of study abroad- caught up in the daily mundane tasks of organizing, preparing, cleaning, planning. These are normally things I enjoy doing, but even though they are important and necessary, I have felt as though time and life have been passing me by as I finish paying off my tuition by doing a month of work exchange for my academic program, applying to a state university, organizing things in my mother's home and moving myself back into it after living away for years. I am the co-maid of honor at a best friend's wedding, and the inane and insane planning for this event has been trying my nerves, patience and coping mechanisms. So much stupidity from so many people during what is supposed to be a fabulously happy time! Instead it is hours of phone calls, stress, emails, researching websites for everything from reasonable airfare (it's a destination wedding) to acceptable favors and decorations. In addition, there is so much damage control involved, I feel dread every time my cell phone rings. The extended family I was spending the last week and a half with (on what was supposed to be my vacation) was almost as invested in this planning as I am! My aunt was suggesting solutions, researching favor ideas, taking me to the local flea markets, party stores and the like in search of everything I need. The fam listened as I stomped around the house, angrily shouting into my cell phone, rolling my eyes at every opportunity, appalled by the lack of decency of some people. My uncle stole me some blank CDs from work, my friends all listened to my frustrations and fears in planning all of this. It's amazing that I am complaining about all of this! I LOVE logistics! I LOVE planning, be it event planning, schedule planning or even just organizing what needs to get done. I have soured on my beloved logistics, at least for now. It will be some time before I can fondly think of anything related to responsibility for an event (or weddings).

So back to my shitty touch. The event myself and another friend have been planning for the last month and a half has almost entirely fell through tonight. I arrived back on the East Coast, literally landed on the tarmac and turned my phone on to continue the never ending list of things to do and discovered half my guest list will not be attending. Hours of damage control and what ifs ensue as I return to my beautiful, beloved home, begin to unpack and settle in and move around the house. I check the mail, with all of the last week's post there. I have eagerly been awaiting an answer from the state university I applied to. To my shock surprise and horror, I was rejected. I was not offered admittance. A year of straight As, after two years of serving my country through national service, still not enough to erase the unsuccessful academic attempts I made right after high school. Now I feel like I've got nothing: no job, no school, no plans- Thankfully I have a loving supportive family and a place to stay, which is a whole lot more than nothing, I know, but I feel like I have nothing of my own, nothing for myself. The relationship that means the most to me in the entire world has fallen and continues to fall apart, possibly beyond repair, and I don't know how to fix it, or if my best friend will even let me try. No job, no school, no best friend, no plans....

When one door closes, another opens, when the door shuts in your face, a window somewhere is unlocked, everything happens for a reason, every cloud has a silver lining, insert whatever tried and true cliche you got. This is the pathetic place I am in at the moment; everyone is quoting trite advice to me. Next round of it will be "Don't worry, you're strong, you'll get through this," as if I can just lean back onto this alleged strength and skate on through. Life will work itself out, God will see to it, don't worry. I feel that is true (despite my anti-cliche stance at the moment), but hearing that right now does nothing for my mood, my plans or the pit of live snakes in my stomach that masquerade as anxiety.

Honoring my Mother

2007-05-18T03:41:00.001-04:00

Now that I have returned to the States from India, I get asked over and over (and mostly by my curious family) how India was. A complicated question, to be sure, and quite a mouthful for conversation over dinner or chai. No one ever seems to ask anything specific, so I'm left to answer with a simple "It was great!"
A fantastic cousin of mine (who I might mention is a loyal reader of this oft-neglected and even more often ignored blog) asked some pointed questions about my experience. Basically it was "Don't you feel that as good as India has been doing lately, it hasn't really improved all that much? Look at the poverty, the corruption, the indifference of the people, how did you deal with that? Have you noticed that Indians/ primarily Hindus don't even ackowledge the problems? How do you feel about it?" (Thanks so much for your email, Adiba, because I haven't written in weeks, and haven't reflected on India much either.)
After finishing my response I decided I would share it with all of you, since it is how I feel, however disjointed or incomplete a picture it may be:

I don't think that the lack of acknowledgement of India's problems is simply a Hindu trait. Not from what I experienced at all. It is just a completely different mindset. In America, there is generally a sense that if one works hard, prosperity, if not comfort, is within reach. In India, people believe that in order to prosper, someone, often a neighbor, must go without. It is this cruel attitude that fuels the complete and utter disinterest in the calamities of life that occur in India. Everyone is so concerned and caught up with the real or perceived slights and injustices happening to them that no one else's problems matter, be they sexaully trafficked children, neighbors raped and killed in a recent pogrom or newborn girl babies being left to starve so that the families dont have to raise them. Indians, while having an idea of what is wrong with India, have no real hope or vision of how to fix it. The corruption is so overwhelming, crushing and rampant that it appears nothing can be done to fix it, work around it or even improve life with it.

Have you seen the Bollywood film Raang de Basanti? It is incredibly fabulous, and if you haven't seen it, you should rent it as soon as you are done reading this email. It is my new favorite Bollywood film, edging out Lagaan. Both star Aamir Khan and have music written by A.R. Rahman, and both deal with the Indian struggle for freedom and meaningful independence in the wake of oppressive indifference, but Raang de Basanti hits closer to home for me. Rent it, seriously. You'll see what I'm talking about. There's a whole slew of films I could recommend to you that thoughtfully, and from an Indian perspective, examine the realities of modern day India that are worth watching and helpful to gaining a clearer picture of what some of India's many faces look like. Muslims, Hindus, Jains, Sikhs and Christians alike all believe that their India is all they've got. Even in the rare instance they are seriously trying to create a life somewhere else, there is a mislaid but I imagine natural tendency to not piss on what you've come from. I mean that in the sense that Indians, no matter how lazy, no matter how corrupt, no matter how unethical or unhappy, like all people, want to believe that they come from something great.

No one wants to believe that they, their history, culture and country are inferior to anyone or anything. It might be true, it might be blatantly obvious and it might be wrong in the sense that comparing cultures is impossible and that every culture is right in the fact that it exists. (Frankly, that last one is pure bullshit to me.) But people want to have pride in where they come from, what they are, and what makes them who they are. This supercedes the fact that they don't care about the plight of their neighbor, they hate their country's religious majority or minorities or will step on anyone and everyone to fatten their lot. I saw people of all faiths in the same breath condemn America and the West and wish desperately to come here and on the other hand, proclaim India's global superiority and decry its poverty & lack of infrasture. Its complicated.

Human life is not sacred there. In a country with over a billion people, life of all kinds is what they are in excess of. Losing one or two, or even thousands, doesn't phase many. Even if it did, it's not like they could do a thing about it. Money is important here in America, sure. People's lifestyles and fast paced lives might re-inforce that fact. But we work hard for what we have, and mostly I think we do it to at some level to be happy. I might be turning this into a cheesy discussion of why I like America so much, but so be it. Human life here is importanat.Often affluent white lives are the most valued (think of every time a white woman goes missing: how much media coverage is there of it in a country where every 4 seconds a woman is beaten and abused), but life is valuable here. We could argue about the current government's (and by extension, all governments') seeming callousness toward life (think the Iraq & Afghanistan wars we're in, think Hurricane Katrina, think the ridiculous price of pharmacuticals and insurance dominated healthcare system where nearly 50 million Americans go uninsured each year) but the people here care.

Brought on by the Christian and Protestant ethic of giving back and the church culture of soup kitchens, women's circles and what not, Americans give alot. After every natural disaster, the nation's sympathies and donations pour forth to help our fellow humans. India-not so much. I spent the last two years of my life serving my country in the nation's capitol, teaching kids to read, beautifying schools, parks and community centers and teaching my peers about social issues, responsibilities and civic leadership. I proudly wore my country's flag on my left shoulder despite my blatant disagreement with the govt and sheer disappointment and disgust at what is being perpetrated in my name as an American. In America, there is a healthy dialouge as to why military service is wrong or right, necessary or excessive- in India, anything that is patriotic and jingoistic is accepted and celebrated (once you get past each person's ingrained prejudice towards other ethnic/religious groups of Indians).

Ever heard of Arundathi Roy? She's an AMAZING Indian writer who wrote a novel called the God of Small Things and a non fiction book called An Ordinary Person's Guide to Empire (if you havent checked them out, please do, you wont regret it, I promise!!!). She's a rare Indian writer and thinker in that she is not impressed by all these fierce displays of nationalism and military/economic might. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell right now, she seems to be very lonely in her sleepless spot of speaking out against injustice in India (and the world around us). Most Indians I met, while having possibly heard of her, were not actually familiar with her work or her ideas. This is purely anecdotal evidence of my experience, but most seemed very resistant and even shocked at the ideas of hers that I brought up.

In India, and among Indian company, I don't feel that healhty (although not so much withing the last 6 years) American (and much more so british/european) distrust of govt, of critically thinking about the state of today's world or wanting to know the full story of what is happening. (As a result, India's press is notoriously lazy and unaccustomed to act as a check or balance for a corrupt, bloated government that betrays the people.)

In addition, India is SUCH a patriarchal society, it is sometimes sickening to witness. Did you know there is a higher ratio of men than women in india? Families have been using sex selective abortion, abandonment and female infanticide to achieve their dream of a male child for so long that the population has acutally tilted towards the y chromosome. Indian men are immature, incapable, incompetent, socially inept, entitled, emotionally weak and unavailable because society makes them this way. They are celebrated since birth simply on the merit of their penis and not disciplined as children. They are fed ridiculous, fuedal, disgustingly backward ideas about women, their worth and how to treat them; especially the notion that women are responsible for society's sexuality and if not sequestered behind dupattas, burquas, appropriate male figures including only father, brother & husband and purda, that they are fair game and fresh meat, available for abuse. This is in additon to their usefulness/responsibilities as workhorse incubators that dont deserve rights, education or freedom. (Some believe differently, of course, but it is a perspective that is few and far between in a country with over a billion minds.) It is these attitudes, fostered and then perpetuated by society and damn near every single Indian family, regardless of caste, finance or religion that create that typical Indian male behavior and the oppression that Indian women face everyday, generation after generation.

Not to be a complete downer, there is some hope. the Indian grass roots is an inspiring sight to behold and thankfully exists because of India's idealists. Many of these wonderful folks are women. It's just that while I met some of these amazing women, it wasn't in a day to day setting. I saw muslim women, my relatives, being sequestered, oppressed, married off at young ages (younger than me, so in my opinion, too young), educated and receiving university degrees, only to fulfill their proper roles as housewives,.What was worse was watching them believe it to be their destiny, their sole purpose. I saw Islam and India fail them, their ideas & ideals distorted by greed and patriarchy. It made me sick. India's a funny mother though... in light of mother's day, I can't help but reflect on how I love her. She is enthralling, infuriating and inexplicable all at once. I wouldnt exist without her.

Guess who's back?!?!

2007-04-14T22:52:00.000-04:00

I'm in america yall. I've been travelling for over a day, but because of time zones and stuff, I left india last night and am in America today. I feel like a zombie. My phone is on, and it looks like I wont be able to use it from tomorrow afternoon onwards. I don't get alot of service here, but call me if u want! I love America! It's hella cold here compared to India's summer, and I'm exhuasted. We get tomorrow to rest. I think i need sleep and tea. I have to work on my 60 minute presentation for LEAP tomorrow. I'm tired, did i say that? Alex is making me stay up so I wont be jetlagged. ITs getting dark now though.. so soon. Very soon. I will sleep on a real American mattress with strings, no more foam mattresses on wooden boards for me!!! WOOHOO!!!!!!!!!
It's cold. IT's cold. IT's cold. I'm tired. I'm going now!
<3
Yaz

My second to last day in India

2007-04-12T05:31:00.000-04:00

I just confirmed my flight for tomorrow evening. I'm flying out of Hyderabad, stopping in Singapore for three hours and then flying for 17 hours to San Francisco.
I can't believe over 2 1/2 months have passed since I left the States, and it's been 3 1/2 months since I was home in CT. Time flies and yet doesn't ever feel like it's moving. My Hyderabad time has passed me by in a flurry of family meetings, dinners, wedding preperations and functions, events of suspect religious value and sitting at home, comatose from the increasing heat. I have grown very close to my Hyderabadi family- they are my 3rd home in a world that seems to be only getting more full of love and welcome. I feel so blessed to have had this crazy, life changing world bending experience. Over a year ago when I was struggling to get my application to LEAPYear finished and submitted while I was awfully sick and had to plan my Leadership Development Days (my day long workshops on social issues that I put together and ran for around 50 of my peers in City Year Washington DC)I could not have imagined where I would end up. This experience has been worth every stressor, fight, drama, anxiety, expense, loan, debt, insecurity, uncertainty, angry moment, and any other negative I might have failed to include.
Last night I attended my first true Hyderabadi shaadi, or wedding. I was not looking forward to it, especially based on the disaster of a sanchuk that I had been to two nights before. A sanchuk is an event before the shaadi where the groom's family presents the gifts they have bought for the bride to the bride and her family. I went to one before for my cousin in Houston, TX a few years before. It was sooooo boring and stupid, and with the added insult of a broken A/C in the function hall in mid July in TX, it was torture. This sanchuk was not much better. This particular function was supposed to be a mega event that encompassed a sanchuk, a mendhi (which I believed was a party to apply mendhi to the bridal party but now I have been informed it is a time for the both sides to playfully insult each other and apply mendhi to the groom in order to cement the reality of the always there extended family) and a manje, which I still have no idea about. It has been raining in Hyderabad for the last few days, which has been very strange. Hyderabad is on the Deccan Plateau, a well known dry area in India that doesn't get much rain outside of the monsoon seasons. This city, which prides itself on being the most Hi-Tech and modern in India (I'm not kidding, there's actually a section of the city called Hi-Tech City)loses power as soon as it starts raining. My uncle lives in Banjara Hills, one of the poshest areas of Hyderabad, and even we were subject to the humiliating inconvenience of long power losses. On the day of the sanchuk, I went to check my email, did some school work and then hurried back to sit for 3 hours in a very warm house to have mendhi applied. (Mendhi, in case you don't know, is a paste made from the henna plant that is used to dye hair and create beautiful intricate designs on the arms, hands, legs and feet to celebrate weddings and religious holidays, but is applied now-a-days for parties, birthdays and pretty much anything one wants.) While sitting in the incredibly hot house, the power went out, and the little relief that the ceiling fan or the air cooler provided were null and void. I started to feel terribly ill and was forced to use one of the grossest indian toilets i have ever seen. After sitting around waiting for my mendhi to dry and the color to set, my aunt got some designs on the back of her hands. I reached home after battling dust storm winds where i wrapped the end of my aunt's dupatta over my face as we braved the way back. We were pushing our way against a wall of wind and sand amid children screaming from the onslaught as small raindrops intermittenly hit us. It was nutz.
We arrive home and I lay down, exhuasted and ready for a nap. My clothes for the sanchuk are ironed and ready to wear but i have mendhi all over me and can't touch water. i can't wash my face, take a refreshing body shower or anything. Just as i think of the face wipes i have upstairs, the power goes. It stays off for hours and I am forced to then get ready by candlelight. Mind you, I am already handicapped by the drying mendhi all over both hands and arms, and on top of this, i have to contend with the dark. A giant black scarab beetle tries to attack me in the shadows of the bathroom and I become convinced of my impending death. I struggle into my mint green shilwar with silver embroidery and proceed to apply make up by candle light. Yeah. Luckily I'm very familiar with my beloved MAC makeup and was able to make it look decent and not like the clown face I was fearing I would end up with. Have you ever tried applying light eyeshadow or eyeliner with the shadows of your hand covering your eye?!?! It's quite an adventure, I tell ya. But i have to say, I think candlelight makes me look even more lovely, lol.
(More about the beauty adventures I've had here in India in another post.)

It's 9:30 PM at this piont, and in the dark, we trudge thrugh the mud and up the hill in search of a rickshaw to take us across town to Old City to the wedding hall. My uncle pulls up in the Mercedes just in time. We climb in and as we drive away, the power returns. He drives us halfway there and puts us into a rickshaw. The traffic was too bad to drive all the way there in a car and he (lucky for him) wasn't attending the event. We get there around 10:30 and no one seems to be there. Turns out everyone is eating. Let me describe the newly renovated Simla Gardens for you fine folks. It is a huge room done in a Baroque style with various colored molding patterns, columns, chandeliers, bright colors and no A/C. It was seperated into sections for the men and women and beyond the front area where the event took place were the dining areas. Many tables were set up with less than appetizing food that was cooked in connected, open cavernous spaces that were used as kitchens. The staff their was constantly moving, rushing to feed us and push us out to accomodate the next shift of eaters. after dinner, it is nearly midnight. The power blows. I curse, children scream and the generators kick in. It is now officially April 10th, no longer the 9th the invitation claimed the even would happen on.

The event hasnt even begun. Despite the rain, the hall is stifling hot. The Hyderabadis around me are incredibly uncomfortable and children are droppping like flies, sleeping in the arms of aunties, on the stage where the bride is sitting, being gawked at or on various unused chairs or sofas. I am crabby, and wishing that I could go home. The event begins its boring path and I talk to my super cool 21 year old cousin Asma about the lack of attention Indians pay to the earliest stages of a child's life. I try and convince my great aunt to leave with me in the cars that are (supposedly) waiting. My aunt has already left with the two sleeping children and is at her mother's house nearby. There is no music, no band, no tabla players, no fun. The groom arrives. He is quite chubby (bodering on fat) and pale and is regarded as exceedingly handsome by all the women there. I gag. The minutes crawl by. The power blows again. It seems that since the generators only bring the lights back on, they have stopped the ceremony of handing over lots and lots of gold jewelry and indian outfits with matching accessories becuase the cameramen have no power. I want to scream at this point. My great aunt finally gets fed up after having to use the terrible bathroom and agrees to leave with me. We walk outside only to find the "car" that was going to take us back to Banjara Hills has left to drop someone else off and no one knows when it will return. We try at length (via my 10 year old cousin Arsulan)to get a rickshaw at 2AM. After much haggling with a profiteering rickshaw wallah, we finally go pick up my aunt and the kids. we then squish into the rickshaw, three grown women and two sleeping children and go back home.

I spent the next day compiling (that means hand writing in tiny letters) my journal to turn in at Maacama since I've been writing it in many different notebooks and blogging. It is tedious work that leaves my neck and shoulders stiff and paining, as we say here, and since it began raining in the afternoon, writing by candlelight for hours on end. The long power outtages have messed up our sattelite cable service and mean that no reception is coming. I am horribly dissapointed, b/c every tuesday and wednesday around midnight i get to watch Huff on HBO. It is the highlight of my week b/c it's time I get to enjoy good tv, alone, and pretend I'm in america. I go to sleep after my hand cramps beyond usage.

Yesterday was teh shaadi. You can excuse me for dreading it, given my past two days, my impending return to America and more school work to finish. It is cloudy since morning, so we know that rain and power cuts are coming. My aunt gets the kids ready, bathes them, irons the clothes and gets the candles out. My great aunt is sick in bed and unsure if she'll join us. I run to the internet cafe after confirming that they have generators and the power loss wont affect their computers. My clothes are ironed and ready to wear, I only need to shower and get dressed when I return. Since we're going with my uncle tonight, we aren't leaving until 10pm so i have loads of time. I submit my paper to LEAP, check my emails and begin chatting with some of my best friends who all happen to be signed into gmail at the same time! What good fortune! Even Shakeel, my long lost hellian from London sends me an email as well! The power blows but sure enough the computers are still on. I'm sitting in the dark internet cafe surrounded by strangers hunched infront of glowing screens. I feel slightly seedy and VERY geeky and am sure i've seen this in a movie somewhere. Shakeel signs on and I find out that once again our ill fated paths are crossing. I find out he's coming to India very soon but we'll miss each other. I also find out that one of my best friends will be living in CT this summer while working at Yale! I'm ecstatic. This news cushions the blow of missing Shakeel (seriously for like the 5th time) and having more work to do than I anticipated before I returned to Maacama. I am just about to find out when Shakeel is arriving in india when the power blows for good. I curse loudly. I am now in a pitch black cafe with a bunch of strangers, mostly men. I rush to get out to the street once I pay and am surrounded by darkness. The only light I can see is from the fast moving traffic. I stand on the street for 15 minutes trying to flag down a rickshaw. No one who stop agrees and the only guy who does agree wants triple teh rate. I have no chioce and go along. I get home just in time for the power to return. I bathe quickly, but the rain starts again and i'm stuck in the pitch black bathroom, scared of scarab beetles waiting in teh dark. I sit around in the candle light and talk on the phone. 45 minutes later the power returns and I am able to get ready normally, even getting to make toast. I apply my make up and am ready to roll. We arrive in style in the Benz and go into the crowded hall. There are supposedly 2000 people at this wedding event, and they have been eating in shifts since 8:30. It's 10:30 when we arrive and I start to make the rounds. There are many aunties for me to salaam and speak to. I catch up with my adorable cousin Asma and get rushed to dinner. I miss the ceremony where the knuut, the giant nose ring, is put on the bride to signify her new status as the wife. I take pictures of people i don't know standing with the bride. I take pictures of my family and avoid getting shoved on stage with the bride I have yet to meet. I talk with my awesome aunts, get squished into hugs, have my face lovingly smooshed, get kissed, pulled, tripped and smothered with love. Before I know it, we're leaving. I hurriedly try to say my goodbyes and realize for the first time that I am really leaving. I am given messages for my family in the states, more hugs, love, and tears upon my departure. I really need a 30 minute heads up so I can get all the goodbyes said. I inevitably miss some folks and looks back on the hall full of colorfully clad women, many of whom love me inside and out. This kind of unsolicited love is overwhelming, heart swelling and hard to walk away from. Even though I know that we wouldn't see eye to eye on many things, these family members love me, no question. Just me being a part of their family makes me a piece of their heart. I can't describe this love. It's amazing. I'll miss it. I hope to be back soon.

I find out today that Shakeel is scheduled to fly to india on saturday, while i'm flying away from it. He's finished medical school and will be working in a hospital in bandra for 6 weeks in bombay! Now i'm jealous and upset. He is exactly the kind of partner in crime in needed during my five weeks there! I'll never understand why we can never end up in the same place.

It's 5 pm now and I have to run home to go meet another uncle, last minute. Crazy. Love you all.

HUGS!!!!!!!!

HEY!!!! I'm on YouTube!!!!!

2007-04-12T05:00:00.000-04:00

Check me out!!!!!
Anyone remember two years ago, around this time actually, in the spring of 2005 when I was chosen to give a testimonial about my service experience with City Year Washington DC, the Americorps organization I dedicated two years of my life to? I was chosen, I suspect, because I'm Brown, Muslim, American and articulate. Great way to capitalize on the moment and give an embattled corps member (me) a chance to shine. And shine I did! (Although Mariko is totally correct in pointing out that I was hella nervous for the first 2 minutes and that I looked cute!:)So here is the 10 minute speech for all of you folks out there who haven't gotten a chance to see the 3 copies that previously existed in the world. According to Sian, my lovely former CYDC colleague, the speech has been posted to try and help generate interest in the option of national service. Now the whole world can watch me give my testimonial to the impact of idealism and by extent City Year on my life. Great. Hope you enjoy!

P.S. A real post will soon follow, I promise. I'd love to hear what you lovely people all over the world think of my speech.

P.P.S. I'll be in America in 2 days!!!

What's wrong with Americans? Why can't they stay married?

2007-03-29T11:35:00.000-04:00

I had all these conversations about marriage and gender roles with my great uncle’s daughters last weekend. They are a few years older than me, married (obviously) and with children. I had the conversation with one actually, her name is Bushra. She is 28, has been married for two years last Sunday and has an adorable 7 month old son named Haroon. Her husband works in Dubai, and she’s waiting on her paperwork to go work as an accountant out there as well. She wanted to know what I wanted to do with my life, what my “career” will be. I told her that I want to be me, teach, write, make films, express, document, be a role model, and push new boundaries of myself.

She then asked me why so few people get married in America. She actually said it something like,
“Women are with so many men in America. They don’t stay with one in marriage, they leave and they go with many, many. Why?”
Aside from the fact that I’m being asked to answer for all of America’s social and cultural realities regarding the contentious and ever changing institution of marriage, I tried to explain, broaden her view and defend America all at once.

This question came after some discussion of Indian vs. American social & filial expectations of women. I was trying to express that India has some good things and America has some good stuff too. When I try to break the perception of America as a (simple, hand-out giving) land of a plenty by breaking down what it takes to make good or even decent money in the States, I often get asked why I don’t just move to India. This time I was able to segue into these differences and why I couldn’t permanently live in India (aside from the unbearable heat). Explaining the difference between expectations of women and family in America and India, I pointed out how my purpose in life is to fulfill my potential. That is my duty, completely separate from what my mother thinks fulfilling my potential looks like, or my father, or what my sister is doing in life or what Ummy Jaan thinks I should be doing. I have more choices than an average Indian girl. As much as I love my mother and value her opinion, I am not bound to follow it. I don’t have to take the extremes of running away to defy her word and being disowned. Once defying has been accomplished, life for a young renegade Indian girl is bleak. She cannot further her education (she needs large school fees for that), she has almost definitely not held a job beore and has no savings of her own. Her life is sure to be one full of abuse and hardship. No one will want to marry her, with no family to pay a dowry or sanction the match, she will be without the only safety net society provides. No wonder most girls go along with what their parents say… anyway.

Bushra pointed out that her parents are much older than her and know what is best when she is young and cannot possibly know. I challenged that, saying that her parents grew up in a completely different era. My parents, immigrants, didn’t grow up in my era and didn’t grow up in America, so who is to say they know what is best for me? Parents are adults who are very human. They do not know everything, and by extension, do not always (or ever) know what is best.

“How does your mom feel about you traveling?” I was asked. “Does she give you permission easily?”
To try and lighten to heavy load of this conversation and not make my mom look bad or me look like a rebel child, I pointed out simply that I am here. I am an adult, I lived on my own, had my own apartment, worked full time- I make my own decisions. Bushra tells me that in India they need parental permission.

“That, my dear, is the biggest difference between India and America,” inferring, of course, that I don’t.
It was an interesting exchange, and one I was glad to be able to have had.

I completely forgot that I started this story to tell you about my defense of American marriage! So I’m trying to explain the nature of American society by explaining the state of marriage today. I’m explaining that in fact, half of American marriages survive, and given the cultures, Indian marriages and families don’t have to contend with nearly the amount of issues that American ones do. Indian ideas of compromise or submission to lifelong marriage are well documented and witnessed so I didn’t need to defend that. I try to explain the fact that so many people have grown up in households with dysfunctional marriages or non existent marriages and that without successful, working examples, how can one make a marriage work?

I explain that the women’s movement has changed women’s status in society completely, and in many ways changed their perceptions and expectations of marriage while not changing male perspectives or expectations of it all that much. Women’s responsibilities have only grown, and life has gotten even more complicated. Men haven’t caught up, socially or emotionally. In most cases, they are not able to match their wives’ socialized emotional intelligence. On top of that, not knowing how to communicate or compromise makes relationships suffer and then fall apart. Her response to this is that people need to compromise, like Indians do. Her husband is loving, understanding and supportive. I congratulate her and remind her that most Indian husbands (possibly husbands everywhere) aren’t. What I fail to fully express is that Americans don’t have a ready system of support for marriage such as the Indian extended family (at least in Muslim circles, Hindu marriage is quite different) and that no one ever teaches or trains us how to make these aspects of life work. All of our siblings, friends and family will not be married, waiting to impart advice at the slightest indication of need. Neither is there a norm for successful, stable marriage in the US, many people find themselves the odd one out in their social circles when tying the knot.

Anyways- just thought I'd share that moment of cultural-translation-thru- conversation I had.
In case anyone has forgotten: I love feedback!!

How NOT to shoot your first short film

2007-03-26T11:22:00.000-04:00

I learned many things while going through the process of making my first short film. It was quite a fly by the seat of my pants sort of affair. I had spent weeks trying to come up with concepts, story lines or even themes to film around, but to no avail. All the ideas had were much too big for a 4-5 minute film, which was what I was aiming for. They were good ideas though, and still consumed my time as I wrote and developed them. This did not help my planning process or pre-production phase in the least. I finally settled on the loose theme of why Mumbai is my favorite place in India. This way, I could film my favorite places and some of the countless interesting things that go on in this incredible city and my theme was still broad enough that if hit with sudden inspiration, I could follow it.

I began by making a list of all the locations I would like to shoot across the city. It was quite a long list, and I started mapping how many days I would need to shoot and what parts of the city were close to one another and could be accomplished in one day. I began to strategize about the routes I would take on public transportation to get me there the fastest and to avoid the rush, and crush of commuters. I budgeted out how much this would cost, and given my inability to carry many things due to my neck injury, I had to plan how I would be able to carry my small hand held digi-cam and all my things for the day. I began to long for an assistant to carry my things, watch them as I shoot and take care of all the footwork. It’s also nice to have some input, feedback or a second opinion. I guess part of me developing my skill set as an individual capable of directing is being able to make definitive decisions, completely unaided, about shots, locations and lighting. (Not having an assistant was a “teachable moment” as we say.)

I received the hand held Sony Digital Camcorder that I would be using and set off. My first day of filming was quite interesting. I filmed my at my principal location, which was the Gateway of India and the Taj Hotel and walked north towards the Kala Ghoda district, full of museums, wide boulevards and beautiful architecture. I got a call from a friend with a unique opportunity: to attend a press conference on a boat in the Arabian Sea. This is exactly why my theme was loose; to take advantage of serendipity. I literally ran there, enacting a film worthy action sequence on the way, involving jaywalking, cab hopping, running across wide tourist filled plazas, upsetting grazing pigeons, worrying the general public and finally, hopping across two already launched ferries to reach my destination boat. I proceeded to spend the afternoon surrounded by representatives from Mumbai’s biggest media outlets, the only person not there on assignment. I got a lot of footage on the open sea, the coast line, and the shot I thought I wouldn’t be able to get: the Gateway of India, from the water, the way it was meant to be seen. I was thrilled.
Next day of shooting I got my principal market shots in Bandra and due to traffic, was not able to get to Haji Ali’s Masjid before the light changed. I went to Juhu Beach, was accosted by beggars and venders who target tourists. Their insistence that I pay for their services got in the way of me being able to shoot what I wanted, and not having anyone else there to help get rid of them, I left Juhu Beach earlier than intended. I got the shots I wanted on the main Juhu-Link Road and called it a day.

One more day of filming remained. I got the shots of the roadside fish, vegetable and fruit markets and mall exterior and interiors that I wanted. I wrote my historically informed narrative for the voice-over and planned the shots I could conceive as I wrote. I called my contact and told them I was finished filming and needed to be put in touch with an editor to process my footage and to begin assembling my short film. Did I mention that I was on a severe time constraint? I had extended my stay in Mumbai by one week to be able to do this project at all, and by the time I had gotten the camera I was to use, filmed and gotten in touch with the editor, I had exactly 60 hours to complete my project and get onto my plane to leave Mumbai.

I met with my cheerful, America-loving editor and we processed the digital (poor quality) film that I shot on. After all my filming, it turned out that I only had 80 minutes of footage. My editor was quite astounded by this limited amount of footage, and continued to remark on this throughout our joyful time together. The editing process was where I learned the most, and discovered how vast the technical knowledge I lacked really was. My original script for my voiceover ended up clocking in at 11 minutes. It was clear that I did not have enough footage to support this (interesting and informative) narrative. I made the first hard decision to cut the narrative and make it as sparse as possible while retaining my original intention (many other cuts followed).

It became clear to me that I would not be able to finish before my scheduled departure time and I extended my stay one more day. On the night we were scheduled to finish, the proprietor of the charming editing establishment we were working at. Ziptrak, came in at 9 pm telling us to get out. He was closing up early because he didn’t feel he could trust his late night staff to lock up after we were done. This was Monday night, the night before I was to leave according to my newly altered itinerary. I started to flip out as much as is possible in India, where no one seems to give a damn about anything logistics related. No matter.

Exactly what I didn’t want to happen did. I was working in the studio the day of my departure, stressing that the project wouldn’t get completed, just barely completing it. Music was added and that was about all the special treatment the much cut down 5 minute film got. I was getting so frustrated with my editor, and I realized how important that integral relationship is. My editor didn’t like my narrative, he thought it was boring and did not see the point of it. His eye and mine were often quite divergent, and he wanted to place shots that I did not like at all. I was getting frustrated with myself, because I did not have the technical knowledge necessary to ask for the effects I wanted, or even how to articulate what I wanted to happen with the project.

At the end of the day, my project did indeed get finished. I am happy that the experience is over. My original vision for the project was not fulfilled and I will re-cut the film as soon as I am able. I spent 5 weeks in Mumbai, observing Bollywood and experiencing it in many forms. $2,065 later, I have learned quite a bit about the film making process, and more importantly, the realities of a fickle, friendless industry, where loyalty, efficiency, honesty, truth and trust are not valued one bit.

Laundry Day

2007-03-26T10:57:00.000-04:00

You know on laundry day, when you have almost no clean clothes left, you just wear whatever is remotely clean? No attention to colors, matching or anything, just need something to cover you while your clothes are washed and dried. Well, yesterday that was me, only I’m in India, and I have to wait for the domestic help to wash the giant pile of clothes and dry them before I have anything clean to wear. I’ve tried to become pre-emptive with my laundry drop offs; a few days before the situation is dire I bring her my clothes. (You ask why I can’t just wash them myself? I have no initiative in this heat, and I have no idea how to wash clothes manually while saving water and not even the slightest clue how to operate their washing machine.)

Being that Hyderabad is moving towards its summer season, the weather has become unbearable for me. I sweat all the time, no matter what. There are no air conditioners here, just hard working ceiling fans that don’t get the job done. The air feels very humid although Hyderabad is found on the Deccan Plateau, a generally dry area, with little rain outside the monsoon season. I suspect my body is still programmed to expect winter temperatures, and these daily tropical blasts of heat are impossible for me to adjust to.

That said, the immense heat means laundry needs to be done more often, and numerous showers (or “baths” as we call them here, since the showers don’t work, and we take them using buckets, not bathtubs) are necessary as well. This becomes a bit of a problem because Hyderabad, along with much of India, faces water shortages. Water use needs to be as economical as possible; once it runs out, it may be a day or two before we can refill our tanks from the main water tanks on the roof of the building.

Onto my particular laundry day. The weather here is way too hot for jeans or western clothes. I really would rather wear a thin sheet and call it a day, but such is not possible in so vibrant and conservative a culture as Hyderabadi India, so a full shilwar khameez suit is required. I pull out the only one I have left at this point; a natural cotton uncolored (light beige, basically) khameez (top) with a pink churidar and matching dupatta. Churidars are a style of pant favored by the Moughals, close fitting from the knee down, specifically tight around the calves and ankles with the fabric gathering in fashionable wrinkles or scrunches. These are a popular style pant with Indian women today, and though a bit like bloomers at the top of the pant, comfortable enough to wear. The natural cloth khameez I purchased as a spare top to wear with skirts and the like. It is a bit tight in the hips and bust; not by Western standards, but obviously so by Indian standards.

To try and remedy/hide this, I drape my dupatta (scarf) all around me, attempting to use the sheer bright pink fabric as a distraction from the plain beige underneath. By Indian standards, I do not look up to snuff. I try and disguise this fact by actually wearing the matching bangles and tops that I have, but to no avail. My pen drive hanging from my neck is also not helping. I ask my great aunt to do a French braid in my hair, but finding it too short; she did two small braids instead. All the shorter pieces of hair that normally frame my face fell forward, giving it a nice dignified look, but as the afternoon progresses, I look more and more disheveled.

After many hours of sweating in the house, around 7pm when it was dark and “cooler,” we left to go run errands. We had to stop by the jeweler to make me pearl earrings. My mom’s first cousin, my aunt Shabu, gave me a large strand of cultured pearls as a gift last time I was in Hyderabad. It was an awkward length, so we had it restrung into a short necklace and a matching bracelet. There were two pearls left over, so we headed back to this same jeweler to turn them into matching single pearl earrings, known as “tops” here. While at the jeweler my aunt decided that she simply must gift me with some gold earrings. She (like most of the women I have encountered in Hyderabad) thinks it is a disgrace that I do not wear any jewelry, especially no gold. She set out once again to remedy this situation. I’m not sure what it is about my unadorned state that makes everyone so uncomfortable, but I suspect it has a bit to do with my standing in the community. I come from a good family of well educated, decently well heeled people and to not wear any jewelry belies this fact. Indian society is so set on appearances, reputation and gossip that one must be up to snuff all the time. That’s the idea anyway.

Back in the jeweler’s, I was alarmed by how showy and expensive most of the gold pieces were. I kept thinking back to a quote I had read recently, referring to India as “the sink of the world’s gold.” Looking around at the displays chock full of gold and the women in full burqua and niquab (the face veil) shopping for the most expensive, glittery pieces they could afford just seemed to illustrate this point. Maybe it’s because I’m from outside of India, but I have never felt the affect of gold’s luster. I don’t pine for it, hope for it, work towards it or even wear it. I prefer the less expensive, but in my eyes, more attractive, silver. (Gasp!! I am definitely not native born Indian stock. Hell, I’m not even Indian!)

My aunt asked the jeweler to show me some tops. He brings out a full velvet tray of gold posted studs out and I follow my aunt’s lead as far as choice goes. I have very specific ideas of what I like, but I’m not purchasing, so I’m not going to go pointing out things willy-nilly in case my aunt feels compelled to buy them or bad because she can’t afford them. We finally settle on a suitable pair, and I stand up and turn around towards the wall length mirror behind us to try the earrings on. I hesitate, wondering how many other women have tried these on and wish I had some hand sanitizer. Indian earrings are very different than non-Indian earrings. Instead of a post t hat you can just push through the pierced hole, you have to unscrew a thin screw from the back of the post. This screw is about the width of an average Western earring post. This small screw fits into a much thicker post that is the actual earring. Screwing the earring in place seems to secure it tightly within the (victim’s) ear. These posts are so thick that they would easily be given a gauge and worn in other piercings in the body.I, and then my aunt, spent a great deal of time trying to shove Indian earring post into my American sized ear piercings. Needless to say, it was a painful process that was not successful.

Next we look at hanging, dangly earrings, but they are all too expensive. We move on to hoops and after much deliberation and a challenge that my second holes are not still open after all these years pick a pair. I try them on, they fit, we weigh them to determine their gold purity and price and then my aunt tells me to wear them out of the store. No problem, I respond, completely expecting this. I confidently re-insert the earring and cant seem to get the hoop to fasten in the back. I try, my aunt tries, and finally the jeweler comes at me with jewelry pliers. I get alarmed. I argue against permanently closing these earrings into my ears, as I don’t carry pliers around with me, and don’t want to have to go to a jeweler’s every time I want to change outfits and accessories. The jeweler relents, and we decide on a ring. This takes the least time of all the consultations as there are only 3 rings that fit my apparently tiny fingers. I pick the best fitting, agree to my aunt’s insistence that I always wear it and think of her (and not walk out of the house without jewelry) and we’re off. This has taken the better part of 2 hours, and I feel strange in my laundry day outfit, wearing gold.

After more errands running, we hop in a rickshaw to go to our local internet café. We have to call America and I need to use the internet. My great aunt, knowing how long my email sessions are, tells me she’ll be up the street at my aunt Shabu’s and to meet here there soon, since it’s late and we haven’t had dinner yet. The internet attendant is very nice, no doubt won over by my large, easy smile and my gora-gora skin. I ask him to borrow a pen and he asks me if my name is Yazi. He gives me a message from my aunt telling me to meet her as soon as I’m done with my work. I rush to finish, wondring how my aunt got the number to the café. As I leave, the nice internet attendant says he’ll have one of the boys walk me to my aunt’s house. Confused, I thank him. We exit the café and my escort gestures to a dark stairwell to the right. More confused than ever, I decline, explaining my aunt lives up the street, not up the stairs.

I walk in the still-not-at-all-cool evening breeze to Shabu Aunty’s and greet her surprised face and empty living room. My great aunt is not there. Damn! More confusion! I remember now my great aunt telling me that my father’s first cousin, Aliah, owns the internet café, and I should inquire after her sometime. I assume that this, combined with the eagerness of the internet employees to help me arrive at Aunty’s, that my great aunt has sought out this other Aunt I’ve never met and is in fact there. I realize that was how the call came, instructing me to return promptly. My younger boy cousins accompany me from Shabu Aunty’s, walking me back to the café. Another gentleman offers to show me the way upstairs and I reluctantly follow him up into the dark. Thankfully my cousins, who have become my makeshift security detail this trip, accompany me all the way upstairs and into my aunt’s large flat.

Thrown off by this unexpected turn of events, I am even more aware of my ratty appearance. This is compounded by my great aunt way of explaining “yesterday she was wearing such nice clothes; I thought to bring her over just to meet you!” The day before I had been wearing a deep purple shilwar skhameez made from a sari with my restrung pearls. I looked quite fancy, like the Indian Bree Van de Camp. I meet my extremely fair-skinned aunt and uncle, trying my hardest to just stuff myself with snacks so that I don’t have to talk and show my discomfort. My aunt remarks how I “look just like my father!”
(This is the first time I’ve heard this in my whole life- everyone I’ve ever met can attest to how I am the spitting image of my mother.)

I stuff more cantaloupe pieces in my mouth to keep from talking. I pay attention to the World Cup Cricket match between India and Sri Lanka to also not talk. This is very simple; my aunt is so used to explaining my life, schedule, eating habits, current education status and projects, family size and geographic loyalties that it is often easier if I say nothing at all. I nearly choke on some watermelon as my great aunt tells me that my Aliah Aunty has a room ready for me at the flat. My great aunt assures her that she cannot bear to let me be away from her, I am her daughter and she worries too much about me, I am her joy in this world. We agree to meet on Monday for lunch and I silently plan to wear my purple shilwar suit and my pearls. As we leave, she tells my great aunt how beautiful I am. I walk faster.

We walk back home, laughing over the misunderstanding and avoiding the stray dogs. We finally get back to the flat and remember that my uncle’s in-laws are visiting! I walk inside, greeting an impeccably dressed Indian wife, with all the required finery, fancy silk sari, plenty of gold jewelry and the most dignified accessory an Indian wife can have; body rolls. Her husband had a bald shiny brown head and an immaculately groomed white beard along with a pressed shirt and pants. A tall young man appeared, decked out in today’s most fashionable jeans and a t-shirt and plenty of jewelry. I go wash up and undo my failed French braids and comb out my hair and curse my clothes. This outfit has been like a magnet for meeting important people.

I sit quietly again, willing these people to leave so my laundry day can end. I mistakenly congratulate the young man, my uncle’s brother in law, on his brother’s engagement. I eat mitahi brought to celebrate this absent newly betrothed young man. I get a short lecture about using the English vs. Arabic words for God and verbally gifted an English translation of the Holy Quran. I say thank you and good bye and sit down to eat dinner at 11 pm. I am exhausted and reflect on the day. I vow to never leave the house on a laundry day again.

Identity

2007-03-12T04:28:00.001-04:00

I am American. I am Muslim. I am Brown. I am a woman. I am Indian. I am each of these things seperately and all of these things together. I belong to many different cultural groups, and I am not willing to compromise or give up any of them. I love being each of these things, and am proud to be able to move (mostly) seamlessly from one circle to another, and stand in all those circles at once.

People often ask me why I identify so strongly with being a woman of COLOR, as opposed to simply being a woman. How am I a practicing, believing Muslim if I'm a feminist? How am I a proud American if I am an activist? How and why do I identify with communities of color when so many other Indians don't?

It's annoying, and I don't always have the time to break down my whole life for them. Also, I don't have all the scholarly expertise I could that would help me answer the questions in a clear way that makes it easy for people who don't have intersectional (looking at the intersecting oppressions of race, class, gender simultaneously and with equal importance) analysis when looking at the world.

OK. I read a fantastic article today from the NY Times that everyone should read. It's called "Between Black and Immigrant Muslims, an Uneasy Alliance." I'm linking it here, but in 14 days when it isn't free anymore, I'll post the whole thing here on the blog. Here's the link-

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/11/nyregion/11muslim.html?pagewanted=5&_r=1&th&emc=th

Definitely check it out. It brings up some important points about the class, cultural and perspective differences between the two biggest ethnic groups within American Muslims.

(Here's the article, reposted from the New York Times website at the link provided above. I don't own the article and am sharing it for general use.)

March 11, 2007

Between Black and Immigrant Muslims, an Uneasy Alliance

By ANDREA ELLIOTT

Under the glistening dome of a mosque on Long Island, hundreds of men sat cross-legged on the floor. Many were doctors and engineers born in Pakistan and India. Dressed in khakis, polo shirts and the odd silk tunic, they fidgeted and whispered.

One thing stood between them and dinner: A visitor from Harlem was coming to ask for money.

A towering black man with a gray-flecked beard finally swept into the room, his bodyguard trailing him. Wearing a long, embroidered robe and matching hat, he took the microphone and began talking about a different group of Muslims, the thousands of African-Americans who have found Islam in prison.

“We are all brothers and sisters,” said the visitor, known as Imam Talib.

The men stared. To some of them, it seemed, he was from another planet. As the imam returned their gaze, he had a similar sensation. “They live in another world,” he later said.

Only 28 miles separate Imam Talib’s mosque in Harlem from the Islamic Center of Long Island. The congregations they each serve — African-Americans at the city mosque and immigrants of South Asian and Arab descent in the suburbs — represent the largest Muslim populations in the United States. Yet a vast gulf divides them, one marked by race and class, culture and history.

For many African-American converts, Islam is an experience both spiritual and political, an expression of empowerment in a country they feel is dominated by a white elite. For many immigrant Muslims, Islam is an inherited identity, and America a place of assimilation and prosperity.

For decades, these two Muslim worlds remained largely separate. But last fall, Imam Talib hoped to cross that distance in a venture that has become increasingly common since Sept. 11. Black Muslims have begun advising immigrants on how to mount a civil rights campaign. Foreign-born Muslims are giving African-Americans roles of leadership in some of their largest organizations. The two groups have joined forces politically, forming coalitions and backing the same candidates.

It is a tentative and uneasy union, seen more typically among leaders at the pulpit than along the prayer line. But it is critical, a growing number of Muslims believe, to surviving a hostile new era.

“Muslims will not be successful in America until there is a marriage between the indigenous and immigrant communities,” said Siraj Wahhaj, an African-American imam in New York with a rare national following among immigrant Muslims. “There has to be a marriage.”

The divide between black and immigrant Muslims reflects a unique struggle facing Islam in America. Perhaps nowhere else in the world are Muslims from so many racial, cultural and theological backgrounds trying their hands at coexistence. Only in Mecca, during the obligatory hajj, or pilgrimage, does such diversity in the faith come to life, between black and white, rich and poor, Sunni and Shiite.

“This is a new experiment in the history of Islam,” said Ali S. Asani, a professor of Islamic studies at Harvard University.

That evening in October, Imam Al-Hajj Talib ‘Abdur-Rashid drove to Westbury, on Long Island, with a task he would have found unthinkable years ago.

He would ask for donations from the immigrant community he refers to, somewhat bitterly, as the “Muslim elite.”

But he needed funds, and the doors of immigrant mosques seemed to be opening. Imam Talib and other African-American leaders had formed a national “indigenous Muslim” organization, and he knew that during the holy month of Ramadan, the Islamic Center of Long Island could raise thousands of dollars in an evening.

It is a place where BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes fill the parking lot, and Coach purses are perched along prayer lines.

In Harlem, many of Imam Talib’s congregants get to the mosque by bus or subway, and warm themselves with space heaters in a drafty, brick building.

Before the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, Imam Talib had only a distant connection to the Islamic Center of Long Island. In passing, he had met Faroque Khan, an Indian-born doctor who helped found the mosque, but the two had little in common.

Imam Talib, 56, is a thundering prison chaplain whose mosque traces its roots to Malcolm X. He is a first-generation Muslim.

Dr. Khan, 64, is a mild-mannered pulmonologist who collects Chinese antiques and learned to ski on the slopes of Vermont. He is a first-generation American.

But in the turmoil that followed Sept. 11, the imam and the doctor found themselves unexpectedly allied.

“The more separate we stay, the more targeted we become,” Dr. Khan said.

Each man recognizes what the other has to offer. African-Americans possess a cultural and historical fluency that immigrants lack, said Dr. Khan; they hold an unassailable place in America from which to defend their faith.

For Imam Talib, immigrants provide a crucial link to the Muslim world and its tradition of scholarship, as well as the wisdom that comes with an “unshattered Islamic heritage.”

Both groups have their practical virtues, too. African-Americans know better how to mobilize in America, both men say, and immigrants tend to have deeper pockets.

Still, it is one thing to talk about unity, Imam Talib said, and another to give it life. Before his visit to Long Island last fall, he had never asked Dr. Khan and his mosque to match their rhetoric with money.

“You have to have a litmus test,” he said.

One Faith, Many Histories

Imam Talib and Dr. Khan did not warm to each other when they met in May 2000, at a gathering in Chicago of Muslim leaders.

The imam found the silver-haired doctor faintly smug and paternalistic. It was an attitude he had often whiffed from well-to-do immigrant Muslims. Dr. Khan found Imam Talib straightforward to the point of bluntness.

The uneasy introduction was, for both men, emblematic of the strained relationship between their communities.

Imam Talib and other black Muslims trace their American roots to the arrival of Muslims from West Africa as slaves in the South. That historical link gave rise to Islam-inspired movements in the 20th century, the most significant of which was the Nation of Islam.

The man who founded the Nation in 1930, W. D. Fard, spread the message that American blacks belonged to a lost Muslim tribe and were superior to the “white, blue-eyed devils” in their midst. Under Mr. Fard’s successor, Elijah Muhammad, the Nation flourished in the 1960s amid the civil rights struggle and the emergence of a black-separatist movement.

Overseas, Islamic scholars found the group’s teachings on race antithetical to the faith. The schism narrowed after 1975, when Mr. Muhammad’s son Warith Deen Mohammed took over the Nation, bringing it in line with orthodox Sunni Islam. Louis Farrakhan parted ways with Mr. Mohammed — taking the Nation’s name and traditional teachings with him — but the majority of African-American adherents came to embrace the same Sunni practice that dominates the Muslim world.

Still, divisions between African-American and immigrant Muslims remained pronounced long after the first large waves of South Asians and Arabs arrived in the United States in the 1960s.

Today, of the estimated six million Muslims who live in the United States, about 25 percent are African-American, 34 percent are South Asian and 26 percent are Arab, said John Zogby, a pollster who has studied the American Muslim population.

“Given the extreme from which we came, I would say that the immigrant Muslims have been brotherly toward us,” Warith Deen Mohammed, who has the largest following of African-American Muslims, said in an interview. “But I think they’re more skeptical than they admit they are. I think they feel more comfortable with their own than they feel with us.”

For many African-Americans, conversion to Islam has meant parting with mainstream culture, while Muslim immigrants have tended toward assimilation. Black converts often take Arabic names, only to find foreign-born Muslims introducing themselves as “Moe” instead of “Mohammed.”

The tensions are also economic. Like Dr. Khan, many Muslim immigrants came to the United States with advanced degrees and quickly prospered, settling in the suburbs. For decades, African-Americans watched with frustration as immigrants sent donations to causes overseas, largely ignoring the problems of poor Muslims in the United States.

Imam Talib found it impossible to generate interest at immigrant mosques in the 1999 police shooting of Amadou Diallo, who was Muslim. “What we’ve found is when domestic issues jump up, like police brutality, all the sudden we’re by ourselves,” he said.

Some foreign-born Muslims say they are put off by the racial politics of many black converts. They struggle to understand why African-American Muslims have been reluctant to meet with law enforcement officials in the wake of Sept. 11. For their part, black Muslim leaders complain that immigrants have failed to learn their history, which includes a pattern of F.B.I. surveillance dating back to the roots of the Nation of Islam.

The ironies are, at times, stinging.

“From the immigrant community, I hear that African-Americans have to learn how to work in the system,” said Nihad Awad, the executive director of the Council on American Islamic Relations, adding that this was not his personal opinion.

At the heart of the conflict is a question of leadership. Much to the ire of African-Americans, many immigrants see themselves as the rightful leaders of the faith in America by virtue of their Islamic schooling and fluency in Arabic, the original language of the Koran.

“What does knowing Arabic have to do with the quality of your prayer, your fast, your relationship with God?” asked Ihsan Bagby, an associate professor of Islamic studies at the University of Kentucky in Lexington. “But African-Americans have to ask themselves why have they not learned more in these years.”

Every year in Chicago, the two largest Muslim conventions in the country — one sponsored by an immigrant organization and the other by Mr. Mohammed’s — take place on the same weekend, in separate parts of the city.

The long-simmering tension boiled over into a public rift with the 2000 presidential elections. That year, a powerful coalition of immigrant Muslims endorsed George W. Bush (because of a promise to stop the profiling of Arabs).

The nation’s most prominent African-American Muslims complained that they were never consulted. The following summer, when Imam Talib vented his frustration at a meeting with immigrant leaders in Washington, a South Asian man turned to him, he recalled, and said, “I don’t understand why all of you African-American Muslims are always so angry about everything.”

Imam Talib searched for an answer he thought the man could understand.

“African-Americans are like the Palestinians of this land,” he finally said. “We’re not just some angry black people. We’re legitimately outraged and angry.”

The room fell silent.

Soon after, black leaders announced the creation of the Muslim Alliance in North America, their first national “indigenous” organization.

But the fallout over the elections was soon eclipsed by Sept. 11, when Muslim immigrants found themselves under intense public scrutiny. They began complaining about “profiling” and “flying while brown,” appropriating language that had been largely the domain of African-Americans.

It was around this time that Dr. Khan became, as he put it, enlightened. A few weeks before the terrorist attacks, he read the book “Black Rage,” by William H. Grier and Price M. Cobbs. The book, published in 1968, explores the psychological woes of African-Americans, and how the impact of racism is carried through generations.

“It helped me understand that even before you’re born, things that happened a hundred years ago can affect you,” Dr. Khan said. “That was a big change in my thinking.”

He sent an e-mail message to fellow Muslims, including Imam Talib, sharing what he had learned.

The Harlem imam was pleased, if not yet convinced.

“I just encouraged the brother to keep going,” Imam Talib said.

An Oasis in Harlem

One windswept night in Harlem, cars rolled past the corner of West 113th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue. A police siren blared as men huddled by a neon-lit Laundromat.

Across the street stood a brown brick building, lifeless from the outside. But upstairs, in a cozy carpeted room, rows of men and women chanted.

“Ya Hakim. Ya Allah.” O wise one. O God.

Imam Talib led the chant, swathed in a black satin robe. It was Ramadan’s holiest evening, the Night of Power. As the voices died down, he spotted his bodyguard swaying.

“Take it easy there, Captain,” Imam Talib said. “As long as you don’t jump and shout it’s all right.”

Laughter trickled through the mosque, where a translucent curtain separated men in skullcaps from women in African-print gowns.

“We’re just trying to be ourselves, you know?” Imam Talib said. “Within the tradition.”

“That’s right,” said one woman.

The imam continued: “And we can’t let other people, from other cultures, come and try to make us clones of them. We came here as Muslims.”

He was feeling drained. He had just returned from the Manhattan Detention Complex, where he works as a chaplain. Some of the mosque’s men were back in jail.

“We need power,” he said quietly. “Without that, we’ll destroy ourselves.”

Since its birth in 1964, the Mosque of Islamic Brotherhood has been a fortress of stubborn faith, persevering through the crack wars, welfare, AIDS, gangs, unemployment, diabetes, broken families and gentrification.

The mosque was founded in a Brooklyn apartment by Shaykh-‘Allama Al-Hajj K. Ahmad Tawfiq, a follower of Malcolm X. The Sunni congregation boomed in the 1970s, starting a newspaper and opening a school and a health food store.

With city loans, it bought its current building. Fourteen families moved in, creating a bold Muslim oasis in a landscape of storefront churches and liquor stores. The mosque claimed its corner by drenching the sidewalk in dark green paint, the color associated with Islam.

The paint has since faded. The school is closed. Many of the mosque’s members can no longer afford to live in a neighborhood where brownstones sell for millions of dollars.

But an aura of dignity prevails. The women normally pray one floor below the men, in a scrubbed, tidy room scented with incense. Their bathroom is a shrine of gold curtains and lavender soaps. A basket of nylon roses hides a hole in the wall.

Most of the mosque’s 160 members belong to the working class, and up to a third of the men are former convicts.

Some congregants are entrepreneurs, professors, writers and musicians. Mos Def and Q-Tip have visited with Imam Talib, who carries the nickname “hip-hop imam.”

Mosque celebrations are a blend of Islam and Harlem. In October, at the end of Ramadan, families feasted on curried chicken and collard greens, grilled fish and candied yams.

Just before the afternoon prayer, a lean man in a black turtleneck rose to give the call. He was Yusef Salaam, whose conviction in the Central Park jogger case was later overturned.

Many of the mosque’s members embraced Islam in search of black empowerment, not black separatism. They describe racial equality as a central tenet of their faith. Yet for some, the promise of Islam has been at odds with the reality of Muslims.

One member, Aqilah Mu’Min, lives in the Parkchester section of the Bronx, a heavily Bangladeshi neighborhood. Whenever she passes women in head scarves, she offers the requisite Muslim greeting. Rarely is it returned. “We have a theory that says Islam is perfect, human beings are not,” said Ms. Mu’Min, a city fraud investigator.

It was the simplicity of Islam that drew Imam Talib.

Raised a Christian, he spent the first part of his youth in segregated North Carolina. As a teenager, he read “The Autobiography of Malcolm X” twice. He began educating himself about the faith at age 19, when as an aspiring actor he was cast in a play about a man who had left the Nation of Islam.

But his conversion was more spiritual than political, he said.

“I’d like to think that even if I was a white man, I’d still be a Muslim because that’s the orientation of my soul,” the imam said.

He has learned some Arabic, and traveled once to the Middle East, for hajj. Yet he feels more comfortable with the Senegalese and Guinean Muslims who have settled in Harlem than with many Arabs and South Asians.

He is trying to reach out, but is often disappointed.

In November, he accepted a last-minute invitation to meet with hundreds of immigrants at the Islamic Cultural Center of New York, an opulent mosque on East 96th Street.

The group, the Coalition for Muslim School Holidays, was trying to persuade the city to recognize two Muslim holidays on the school calendar. The effort, Imam Talib learned, had been nearly a year in the making, and no African-American leaders had been consulted.

He was stunned. After all, he had led a similar campaign in the 1980s, resulting in the suspension of alternate-side parking for the same holidays.

“They are unaware of the foundations upon which they are standing,” he said.

Backlash in the Suburbs

Brush Hollow Road winds through a quiet stretch of Long Island, past churches and diners and leafy cul-de-sacs. In this tranquil tableau, the Islamic Center of Long Island announces itself proudly, a Moorish structure of white concrete topped by a graceful dome.

Sleek sedans and S.U.V.’s circle the property as girls with Barbie backpacks hop out and scurry to the Islamic classes they call “Sunday school.”

It is a testament to America’s influence on the mosque that its liveliest time of the week is not Friday, Islam’s holy day, but Sunday.

Boys in hooded sweatshirts smack basketballs along the pavement by a sign that reads “No pray, no play.” Young mothers in Burberry coats exchange kisses and chatter.

For members of the mosque — many of whom work in Manhattan and cannot make the Friday prayer — Sunday is the day to reflect and connect.

The treasurer, Rizwan Qureshi, frantically greeted drivers one Sunday morning with a flier advertising a fund-raiser.

“We’re trying to get Barack Obama,” Mr. Qureshi, a banker born in Karachi, told a woman in a gold-hued BMW.

“We need some real money,” he called out to another driver.

The mosque began with a group of doctors, engineers and other professionals from Pakistan and India who settled in Nassau County in the early 1970s.

“Our kids would come home from school and say, ‘Where is my Christmas tree, my Hanukkah lights?’ ” recalled Dr. Khan, who lives in nearby Jericho. “We didn’t want them to grow up unsure of who they are.”

Since opening in 1993, the mosque has thrived, with assets now valued at more than $3 million. Hundreds of people pray there weekly, and thousands come on Muslim holidays.

The mosque has an unusually modern, democratic air. Men and women worship with no partition between them. A different scholar delivers the Friday sermon every week, in English.

Perhaps most striking, a majority of female worshipers do not cover their heads outside the mosque.

“I think it’s important to find the fine line between the religion and the age in which we live,” said Nasreen Wasti, 43, a contract analyst for Lufthansa. “I’m sure I will have to answer to God for not covering myself. But I’m also satisfied by many of the good deeds I am doing.”

She and other members use words like “progressive” to describe their congregation. But after Sept. 11, a different image took hold.

In October 2001, a Newsday article quoted a member of the mosque as asking “who really benefits from such a horrible tragedy that is blamed on Muslims and Arabs?” A co-president of the mosque was also quoted saying that Israel “would benefit from this tragedy.”

Conspiracy theories about Sept. 11 have long circulated among Muslims, and Dr. Khan had heard discussion among congregants. Such talk, he said, was the product of two forces: a deep mistrust of America’s motives in the Middle East and a refusal, among many Muslims, to engage in self-criticism.

“You blame the other guy for your own shortcomings,” said Dr. Khan.

He visited synagogues and churches after the article ran, reassuring audiences that the comments did not reflect the official position of the mosque, which condemned the attacks.

But to Congressman Peter T. King, whose district is near the mosque, that condemnation fell short. He began publicly criticizing Dr. Khan, asserting that he had failed to fully denounce the statements made by the men.

“He’s definitely a radical,” Mr. King said of Dr. Khan in an interview. “You cannot, in the context of Sept. 11, allow those statements to be made and not be a radical.”

When asked about Mr. King’s comments, Dr. Khan replied proudly, “I thought we had freedom of speech.”

It hardly seems possible that Mr. King and Dr. Khan were once friends.

Mr. King used to dine at Dr. Khan’s home. He attended the wedding of Dr. Khan’s son, Arif, in 1995. At the mosque’s opening, it was Mr. King who cut the ribbon.

After Sept. 11, the mosque experienced the sort of social backlash felt by Muslims around the country. Anonymous callers left threatening messages, and rocks were hurled at children from passing cars.

The attention waned over time. But Mr. King cast a new light on the mosque in 2004 with the release of his novel “Vale of Tears.”

In the novel, terrorists affiliated with a Long Island mosque demolish several buildings, killing hundreds of people. One of the central characters is a Pakistani heart surgeon whose friendship with a congressman has grown tense.

“By inference, it’s me,” Dr. Khan said of the Pakistani character. (Mr. King said it was a “composite character” based on several Muslims he knows.)

For Dr. Khan, his difficulties after Sept. 11 come as proof that Muslims cannot stay fragmented. “It’s a challenge for the whole Muslim community — not just for me,” he said. “United we stand, divided we fall.”

The Litmus Test

Imam Talib and his bodyguard set off to Westbury before dusk on Oct. 14. They passed a fork on the Long Island Expressway, and the imam peered out the window. None of the signs were familiar.

He checked his watch and saw that he was late, adding to his unease. He had visited the mosque a few times before, but never felt entirely at home.

“I’m conscious of being a guest,” he said. “They treat me kindly and nicely. But I know where I am.”

At the Islamic Center of Long Island, Dr. Khan was also getting nervous. Hundreds of congregants had gathered after fasting all day for Ramadan. The scent of curry drifted mercilessly through the mosque.

Dr. Khan sprang to his feet and took the microphone. He improvised.

“All of us need to learn from and understand the contributions of the Muslim indigenous community,” he said. “Starting with Malcolm X.”

It had been six years since Imam Talib and Dr. Khan first encountered each other in Chicago. Back then, Imam Talib rarely visited immigrant mosques, and Dr. Khan had only a peripheral connection to African-American Muslims.

In the 1980s, the doctor had become aware of the high number of Muslim inmates while working as the chief of medicine for a hospital in Nassau County that oversaw health care at the county prison. His mosque began donating prayer rugs, Korans and skullcaps to prisoners around the country. But his interaction with black Muslim leaders was limited until Sept. 11.

After Dr. Khan read the book “Black Rage,” he and Imam Talib began serving together on the board of a new political task force. Finally, in 2005, Dr. Khan invited the imam to his mosque to give the Friday sermon.

That February, Imam Talib rose before the Long Island congregation. Blending verses in the Koran with passages from recent American history, he urged the audience to learn from the civil rights movement.

Dr. Khan listened raptly. Afterward, over sandwiches, he asked Imam Talib for advice. He wanted to thaw the relationship between his mosque and African-American mosques on Long Island. The conversation continued for hours.

“The real searching for an answer, searching for a solution, was coming from Dr. Khan,” said Imam Talib. “I could just feel it.”

Dr. Khan began inviting more African-American leaders to speak at his mosque, and welcomed Imam Talib there last October to give a fund-raising pitch for his organization, the Muslim Alliance in North America. The group had recently announced a “domestic agenda,” with programs to help ex-convicts find housing and jobs and to standardize premarital counseling for Muslims in America.

After the imam arrived that evening and spoke, he sat on the floor next to a blazer-clad Dr. Khan. As they feasted on kebabs, the doctor made a pitch of his own: The teenagers of his mosque could spend a day at Imam Talib’s mosque, as the start of a youth exchange program. The imam nodded slowly.

Minutes later, the mosque’s president, Habeeb Ahmed, hurried over. The congregants had so far pledged $10,000.

“Alhamdulillah,” the imam said. Praise be to God.

It was the most Imam Talib had raised for his group in one evening.

As the dinner drew to a close, the imam looked for his bodyguard. They had a long drive home and he did not want to lose his way again.

Dr. Khan asked Imam Talib how he had gotten lost.

“Inner city versus the suburbs,” the imam replied a bit testily.

Then he smiled.

“The only thing it proves,” he said, “is that I need to come by here more often.”

Notes on kindred spirits and stolen time

2007-03-08T12:35:00.000-05:00

Hey yall~

It's Thursday March 8, 2007 at 7pm. I'm on stolen (expensive!!) time here in Bombay. I should have already been back in Hyderabad with my family. I got an extension to my program, and i've spent the last 2 days with a rinky dink sony digital handicam to shoot some footage across bombay. (i know it's mumbai, but i just like bombay better)

part of my program was to make my own film project, getting to use (what i thought would be) a professional camera, and having access to an editor and an editing studio. There hadn’t been the chance to do this in the four weeks that the program was normally supposed to be, so I stayed longer. i have been trying to write a narrative to follow while filming this whole time i've been here and all the ideas i have are waaay too big for a 4 minute film project. so instead, i started with a theme of why bombay is my favorite place in india. i planned out all the locations and a rudimentary plan of shots i wanted to include in my project. yesterday was my first day filming, and i realized that my eye is much more photographic than cinematic. I gotta work on that.

I headed down to south Bombay, an area called Colaba which is on the water. The beautiful Taj hotel and the Gateway of India is also there, next to walls and stiars along the water that ferries, yachts and small fishing boats launch from. I hung out there for a while filming people, pigeon, boats, families there to sight see, foreigners, and the beautiful gateway of India. I had been standing in direct sun for about an hour when I decided to head towards Kala Ghoda and the other museums downtown. They were a short walk but I was proud of myself for being able to do it completely on my own. I asked for directions in Hindi, barganined for some earrings and a bracelet in the market on the way and had a leisurely walk with myself downtown. I savored the banyan tree lined streets, sharing the wide boulevards with the tourists, lunching office folks and people who seemed to be there for no apparent reason, like me.

i didnt get all the shots i wanted yesterday becuase as only seems possible in this crazy city, my day took a most unusual turn. I had the good fortune to meet a very intersting writer director earlier in the week (whom i intstantly connected with) that I have since spent many hours with discussing film, life and the world. He used to work for rediff.com, an Indian internet company. He did a commercial for them (an ad film as it is known here) kicking off a major ad campaign for the company. He had mentioned he’d be at a press conference held on a yacht most of the day, putting in the face time for his work and association with his former employer. I had just reached the Jehanigar Art Gallery, where I was going to enjoy some kultjah and have lunch.

Suddenly I get a call from this director friend along with an invitation to attend the press conference. I had just meandered my way away from there, and was at least a 15 minute walk away, but he urged me to hurry and I half-heartedly turned back. I walked for a bit, crossed the street where I could hop in a cab and asked the driver to book it. There was traffic, as usual, so booking it was a lil more like walking on wheels, but he started to pull around, almost drive on the curb, and it was sweet! My phone kept ringing, and my friend was almost frantic. We barely pulled up to the street I needed and I hopped out of the cab, thrusting more cab fare than necessary since I couldn’t wait for change at the driver and started to run, full speed, toward the dock. I clutched my super compact travel bag/purse, darted in between people, saying excuse me, hopping over pigeons that took flight as I disturbed their peaceful feeding and generally worrying all people within sight of me.
Panting and sweating in the fierce midday sun, I reached the stonewall where the boat had been moored to find it sailing away. My friend had a guy waiting there for me that was to arrange a separate boat for me to catch up with the big boat so that I could board once they were out in the Arabian Sea. What ended up happening instead was so thoroughly Indian and hilarious that I just had to laugh and wait it out.

A ferry had left behind the rediff.com boat and both were already out in the open water, although not too far away. A third boat was waiting to launch, half full of passengers leaving for Elephanta Island. After some enthusiastic gesturing by the boat men waiting for me that I did not quite understand, the second boat began to turn around. By the time I realized what was happening I couldn’t protest. The second ferry full of passengers turned around and haphazardly attached to the docked ferry. As this was being maneuvered, the Rediff boat began to turn back as well. One of the boat men helped me jump from the stone stairs of the dock onto the first ferry, through the passive watching eyes of the waiting ferry passengers and stand on the outside ledge of the second boat waiting for the Rediff boat to get close enough for me to hop on. Mind you, I had no real purpose of being there. I was a invited by a friend, and I was embarrassed by the show of effort that went into getting me onto the boat for a press conference I had nothing to do with. I laughed out loud while waiting for the Rediff boat, but then felt bad that these ferry folks had to wait for me so I tried not to laugh in case they got upset. I finally jumped onto the nice big boat, sun burnt, out of breath, covered in sweat and hungry.

Grinning, I met my friend and was quickly introduced to the three guys who planned and organized the press event. I was the youngest person on the boat, and the only non-journalist, boat, catering or Rediff staff member there. I didn’t look the part either, I was wearing a walk around town in the sun outfit not a media outfit. I had jean capris, a big brown belt, a pink muscle tank and my chacos on. The press conference began almost immediately, and it turned out that the ad campaign was to publicize Rediff offering unlimited storage space and secure email accounts for the lifetime of a user’s acct. We sat in the boiling direct sunlight on the uncovered top of the boat as ons of red Rediff balloons were released into the clear blue sky, the open Arabian Sea around us emphasizing the unlimited nature of the unique services Rediff is offering. Once the balloons were let loose (everyone was very impressed) we headed down into the relief of the sunless cabin. We watched the Rediff ad that my friend made and the CEO of Rediff, Ajit Balakrishnan, began to talk about Rediff’s target audience of mainly young people and how he came up with this idea of providing unlimited storage space. He also guaranteed that the service was completely secure. A lifetime of music and video files will fit in a Rediff email account, and he said that Rediff could be the email provider for dissidents, revolutionaries and the like because each person’s information is encrypted and totally secure. I got to film all this randomness that I happened upon, and after the launch was done, the personal interviews began and I focused on filming the water, the boats and enjoying the subdued sun. I got my shot of the Gateway of India the way it was intended to be seen, approaching (or departing) from the water. It really is a beautiful structure. Situated right next to the Taj, it is a beautiful combination.

To shorten this a bit, the press conference ended and I suddenly found myself face to face with the CEO himself, on my way to tea with him, my director friend and the 3 men who I met earlier who organized the whole shindig. We walked into the Taj hotel, and walked up to the Sea Lounge. I felt incredibly underdressed in my casual tourist outfit but stood up straight and walked like I normally do, shoulders back, head up and totally deserving to be wherever I am. IT worked quite well. I freshened up (brushed my hair, washed my face, put on some MAC lipglass and the earrings I just bought) and one my walk back to the lounge hardly noticed my underdressed outfit. (That was a huge accomplishment for me, as one of my biggest pet peeves/fears is not being dressed appropriately for any situation/event.) I sat quietly, straight backed, taking in every word said, every attention to detail and service during the tea. It might have appeared I was bored, but I don’t ever want to come across as just throwing myself into someone’s conversation/movie set/business discussion, especially since I predominantly find myself in all male situations and settings.

How crazy this city is! When I left my house in the morning, I had no idea my day would be like this. Nuts. I was also offered a spot on a direction team for a film this summer that my director friend is making. Interesting and certainly intriguing opportunity, I’m just trying to be open to whatever life offers me. We’ll see what happens…….

Saturday? What's that?

2007-02-17T00:17:00.000-05:00

Morning all~

Well, it's morning for me here in Mumbai. It is almost 11 am on Saturday, Feb 17. Shootout at Lokhandwalla is still happening, and by now has been shooting for 2 hours. I am incredibly exhuasted. I never get enough sleep here. There is so much life outside of my window... it invades my space and gets into my dreams and calls me back into wakefulness with an insistence that is both frustrating and mind blowing. (Side note: "Mind blowing" is a phrase most often heard in Bollywood, on sets, in general conversation, in reference to anything but mostly film related things, and used by everyone from the director to the grips. "Superb" is another well used phrase, applicable in the same context.)
There are bands of wild dogs that fight into the night, and often the late night foot and rickshaw traffic accompanying a "wild" night out. The mobile phone I was given by my program used to belong to a former employee and random people call my phone all the time, often disrupting my precious sleep. Then, once I'm awake, I can't get back to sleep.

I love Mumbai and the chance to be here is not an opportunity lost on me, but there are a few things that I require to be able to function. (Adequate) Sleep is one, (clean, safe) water is another, (healthy, safe) food is the last. When I have those things, everythign else I can take in stride. When those things aren't there, I have alot of trouble. I went out on Thursday night for the first time, to a lounge then a very small club/bar. Both were lame, but I had fun observing the lameness, jumping around to house music and being silly. It was all pretty accidental, I didn't even realize that I had committed to dinner plans with the Harvard kid, and once we ate a whole spread of food prepared by his guest houses domestic staff, we randomly left and walked around. The lounge we went to first was called something Japanese, like Seigo or something. It could have been a lounge anywhere. It is a branded bar, with an entire menu of Bacardi inspired mojitos, low lighting, with tasteful cohesive decor, definately designed by some up and comer, but very typical at the same time. They were playing american music, top 40 and older hiphop influenced r&b. That suited me just fine.

I had spent Thursday on location at a club called Fire & Ice at Phoenix Mills, a large outdoor mall very far from my apartment. All day long, 2 songs were repeated over and over for all the different angles of this club scene. There were a ton of junior actors (extras) who were in the scene who were lazy and mostly obnoxious. The club was small but average as far as decor went, it was sort of indian themed, sort of arabian themed. Normally a nicer end club I think. The two songs being played were house mixes of "its your birthday" by 50 cent, and some song I had never heard before taking lines from "no satisfaction" by the rolling stones. It sounds wierder than it was, both songs had great base beats and were easy to dance to. Not that most of the extras could dance, in my opinion.

And their clothes! OMG! I wanted to laugh so hard. For example, there was a guy there with a red fleece vest on with a pair of jeans. he had the vest zipped 3/4 of the way up. That was his outfit. Two girls were wearing almost identical outfits: casual light denim jean dresses, very simliar to the ones J. Lo's line made popular a few years ago. They had the low slung belt loops, and one girl, bless her, actually wore one. Both girls had keds-like sneaker flats on with sneaker socks that I could ACTUALLY SEE. it was, as you might have gathered by now, appalling. Some of the girls had really regular outfits on, things that girls in the US would just wear out and about. CArgo pants and a striped coordinating 3/4 sleeve top. skinny jeans, boxing boots and a short sweater. Some girls wore dressier things, dresses, skirts, halters, typical Forever 21-esque sequined tops. Thankfully those girls had the sense to wear appropriate footwear in the form of dressy heels. Anyway, the shoot that day was for Woodstock Villa and it was very cool getting to see all the different angles that had to be shot, and how to get the extras to make that club scene look really jumping and believable. My right ear hurt so bad from the speakers, since that side of my head was closest to them. I kept just closing that ear, but the vibrations were so strong that the pain started to extend into my jaw and the right side of my face. At some points of the day I was really into the music and wanted to go dance. But by the end of the day, as with the end of all shoots, I was exhuasted. I wanted to go home and sleep.

Two hours of a traffic filled car ride later, I had made it. It was around this time that the Harvard kid calls me, asking what time he should let his roommates and kitchen staff know to schedule dinner. What? Exactly. I actually had no real clue that this was what the plan was, but being to tired to argue, I went home, ate some of Seema's dinner (since she had already prepared it), changed clothes and got back into the traffic for an almost hour long rickshaw ride towards Bandra, a nice, somewhat trendy shopping & residential area for those with $$ and plenty of clubs, restuarants and lounges to cater to these rich hipsters. After dinner and awkward dismissive hellos from the other expatriots inthe apartment, we headed out to the lounge. We eventually left, after listening to the MC do a freestyle rhyme about the 5 other people there. The final straw was when the MC for the evening introduced "No Wax" night, which is basically ushering in Thursday night IPod parties. Since no one came prepared, they borrowed his ipod and the music was not my cup of tea.

We hopped into a rickshaw and went to some place called the shack, or i think that's what it is called, thats what was stamped on my hand anyway. The first floor was 70s, 80s and 90s mix of oldies music. Bleh. Next! We walked in to "That thing you do" and went straight upstairs. It was supposed to be a hip hop/hindi fusion floor, but as I mentioned before, it was only house music. So i jumped around and acted like I was at a rave. It was fun, but it took me ages to stop blatantly laughing at everyone around me. I know, I'm a snob. Can't help it. NYC spoils a person, u know?

There were 2 old Sikh guys there, just eating and drinking. They seemed totally out of place among the younger professionals who were drinking and "dancing."

I was exhuasted at 1:15 am when we got kicked out. The lights came up, and as seems custom in all clubs i've ever been to, they close the more happening room well before the rest of the venue. This has only led to me to belive that club administrators and staff are merely killjoys, out to take clubgoers money and nothing else. I took the 30 minute rickshaw ride back and practically collapsed into bed. I woke up way too early the next morning (Friday) and really really didn't want to go to the Shootout shoot. I knew that it was going to be an exciting day on the outdoor set they had been waiting months for. These were going to the external building shots where the 256 cops would shoot at the building, here was going to be an explosion of some sort-definitely fun in theory. I spent the morning resting and really not wanting to leave the apartment.

At 2:30 pm I eventually made my way into a rickshaw and headed to the shoot for 2 1/2 hours. Yesterday I gave money to the first beggar since I have been in India. Since rickshaws are open on both sides, I hold onto all my stuff tightly as many folks walk up to the rickshaw and try to sell things or beg. Whenever I say no, I feel bad. When I ignore people, I feel even worse. It seems in Bombay that even looking at someone and acknowledging them makes it alot harder to get them to leave you alone. That often means blatantly staring past or even thru someone. I would rather close my eyes than do this, but when with other people, I dunno. I try to follow their cue. This particular beggar was a youngish man with a small child, probably about 2 yrs old in his arms. He thrust the child's mangled, bloody bandaged hand at me and asked for money, for "medicine." I reached into my pocket, grabbed 2 rupees and prayed for that child's health and safety. The child had kohl lined eyes and looked down trodden, as if the spark of life had been stamped out of him long ago, and his two years of life had already been too much. I shuddered as we drove away, on my way to a place that was re-creating violence and desperation on a carefully constructed set.

I arrived at the perfecct time. After day long preperations and many takes of not-as-cool stuff like dialouge, the three cars outside of the main building where the gangsters are holed up were prepped and ready. Ready to be hit by a "bazooka" out of their window, to hit an old car parked across the street. This was dramatic liscense, b/c the gangsters did not have heavy artillery with them. Only bags of guns and ammunition. But the car was rigged to explode, the roof fly off, along with the doors while the windows blew out. The two cars behind it were rigged for the windows to blow out as well. There were four cameras set up to capture all angles of the shot, and we were told to stand far back behind the playback monitors. There was only one take of this shot, and it was awesome. The car blew up, and everything happened on que. It caught on fire and people rushed to put it out with waiting hoses as soon as "Cut!" was called. It was such a rush to be there and see it happen in person. I realized on this shoot that I love actions movies. I always have, but this movie made me remeber that they can be so exciting! It's really cool to see how all this stuff is done and how its shot to give the maximum effect of action and boom! to each frame. Afterwards were the cops shooting rounds of blanks at the building over and over. Really wasnt helping my already hurt eardrums, but cool none the less. The actors playing the cops or the cops themselves, whatever they were, weren't listening and no one was really responding well to the director as he tried to set up the following shots. He got so pissed that at one point, in the middle of trying to set up a shot, he screamed "That's a wrap!" and wrapped the shoot early. Everyone stood around, dumbfounded and when it was clear that he was serious, I hopped in a rickshaw and headed out. Enough of the film world for me today. I spent the evening with Seema, trying to find affordable clothes in Bombay and really not succeeding. Everything I've found here is practically at American prices. Bleh!!! Oh well. Hopefully whenever the shooting of this film is over I'll take a day or two to go check out Bombay's famous bazaars and find decently priced stuff.

Blog again as soon as I can. Hope to hear some COMMENTS!!!! >

Not Part 2

2007-02-11T12:19:00.000-05:00

I've officially been in Mumbai a week, and in India for two. It is crazy how time bends while traveling. I in some ways feel as though there was no moment before this. Hyderabad, even a week ago, is a distant, fuzzy memory. My family and friends are pieces of love that are accessible through phone and email, and their physical presence seems doubtful. Today I had a bad day. Almost 2 weeks to the day of me arriving here, I am experiencing what LEAP refers to as a predictable bout of culture shock. Here are some symptoms and/or reasons:
"After two weeks, this has usually passed, and students hit the wall in a
couple of ways:

Culture shock
Loneliness
Feeling that you can't really make a difference
Feeling useless in your internship
Feeling that things are too different from what you imagined when
you chose your internship
Feeling that three months is too long to feel like this
Feeling like everyone else is having a better experience than you
Not speaking the language well enough to really connect with people
Being the only _____ person among many _______ persons
Hating everything and just wanting to pack it in and go home
Feeling unsafe, or that something bad will happen if you stay
Crying a lot for no clear reason
Feeling that you aren't getting what you came here for"

It is predictable, I am told, and like clockwork, here I am. This is compounded by the death of my aunt earlier this week; she lost a long, hard battle with cancer. There are other things pulling from home of course, but I feel quite detached from most of it, all the way on the other side of the world, in my Bombay bubble.

It's a city built by the British on land "reclaimed" from the sea. Reclaimed? when you fill in the ocean, is that reclaiming? or destroying? I'm not sure. I think to the part of Mumbai I have definitely NOT seen, and have little desire to. The part beyond the bridge that leads to Asia's largest slums. Those folks are like the land, I think. Reclaimed and added to this city in a way that has destroyed their lives and their futures. Slums are visible enough, especially on the way to the staple of the Bollywood super rich, the film shoot. Being here is great, and I am grateful for it. But yesterday I went shopping with one of the super rich, and that led me into a very strange and unsettling evening. I ended up meeting up with friends of a friend who lived in Mumbai last year. They are Ivy Leaguers, one form UPenn and one Harvard. The Harvard one is white, from my area back home and strangely enough, knows a kid I served with in City Year. The world is too small sometimes. The UPenn kid is a Californian of South Indian descent, very sheltered. They are both success stories of being on "the track" to a tip top education at the most elite American institutions. By the time I met up with them, I was exhausted, ungrounded, flustered and frustrated. It was nice to speak American English with other Americans, really laugh, share sarcasm and irony, and just hang out. But in my tiredness, I didn't have the normal deft guards up for conversation, and I noticed but didn't counter the fact that the conversation ended up being all about me. As in, classifying, labelling, understanding and ultimately placing me in my appropriate social hierarchical place. Basically amidst the laughter, the conversation went like this:

Where are you from?
How do you know Tyler? (our mutual friend)
Why are you in India?
So wait what school do you go to?
What's your major? Why did you work for so long after high school?
I've never heard of someone taking so much time off!!
So you tried Americorps and then decided on this?
You realize, and are mentally prepared for the fact that you will be the oldest person in all your classes for the next 3 years, right?
Did your gap year turn into many?

I deftly answered and kept the conversation moving, but it never turned to them. I was too tired to pry or wryly comment on their obviously successful path of conformity and the pride of their parents and family. I'm not sure if other people do this, but after social interactions, especially new and different ones, I examine them from as many angles as I can see. As I did this, I felt incredibly judged by these two well meaning, friendly, well educated boys. I started to feel bad about myself, about the choices I've made (and haven't had the opportunity to make) and regret the way my life is. I started to feel like I had to prove how my brilliance and legitimacy. They were such text book Ivys, and they are, as it goes, still on the track. They are in India working for an Indian company that sells cars internationally. I got pissed this morning when I was thinking about it. I don't know why I felt so needy of their approval. I shouldn't feel that way. I shouldn't have to, anyway.
I am intelligent, subversive, witty, attractive. I am loved
Why do I need validation from this world that I reject?
Do I want to be a part of it that badly?
Makes me really upset that I wasn't able to fulfill my potential in the socially accepted, rewarded way of going to an Ivy in the correct amount of time and then going on to do whatever I want.

The strange duality and almost hypocrisy of visiting the Bollywood world while really being against what it stands for and what it propagates in the Indian culture (as far as consumerism, white is right mentality) and it is beginning to grate on me a bit. I am really enjoying getting to see the flim industry this close and learning so much, but those slums along the way and the people who tap on my window and beseach my generosity in the name of God stay with me past the pretty faces of the actors and actresses and the self important musings of the directors, producers and the like.

Today I woke up at 7am, earliest for a shoot day, after going to bed latest than I have, more exhuasted than I have been. I was explicity instructed I had to be ready by 9 AM to be fetched by my program's asst to be chaperoned to today's shoot. It was shooting on the other side of Mumbai, a good 2-2.5 hour commute from here. It was my academic director's shoot, and it had been shooting from 6AM on location in the streets of a quaint neighborhood. It was supposed to be a very conformtable experience for me, my teacher's movie and all. We ended up, both due to the incredibly lax and infuriating lack of Indian communication skills, decision making and premium put on time to travel and wait around for over 3 hrs before i arrived at the shoot that had been going on since 6AM. I was ready at 9, despite my sheer exhuastiuon. I didn't get fetched until almost 10, and didn't arrive on set until almost lunch after 1PM. I wanted to kill someone. Shooting on location was horrible. It wasn't a comfortable experience for me, hardly anyone acklowedged me or accomodated me. I stood for hours of shots, in the heat and sun, getting attacked by crazy bugs. I was so far gone by 3pm, when the shoot was supposed to wrap that I spent the two extra hours we shot staring at the action with glazed eyes, trying to stay awake. :( Everything sucked today.

I dunno. I'm exhuasted and apoligize for not being able to save this blog post from the negative and slightly depresing look at my experience.

Comments (and concerned emails!) are greatly appreciated.

India giveth, India taketh away (part 1)

2007-02-06T11:10:00.000-05:00

Long time no post, this I know. I am terribly sorry, especially since my fingers have been itching to type and leave a million entries about my experience so far. This is the first time that i've been online since last wednesday, almost a week. That's almost an era in India time. Hyderabad was amazing, overwhleming and heartwarming. I have been welcomed into the arms of family i didn't even know about. I have seen life from the upper crust, the middle class and the working poor. (All encompassed within my family, in 3 distinct areas within Hyderabad.)
I had the most awkward afternoon of my life with my grandfather's sister's family, which i promise i'll blog about another time. I left Hyderabad on Spice Jet, a low cost Indian Airline, from Hyderabad's provincial airport. The flights were delayed about an hour, and i found myself striking up conversation with a brazilian model who looks rather indian. We talked about her new boyfriend, an Indian model who is from Mumbai, and all the hilarious cross cultural misunderstandings they have had in the last 2 months they have known each other. Before we walked up the stairs to get on the plane, she said something strange about Indian people having bad skin and body shapes b/c of the spiciness of the food. I was totally confused by the randomness (and the ignorance) of this comment, and although I wasn't offended, I think she thought I was, and didn't speak to me again.

By the time I arrived in Mumbai and collected my baggage, I didn't even think about it, I was just excited to go meet my contact and finally begin the solo part of my trip, unsupported by the comforts of family and filial love. I stepped out into Mumbai and spotted the two folks who were waiting for me. A dark skinned man named Makesh and a lighter skinned woman (who turned out to be my lady-in-waiting, who stays at my apartment to take care of me and cook my meals) named Seema. We drove through Mumbai's midnight traffic while i tried to stay awake and get my first look at Mumbai. We arrived at my "guest house" which turned out to be a private apartment complex. My apartment is clean, internet capable and very American. I have a shower, cable tv and a roommate for the next few days. She's a woman of my same name from Kolkutta, who runs a NGO dedicated to the education of girls.
(I'm borrowing her laptop at the moment)

I spent Sunday sleeping in, and eventually met with my academic director, who is a well connected Bollywood director who has made 7 somewhat alternative Hindi films. . He told me my biggest responsibility was to have a blast, and that this program would become what I made of it. I am the only student this month in the program, and I would be spending the first two weeks on sets at currents film shoots. I would start the week at the set for Shootout at Lokhandwala, a film by a hot young director, starring a bevy of Bollywood stars, with legends, stars and newcomers. (Some names to note are Amitabh Bachchan, Sanjay Dutt and Vivek Oberoi, check them and the movie info out at Wikipedia.com!!)
After our conversation about film and the film I'd be visitng, I went to the nearest beauty parlor to get a pedicure and prepare for going to a major Bollywood set the next day. I picked out my outfit, reviewed my film technique readings, and tried to not have any expectations.

I woke up early, did my morning pages (yay me!) and began to get ready. My breakfast arrived with my lady-in-waiting, and the wait for my ride (in the form of mukesh) began. He arrived an hour late with no explanation and we hopped into an autorickshaw for a bumpy, windy ride that took almost 45 minutes to get to Film City, the place where the movie was being shot.

It was quite a shock. I've been on the tour at the Universal Studios lot in Cali like all good tourists who visit there, and I felt that seeing the sets took away a great deal of the magic of the films I recognized them from. But being a Hollywood studio lot, it was clean, well maintained and chock full of security to keep rabid fans and wannabes off the sets that were being used. Mumbai's Film City was nothing like this. There were security guards in police look alike uniforms at the front gate who hardly even looked in our auto rickshaw as we zoomed through. I had been told by more than one person that Film City was built on the outskirts of the city b/c it was hilly, removed and scenic. Huh. As we drove up, I was struck by how typically Indian the place looked. Dirt roads, slums off the road, people washing their laundry in the river, hanging it to dry on the tree limbs nearby, goats and stray dogs running amuck.... Didnt look remotely different to me. there had been no welcome signs, or company signs and I honestly thought we were in the wrong place for a time. The main road was rather long and brought us to some set in construction, a small chai shop and a little restuarant beside ot. Many men were standing around, leaning on cars and talking, with no official ID of any sort to indicate whether they belonged there or not. I saw a few trailers as we drove around, lost in this unlabelled labrynth of broken down buildings and dirt roads. The only sign of real work that I witnessed other than the set builders were two women, wearing drab brown coats over their colorful thin saris, walking wearily along the road with a bucket and hand held broom each. They were picking up small pieces of trash and dusting away debri over the sides of the road onto the slope near the river. Makesh got out of the auto while we stopped by the chai shop to call our contact to confirm location of the shoot. I used this time to try and get the wind and dust whipped tangles out of my just clean hair. I began to doubt we would beable to arrive where we were supposed and dread my empty day with no shoot. No need, it was the place we had passed with the trailers.

Our auto unceremoniously pulled over onto a dirt hump and I tumbled out. I followed Makesh aimlessly, taking in the many skinny, dust covered men standing around, the broke down, half built look of the concrete building I was about to walk into, the mangy dogs running about, fighting or sleeping in the sun and the many pairs of eyes that stared at me, in my white cotton tunic and pink pin striped pants.

We wandered around like this for some time, until film crew people noticed us and tried to see why we were there. Makesh pointed upward to the second floor of the exposed, incomplete building to a woman in blue. He said something I didn't catch and waved me inthe direction of this woman. I walked up a rickety, very hastily handmade looking wooden ramp made of what looked like pieces of other sets. I met Pranchi, an assitant director a few years older than me who went to Temple for her undergrad. We shook hands and she said I should meet the director, even though they were in the middle of a take! I stood back to let her get his attn while I looked around the dusty, dirty hallway I had walked into. I couldn't see the filming b/c so many people wer standing btwn me and the camera guy (there was harldy 3 feet btwn us) and realising she couldn't get Apurva's (Apu)attn, she asked me to take a seat in front of the playback screens and wait for him there. As I sit down, I hear "Cut! Superb! One more!" and in rushes a tall youngish, hip looking Indian man, covered in tattoos of Hindu significance, rimless glasses, and an Abercrombie/Hollister/American Eagle look of jeans, a polo t-shirt and Sauconys/Aasics. He comes in and Pranchi introduces us quickly, saying his name fast and unintelligably, and introducing me as "A friend of Hansal Mehta's (my academic director/film director I mentioned earlier). She's a film student from CT (Connect-i-cut." His eyes lit up at Hansal's name and it was apparent he knew I was coming. He welcomed me warmly, offered me chai and went back to the take he just shot. People were coming in and out of the room, hurridly speaking in Hindi about the shot and the next one. In a moment the film's anti-hero, played by Bollywoodmega star Vivek Oberoi, strides in. He's tall, with fantastic hair, big eyes and a nice smile. Apu introduces me and says "This is Vivek, he's a big star." I answered with a smile and "I know, I've seen some of his films." Apu goes on to gush that Vivek does great work, we exchange more pleasantries and then watch playback of the last take together.

There's the entire rest of my day and then my 24 hour bout with food poisoning to tell about, but if I don't post this now, I have no idea when I will be able to. I'm still borrowing my flat mate's laptop, and I have hardly any time on it. More to come! I promise!

Hello from Hyderabad!

2007-01-28T04:26:00.000-05:00

I'm writing this entry from my uncle's hi speed internet connected, air conditioned super sweet real estate company's office. india is VERY different this time around. I arrived in the middle of the night on friday evening, customs and luggage claim took an hour and a half. my poor family had been waiting outside that whole time in the humid heat of hyderabad. my grandmother's sister (my great aunt Suroor), her son and grandson, my grandfather's brother (my great uncle) and his wife were all waiting for me. Being in Hyderabad airport by myself was a lil unnerving. it was set up like delhi's baggage claim area but was cleaner and nicer. after waiting ages, i finally collected my bags and handed in my final customs paper. I headed through numerous doorways towards a wall of people outside. i took a deeeeeep breath and headed out towards the masses. I got out there and was momentarily overwhelmed by the many many people waiting for other people. i saw some ppl holding signs and squinting began looking for my own. my great aunt yelled out "Yazi!!" and I recognized her voice. I could hardly see her among the throngs of folks, but there was a flurry of movement around where they had been standing, and i began to push my luggage cart towards them. A coolie started pushing my cart and would not listen to my denial of need. my little cousin came along side me (he's 10, his name is Arsulan) and said hi, although i thought he was some kid trying to bother me at first. i made it around the corner to my great aunt (who i had met previously in life) and she gave me a large flower garland around my neck, a kiss on the cheek and said "welcome to hyderabad." it was quite epic, really. except right after that moment we had to run to the car and get out of the airport parking lot b/c it was so late.

I didn't realize it at the time, but my uncle Aman has 2 mercedes and a ford. I am staying in a one bedroom flat of my own upstiars from the family in the apartment building where they live. my uncle is in real estate and is quite successful. He owns his company and developed the apartment area he lives in. they own the flat i'm staying in as well. it is really great. i have constant electricity, a big screen tv, cable and a treadmill in my flat. My uncle gets 1000 tv stations from his cable subscription and my little cousins are growing up with nickelodeon cartoons and disney shows. they also get cartoon network and have 2 play stations 2s, which they play with every free moment they have. my uncle has threee sons, all adorable. Arsulan, 10yrs old, Altimash, 5 yrs old and Adanan, 2 years old. Arsulan speaks very fluent english and is very bright. we spent all of yesterday talking. my great aunt kept telling him to be quiet and let me rest b/c she was tired of his hours of talking. I love a conversational partner, specially a 10 yr old who loves the Backstreet Boys. :)

Yesterday I was cooped up all day, resting. I felt sick and feverish so took a nap. My great uncle and his wife (ChaCha & ChaChi) stopped by to talk and have chai for a few hours. they invited me to spend a few days with them as well. I'm not sure how i'll navigate telling my great aunt that i said yes yet, b/c i'm sure she would prefer my spending the 8 days before i leave for mumbai with her. I've got it really good there as well, I am not looking forward to having to pack and travel again soon. My great aunt's daughter Shabu also stopped by. She lives down the street. Very shortly after we had been talking, she asked when I am getting married. I laughed out loud at how this will inevitably be a common question on this this trip. I of course told her the standard response for me, which is after my studies, I will get married. It's not worth me trying in any ay to explain my personal ideological belief as far as women, equality and life paths go, so that is all the response I give. It makes the most sense.

All day long the tv was on cartoons, very loudly. That definately gave me a headache. Want to hear something crazy? My 10 yr old cousin plays Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. My eyes almost popped out of my head when he told me that. Wow. Dunno what that will do to him, or how much he'll understand. I told him he'll have to teach me how to play video games so that I can play with him. I have to find an open space to play football (soccer) with him. I know he has holiday right now and is trying to get all the PS2 time in that he can, but I can't take another tv day with him. We're going to find a good place to go run around and act crazy.

There is a 3 days holiday right now, today is the last day of it in celebration of Republic day on Jan 26. there is also an auto rickshaw strike going on, so getting around while my uncle is at work is going to be tricky accoring to my great aunt. my uncle's wife, syeeda, drives her car in the new part of hyderabad and not in Old City, so we'll have to catch the bus to go visit those smaller, winding streets.

Today is also the first day od Muharram, the Shiite (Shia) tradition of self mollification in remeberance of the Prophet Muhammad's grandson being killed. Sunnis believe it is wrong to do, and wrong to watch, so although my great aunt invited me to watch the literal blood bath that will occur, she warned me that another uncle of mine fainted while atempting to watch. I laughed and told her that I have a pretty strong stomach, but when I spoke about it with my uncle Aman, he said it is horrible and that it is not worth going to partake in it at all. He said it is disgusting and the smell is just horrid. I'm not sure why that was not the first thing to come to mind, but having seen it on tv for many years in news reports, I think my photographer/documentarian responded first. Weird.

I got to see a picture of my great grandmother with Jawharal Nehru (the first prime minister of India) from when India first got it's independence. She was a Congress Party (the ruling political party) member and in charge of some social work stuff. That was crazy! I got chills from it. My great grandmother, a bona fide mover and shaker in the seminal Indian world of politics. Crazy. I have to make digital copies of all the old black and whites to bring back home. I would have made the entire 3 day journey to arrive here in India if only for that moment when I saw that picture.

We went out today, and I got my first look at Banjara Hills, the nicest and most expensive neighborhood in Hyderabad according to my uncle. He is such a cool guy, and we both have a hting for cars, motorcycles, sungalsses, and fine fashion. He is definately one of those upwardly mobile capitalists. His son goes to one of the most expensive schools in Hyderabad, his cars are expensive, He spares no expense for his family (including me), he likes expensive clothes, he is very much a part of the upper middle class here in Hyderabad. Obviously I love it. I think I am doing my big ethnology research paper on the lifestyles of the upper middle class in India (specifically Hyderabad and probably Mumbai as well). My family is so sweet! I really adore them. My great aunt laughs at how often I say thank you. The family has two servants, one 16 yr old girl and an older woman. I am in the awkward position of having to be catered to and having to not really notice or say thank you. It is embarassing and i'm sure improper for me to keep thanking everyone. I can't help it. I'm American. We say "thank you," "excuse me" and "i'm sorry" so much it hardly means anything.

My aunt goes to the gym for aerobics evreyday and hopefully tomorrow we will be going together. Can't wait to try an Indian aerobics class. I don't know what I'll wear either, I only brought a few shilwar khameezes. Later today my great aunt and I will be heading to her tailor to have a suit (an indian outfit) made for me, and to adjust a rather large one I already have. There is so much more to say, I'm sure, but I can't think of it right now. It is amazing how quikly I have adjusted to the constant honking outside and the very common sound of the various yelling traveling salesman for God knows what. The neighborhood I live in now is much quieter than the rest of the city, it seems. I wish I had brought family photos and gifts for my family here from CT, stuff showing where I'm from. Oh well. Inshallah now I know what to bring or send whenever I come again.

I love my discman and my cds!! Having music is amazing. I wish i had speakers so that I could listen to it out loud while I write or run on the treadmill instead of having to mess with the headphones. I have to see if there is an extra cd player in the house i can use. Oh yeah! Last night we watched the grand finale of "Bigg Boss," an Indian version of Big Brother meets the Surreal Life. It took 13 celebrities from Bollywood, modeling, dancing and the like and put them in a house with 34 cameras for 3 months. They weren't allowed to leave or have any contact with the outside world except through the Bigg Boss. The grand finale was so entertaining. Many originally English shows which are popular in america are here as well. There is the third season of Indian Idol that is about to start, and an Indian version of Who wants to be a millionaire? hosted by Shah Ruk Khan, one of the biggest Bollywood stars out here. It is nutz. Just nutz.I love it though. I think that so far (you know, my 2nd day in Hyderabad) that this is the sort of India I'll really enjoy staying in. Enough amenities where I'm comfortable, enough english to have real conversation, and enough push to learn Hindi & Urdu that I pick it up. (Plus enough access to fun things that cost money, like resorts with pools and shopping malls and arcades. I'm not sure what kind of culture shock these things will bring but I can't wait to find out.)

Basically, I'm happy, sort of healthy, and thrilled to be here.

Can't wait to hear from all of you.

Adrift

2006-12-13T13:29:00.000-05:00

It's a week after my 24th birthday, and in some ways, I feel more like an adult than ever before. I look outward to try and grasp something real, something more substantial than this adrift feeling that fills me, taking the place of emotions, fulfillment and relationships. I cling to the memories of feeling, trying to force the spark of life back into that space of disconnection from the rest of the world that lies in the center of me.

There is a steely, clear, purifying rain that has been beating down all day, it has finally calmed to a gentle drizzle. I look out the large bay window near me and see the silver birch trees, their branches strewn with pearls from the rain, the pond surface a million ripples, broken and re-rippling by the mallards who swim about, almost heedless of the rain. The trees are all leafless, barren save for seed pods here and there. Their dark brown bodies reach against the grey-white sky, branches extended upward as if in delicate, righteous prayer, standing proudly in a pile of dry, colorful dead leaves, unmoved by the now shed pieces of themselves.

The last week, and by now, the last month, have flown by. People ask me if I miss India, if I'm glad to be back. Home and India seem to exist on two different planes. I know I went to India, just like I know I'm back here in the states. Things have been so busy here that I can't even think about the fact that I was in India. Life in America is so full of stress, complication and (like life everywhere) the mundane minutiae of everyday living that makes you forget the grand possibility of living, of the big wide world beyond your window.

I spent last week in Boston, in the grey chill of a city, New England style. It felt so irrelevant to me, the bridges, the projects, the suffering of the people, the fancy restaurants, the tall buildings that serve as business centers, and the Prudential Center, a hotel/mall/observation tower/business building with a St Francis of Assisi church attached. It almost seemed more honest that way, a house of worship to the American lifestyle of consumerism, conveniently built with a house of God attached. A place for people to come in, acknowledge the higher power, worship for a moment, assuage their buyer's guilt, take Communion, possibly resolve to do more to promote social justice and peace (when they're done shopping of course) and then go back out to consuming.

St Francis, "one of the most beloved of all catholic saints" (according to americancatholic.org) and his message of peace, acceptance and social justice are ones that I have always identified with, and as a result, I always liked his churches best. This didn't change the bewilderment I felt seeing a chapel of his mere steps from the food court.

I spent 2 days last week at the Social Justice Academy in Hyde Park section of Boston. It is a public high school that has been carved from a failing high school the state was going to take over. Instead, three charter schools were made out of it. I got to observe the sophomores in their humanities class and had the opportunity to give presentations about India, my trip and this blog to two senior humanities classes. Urban high schools always make me feel so many different things, and this one was no exception. I was so jealous of the students because of the fantastic books they were getting to read (Bodega Dreams by Ernesto Quinonez as an example) and the great way they get to learn their curriculum (American history from Howard Zinn's A People's History?? I had to start college before I had even heard of that book!!!!). I do not envy them their sexually super charged, designer label dominated lives full of confusion and hardship though. It seems so sad to see how quickly they either rush to grow up or have been forced to grow up. The few who aren't seem so child like and soft around the edges compared to the cold hardness of their peers. They seem to take the knowledge being offered to them for granted, failing to realize that without this knowledge, without the ability to read and write on the same level as their suburban, lighter peers, they will be doomed to inhabit this world of ours in the margins, becoming, remaining statistics.
Their children (because aren't all marginalized fated to bear children? to continue the cycle?) will be destined to follow in their footsteps with no role models to show them the way out from under the mantle of poverty, out of wed lock births, single mother hood, latch key childhoods, damaged emotional selves, self esteems tempered by self hate and false images of acceptable manhood and womanhood, reading, writing and arithmatic-ing below grade level, vilification and racial profiling by the prevailing, monied, white majority... being a living statistic is no way to realize a dream, it fates entire communities, families, generations to become dreams deferred.

The point of education is to give students tools that are relevant to their lives, to improving their lot in life and equipping them to critically examine their lives and the worlds they live in. It is no secret that I think children of color have a greater responsibility to do this, due to our precarious places in American society, where we aren't welcomed, wanted or acknowledged. Advertisers thirst after our dollars, commodify our culture, sell it to white kids, and deprive us of how we choose to define ourselves by co-opting these identities and contemptuously selling them back to us. As adults of color and communities of color (and hopefully, conscience) we have a deep, collective responsibility to provide this type pf education to our children. Since the majority isn't providing it, our responsibility extends to all children. We also have the responsibility to get this education ourselves, and share it with each other so that we are able to be effective role models and teachers to our children. It takes a village to raise a child right? What kind of village are we at the moment? We're losing this generation, we just about lost my generation, and with each moment that passes, more of us become statistics, banished to lives in the margins.

The students in the two humanities classes that I presented to were initially not that interested in what I had to say, who I was, or why I was there. We did an activity during the 80 minute block that started with them writing 3 things they knew about India (one factual, one fictional, and one they weren't sure of). They turned these cards into me and got into groups, where they read excerpts of the Sept 11 post from this blog. They had to read it to themselves, talk about it, then present to the class. It was interesting hearing the impressions they had from reading my writing, and what didn't make any sense to them. Because I was in India writing these entries, I couldn't spell check or really proof read my words. The misspellings and references I made really threw some of them off. I didn't notice many of them use context clues or infer what I meant. An interesting part of working with these students is that many of them are immigrants or come from immigrant families, so they had some context that was outside of America and American culture. Watching them make connections between the poverty I mentioned and the cultural differences I talked about was really cool. There were alot of questions that the students had that I didn't get to answer, and many often hilarious comments from their list of 3 things about India that there wasn't time to address. Why Indian women wear bindis (or the "red dot" as it was constantly referred to) and the status of women were the things that people seemed most curious about. I wish I had been able to show them more pictures of everyday India, so that they had some real idea of what India looks like. They seemed very surprised that Indians used cell phones, or had things like a metro subway system in Delhi. With the second class, we didn't even get to the 50 picture slide show I had prepared. As a whole, this class did not seem that interested in anything I had to say, but 4 students stayed after class during their 25 minute lunch to ask questions and see the picture slide show. That was cool. It gave me a sense of validation that my words and pictures (which I think are at least nominally interesting!) sparked something in these young people. I hope that some of them check out the blog and get something out of following some of my adventures as they learn about India. (Shoutout to Kalpna!!! Thanks for all the help and support in putting this together, can't wait to do a follow up presentation in may when I get back.)

I think that is all for today. My brain is flying all over the place and I gotta reign it in long enough to make sense of this moment right now, since it is the only one I have.

Peace

Intentions

2006-11-26T11:36:00.000-05:00

So I intended to write, I swore I would write, I promised myself I would write, and for the last week or so, no writing has happened. This is me trying to fulfill my intention and writing to rescue my sanity and keep my self consistent. Being back in America is hard. I mean really hard. Too many things to keep track of here: social norms, traffic lights, cell phones, cell phone laws, calling people back, leaving the house, walmart, grocery stores, overabundance, extravagance, the holiday season, waste, incredible waste, useless waste.

The other night my sister invited me to watch In America with her, a movie about a poor Irish family that moves to America, to NYC, to pursue the dad's dreams as an actor. I couldn't watch. At one point, they go out to Coney Island to try and escape their difficult life for a moment, get roped into a carnie game and blow ALL their money there. They do this b/c the dad is insistent in proving that he can beat America at its own game.

I couldn't watch! ME! Who pushes world tragedy on people to open their eyes, who forces myself to read the news and stay informed b/c being unduly affected by the pain of others is a privilege, a high class problem we have since we live here and aren't going through it ourselves. ME!! Who will watch/read/learn/do anything to prove this pain to myself, to remember how lucky i am not to be the prisoner of war anywhere in Africa; not to be a child growing up in the disfigured reality of American sprayed Agent Orange throughout South Asia; not to be an uneducated girl growing up in India in a family who i only burden with my dowry debt; not to be a young girl running from FGM in any number of countries, or to be perpetually afraid that i will be raped or assaulted and then killed by my own family to avenge the family honor in Iraq. I am American. I am therefore lucky. I must bear witness to the suffering of the world b/c as a citizen of the world's only super power, it is one of the few things i can do, and therefore becomes one of my most important responsibilities. In light of that, watching this character forfeit the safety of his family to prove a point made me sick. having just come from a place where people were living in the street, starving, all bones visible, limbs missing, covered in flies, eyes with no hope, watching some stupid fictionalized version of the struggle to survive almost made me vomit.

Re-adjusting is difficult, that was my initial point. I have mountains of bills and logistics to work out for DAYS, creditors calling my phone every hour on the hour, a father that questions every decision I've ever made, a scholarship i didn't receive, no internship set for next semester, no clear destination to return to in India, no clue where to apply to college and fear that no where will accept me. I have $100 to my name IN LIFE and thousands upon thousands of dollars of debt, both owed to people and companies. But somehow all this is bearable because i have amazing friends and family that are willing to support me. Moments like this i can't help but think India, with all its chaos and uncertainty, makes more sense than this. It seems easier as well.

I miss all my friends, scattered across the East Coast and the rest of America like leaves in the wind. i've heard from most of them. I understand everyone is super busy with the end of the semester looming and the holidays and what not, but the ones i have perpetually not heard from, even after reaching out repeatedly, those ones hurt.
I am frustrated and annoyed that i have made the effort, sent emails, postcards even, and gotten nothing in response. To use the internet in India was no convenient or even easy feat and in my across the world reality i stil found time to write. I guess different people value others and effort and communication differently, but to me, a small email in response saying "hey! i was thinking of you!" or "I got the postcard, thanks!" or even, "here's what has been happening in my life while you've been away" means the world, and shows they care.

i guess i'm complaining now. i'll stop. i miss my group, we check in over email a few times a day. it is heartening to see so many emails from them every time i sign in. i don't check in much, lately i havent had much to say. being back and being able to reconnect with people has been fabulous and worth the time change and the awkwardness of being home. One of my best friends is coming home this weekend, i'll get to see her!!! yay!!! Quick appreciation: I appreciate genuine, authentic people who understand the value of communicating their love and appreciation for life and others. That said, I hope all who read this blog are well, and this random, disjointed entry is not proof of the slipping quality of my posts, it is simply me trying to get back on the bicycle i've fallen off since coming back.

gratitude, love, and sincere dislike for creditors-

Oh my god i'm back again!!!!

2006-11-12T19:25:00.000-05:00

CALIFORNIA LOVE!!! (cue tupac song) It's official folks, I'm back on the continent of north America, back in the arms of the superpower. crazy stuff: our flight left Delhi at 7:30 AM India time on Nov 12 and we arrived in San Fransisco at 12:30 PM Nov 12, after having slept through a night and taking two flights. We literally flew back in time and reclaimed a day. I was getting so giddy in the minutes before landing as the Bay area came into view. the water looked beautiful, the mountains surrounding looked tiny and both the urban settlement and farming divisions on the land made my heart sing. I suddenly remembered the outcome of last week's sweeping elections and that pulled me out of my 14 hour movie popcorn movie induced fog and i started smiling. i couldn't stop. the only weird part of our flight back was this homeland security video that they showed which was like 10 minutes long, all about the new security procedures. it was all directed towards visitors to America. apparently, now each person will be fingerprinted, have digital photos taken of them, quizzed about their intentions and plans during their visit and actively monitored so that they remain in their given visa time. scary and the video really seemed done in the vein of anti-communist propaganda during McCarthyism and the cold war. weird.

it was so amazing to be back in America!! the airport was soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo clean! there was soap, toilet paper, toilet seat covers, automatically flushing toilets, plenty of light, huge mirrors, and water that was safe to wash up and brush teeth with!!!! AMAZING!!!! it felt great to get out of the plane (which we had been sitting in for some obscene amount of hours) and walk around. I saw Americans all around me, heard English and got smiles in return to my wide eyed adoring looks.
we walked out to the pavement after securing our baggage and Sam & big from LEAP were there to pick us up. we loaded up, piled in and set off. it was amazing to drive along the orderly American roads, no honking, no animals, no chaos. other people in the van with me were freaking out and having severe reverse culture shock as they watched America pass by. i just loved it. in case anyone doesn't know, i adore order and logistical precision. seeing the well planned order of the roads, the traffic, the signs, and the drivers made me so excited. we drove through San Francisco and it was sooo nice to be in an American city. big stopped at some place in north beach and got us the best truffles around. delicious. then we drove along the water front where you can get on boats to visit Alcatraz. there were so many wonderful smelling seafood restaurants along the water- i was salivating. i want seafood!!! i want to just eat the whole world. it was so refesrhing to drive down the street and see 8 million different times of food offered at restaurants that are side by side.
we had a beautiful view of the Golden Gate bridge. someone in the car remarked that this was the 2nd modern world wonder we were seeing in a week. (last week i saw the Taj Mahal, more about that later)
the dinner bell just rang and I'll bet money i wont get this comp again tonight. i have internet till tomorrow afternoon, so email and comment away:)
i want to be in America.....(cue west side story as i walk out)
love peace & gratitude

Catch-up!!!

2006-11-03T03:54:00.000-05:00

It has been many days since i have blogged or written anything, and for this i apologize. i antagonize you all to read, to check for updates and leave comments, and for over 10 days i have posted nothing. there has been so much going on, and i have experienced so much in the mean time. i havent had the chance or space to write b/c i have had the stress of impending academic deadlines and departure dates bogging me down. it is nov 3rd today, and i leave india in 9 days. i arrived with my group early the morning of nov 1 in chakkibank at 3 am. It was the closest train station to dharamsala, and we mercifully took taxis from there straight to McLeod Ganj. It was a three huor long drive, where i got to talk about music with mike and watch the sun rise over the himilayas while nikki and alex slept. i dunno if it was because teh trainride from rishikesh was so peaceful and i got sleep, or if i was just excited about traveling to McLeod, but i was hyper and wired. Everythign was exciting and new.

we left Rishikesh on Halloween, but celebrated witht he wonderful children at Ramana's Garden a day earlier. we had a big hallweoen dance party for them where we all dressed up; i was ali baba!! i told the halloween story to the kids, which they seemed to enjoy. hardly anyone in india knows what halloween is, so we had to steer clear of most of the scary stuff. couldnt have a haunted house or be monsters b/c it might really scare the kids. jaime & i carved jackolanterns and then were forced to attempt making a dessert off the cuff with the pumpkin filling. it became a bread like pumpkin cake that wasnt so tasty. But we had fun making it. the kids in the kitchen were a bunch of clowns who we spent the whole afternoon joking with. we made a pinata out of a clay pot and the kids wore the masks they spent the previous afternoons making. we had fun dancing around with the kids; dwaba had warned us that dancing was "not possible" without our involvement as well, otherwise the children would become nuts. we laughed at this, both at the suggestion that we wouldnt dance and the idea that the kids would turn the dome (the geometric space that most large community events happened in) into a mosh pit. i didnt think it was as funny when i spent a chunk of that part of the night pulling kids off of the floor, off of jumping on each other and stopping general hitting, pushing, punching and shoving. the whole night was exhuasting but fulfilling. every night at the orphanage, they have SatSong, when they all come together and sing mostly hindu prayers but also english kids songs (i.e. if you're happy and you know it). i taught them "ride that pony" which is a fun game that i learned in City Year, and they loved it. basically, everyone stands in a big circle and claps and sings "ride ride ride that pony" 3x followed by "this is how we do it" while one person dances/gallops around the circle, riding an imaginary pony, until the next line, which is "front to front to front, my baby, side to side to side, my baby, back to back to back my baby, this is how we do it!" the galloping person in the center then picks someone in the circle to gallop up to and follow the instructions sang by the rest of the group. once they get to the 'this is how we do it!" the people switch places and it continues. it is ehuasting, especially for the adults leading it, but it is a fun game. the kids loved it! i felt all warm and fuzzy inside when the day after the halloween party at recess the older gurls were all playing ride that pony together. they got all the steps right too! the first night i taught it to them at SatSong, they didnt follow the instructions, they all just rubbed their bums together and riggled around laughing. it was hilarious but bemusing.

i was glad that i could share somethign that brought laughter and fun to the chilrdren with them. their stories are heart braeking and suffocating. one boy was found at the bottom of a pile of his family after they had been burned alive. another boy, nicknamed lucky, got the name b/c his family was sleeping by the side of the road and a truck ran over his whole family; he was the only one to survive. pinki, a quiet, shy and adorable little gurl somehere aroung the age of 5 (we have no way of knowing)had been at the orphanage for a little over a month. she almost never spoke and simply smiled in response to being spoken to. she has a lazy eye that on closer inspection is blind. at first, i thoguth she was deaf. i spoke to her in hindi, asking what her name was, how she was doing, telling her she looked beautiful, and there was not a spark or recognition, acknowledgment or understanding in her face. i asked her repeatedly, and much slower, what her name was. eventually she whispered "pinki" so quietly i couldnt be sure what she said. i heard other kids call her pinki though, so thats what we all said too. her name isnt pinki. they have no idea what her name is. she spends most of her time there confused about her surroundings and circumstance. we dont know if she knows much hindi at all, and apparently, her parents are dead b/c they killed each other (or a murder suicide, which makes more sense) and she wandered the streets on her own for some time. her eye is messed up b/c she was beaten by other street children. she was found, beaten, on the steps of some shop. the shop owner took her to the police and the police brought her to ramanas.

the thing that makes these horrific things stand out even more is that when you play or talk with the children, you would never know. they are mischivous handfuls and for the most part seem like normal children, untouched by life's creulty. it is easy to forget or not even know that these kids are getting the opportunity to live, love and learn a new life at ramanas. the outside world is a dangerous place for them, but they never seem afraid, traumatized or even sad. they laugh, smile, play and pull us all into their hugs, arms, and hearts. remembering them makes me sad. none of us wanted to leave there. i felt like i had finally gotten used to the way there was absolutly no schedule at ramanas; i had started to make connections and was building relationships with the children. i want to spend so much more time there in my life. they need the support, and i need to see them again. i am invested and in love. they are beautiful, with their scabbed knees, wide smiles and tattered clothes. at first i held off getting to know them because i thought it would be too much for me. i was afraid the reality of their situation would take over our present and make me unable to deal with them. they were fascinated by me. everywhere i walked, i heard squeals of "Hindi!!! Hindi!!!" followed by "Are you Indian?" it annoyed me quite a bit for some time. i was past the point of thinking it was cute to have to explain myself 50x a day. eventually the kids started remembering the info i told them and that would answer the questions that followed me around the compound. things got easier after that.

last sunday we went to the cinema with the kids and saw my first bollywood movie on the big screen. we saw jaan-e-maan, a love triangle comedy starring salman khan (with muscles so big they kept trying to escape his euro-trash styled shirts), akshay kumar (as the lovable nerd genius turned cool guy) and preity zinta, the object of their affection and competition. it was set in manhattan and made me miss home SOO MUCH. it was hilarious though, b/c while the outside treatments were shot in nyc, the inside shots were done in india (we could tell from the indian 3 prong outlets on the walls on set) and in any scenes featuring white people or non indians, all the extras had australian accents. EVERY SINGLE ONE. lol! We ate Lays spanish tango chips
(delicious tomato flavored, slightly spicy chips that are thankfully not sold in the US, b/c i would become obese) during the whole movie and threw crumbs at mike's head. loads of fun.

this is such a paltry entry, especially when there is so much to cover... but it is late. i must go back through the dark streets to our guest house, sleep, and get ready for a day of no b.s. and just getting my work done. maybe i'll be able to blog during one of my breaks. love you all!

2006-10-17T10:24:00.000-04:00

the cracked earth
heaven,no?

Om my God!!!!!

2006-10-15T08:40:00.000-04:00

I spent the last 5 days driving and trekking through Middle Earth. I have never camped or trekked before, and doing it at thousands of feet above sea level was quite an experience, let me tell you. It became the most difficult thing i have ever done. i realized that trekking is the quickest way to test your limits and challenge yourself, but it is also the surest way to figure out life. I read The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho before i left and all i could think about was pursuing my destiny and listenig to the Language of the World and connecting with the Soul of the World. At the beginning, the trek was so hard. i mean, i thought i was going to die. the higher we got, the thinner the air became, the steeper the mountainside got, the more my body had to do, and the less oxygen it was getting. i took so many breaks. i couldnt even pay attn to the scenery around me, all i could focus on was the next step. right, then left, right, don't twist the ankle, left, brace against that rock, right, avoid that slippery pile of goat/dog/cow/bull/horse/donkey poop, breathe, breathe, breathe!!! i couldnt even look ahead to where the faster part of my group were, high above the mountain. i was overwhelmed by the prospect of reaching there. i kept relating it back to the alchemist and to life; couldn't be too concerned with where the path was headed, since i wasn't leading myself. i had to focus solely on being able to reach there at all. each step and labored breath was a step closer to my destiny, and led to a more complicated, dangerous and steep part of the trail. the first day we trekked 1500 ft straight up. i had alot of time to contemplate my life and what i want for it, as i struggled up those amazing rocks. often times all i could think was breathe, step, breathe, step. but step i did. when we finally reached camp on the first day, i was sick from the chappattis we had for lunch, and had the most terrifying experience of my life, trying to pee while crouched on teh side of a mountain. my foot slipped at one point, and i watched the dislodged rocks tumble in a small dust cloud thousands of feet below. i tried to focus on the solid part of the mountain to my left and not on my impending death. an upset stomach on a narrow mountain pass barely large enough to accomodate one foot at a time is a nightmare, i assure you.

i realized that my whole life up until this point has been steps on a trail that brought me to the base of the himilayas. all the missteps, the falls, the hospital visits, the triumphs, the joys, the learning, all have been preparing me for my visit to heaven. the himilayas defy description and resist capture; i feel as though every picture i took disappointed the mighty vistas they were trying to sadly immitate. the mountain air was clean and impossibly pure, the water seemed clean and rushed by fast in small brooks and rivers. reaching camp on the first day felt like such an accomplishment. i sat on a rock and tried to talk my stomach away from the ledge it was about to jump off while everyone else set up camp. i was the only one who had never been camping OR trekking, so everythign about camplife was new to me.

once our tent was set up, alex laid out my sleeping bag for me and i gratefully fell into it. i read and napped till dinner. i really appreciated her help and her consideration; she had a tough day. poor gurl had trouble with her asthma and the elevation, the thin air took away her breath and she had alot of trouble getting it back. she then had to suffer the indignities on riding a donkey up to camp and getting kicked by it and hit by a crop swat meant for the brutish beast of burden.

the donkeys camped with us as well, and every few moments were punctuated by the strange, inhuman sounds of the donkey herders as they yelled at, yanked at and hit the poor beasts. it was cold when we got to camp, which was a flat field with a great view of teh surrounding mountains. the sunset was like everything else: amazing,pure, clean, inspirational, heaven, divine and felt to me like proof of Allah's greatness.
It was cloudy though, and as the night went on, we saw lighteniing from far off rain clouds and the explosive booms of dynamite being used to blast away rock to build roads. we huddled in the dining tent, sitting down around a table, passing the time playing "psychiatrist". it was freezing! then the food began to arrive. first a hearty soup came, and we ate 3 or 4 bowlfulls each. someone came, cleared it away, and we waitied for chai. in its place, 5 more courses arrived, including dessert. nuts, just nuts. we were all very thankful for the hardowkring men who were catering to our every need. after dinner, we sat by teh fire and listened to siri tell us a long story about dreams called "the kinyata are waiting for you" or something like taht. i tried desperatley to warm up while gazing at the stars. the stars were amazing. there were so many stars, it was like the deep blue of the sky and the white light were mixed, like cookies and cream ice cream,impossible to distinguish from one another. i couldnt pick out any constellations, the stars were all so bright and brilliant. i felt like i was looking into the milky way.

after star gazing sand futile attempts at warming up, i had to visit the toilet tent. let me explain somethign to all u folks who have never camped before. every time u camp, u have to dig a hole where everyone can relieve themselves so that when u leave u can bury it and "leave no trace" in nature. this amounted to a 6 ft tall gray narrow tent that loked (if this is even possible) like a nylon port o potty. u walk in, zip the door up and squat over a foot deep hole. yeah. in the cold darkness. right. exactly. the stink is incredible and when its hot outside, there are flies. it is pretty gross. the worst part was that the ziper on the tent began to malfunction and then simply not close. so i was now left with the new challenge of trying to squat over a muddy hole without falling in and holding this tent door shut in the freezing cold and pitch blackness.
sleep was fleeting, it was simply too cold to sleep through the night. i had all my layers on, to no avail. i missed sun rise b/c of this fitful sleep and emerged to the rest of camp cheerily sipping chai and eating breakfast at 8 am.

Our second day started off so much better than the first. we were trekking through amazing forests full of tall old trees, moss covered slopes, rushing brooks and sunlight filtered through the leaves. beautiful, peaceful and quiet. every step of the way i thought of tolkien's words and scenes and stories. i wasn' the only one with these thoughts, everywhere we trekked looked like the scenery from the LOTR trilogy. as i walked, i imagined ents, elves, dwarves and mordor as we trekked and trekked. i always wondered how the charachters in these epic stories i love manage to trek for days and days and walk for miles to get where they needed to. once they were there, tehy didnt sit down to rest or congratualte themselves; they had to fight a battle/save someone or commit acts of heroism. doing this trek gave me an inkling of what that might be like, focusing on each step in front of you, not thinking about anything other than getting there. no one in the expedition speaks unless necessary, saving all their breath and energy for the amazing physical challenge they are undergoing.

i also thought about tibet and nepal. the refugees in india we keep running into often trekked over these mountains with the few belongings they had in a life or death escape from persecution. i had so much trouble doing this trek while i was being catered to and it was merely an exercise in personal acheivement; i wondered if i would be able to physically step up and survive such a traumatic life altering experience. i feel like if the people i loved were in danger, adreniline and sheer determination would make me able to do anyhting, but i've had my body give up on me and not follow any orders. i hope i never have to find out.

As the day went on, we left teh forests behind and were on the rocky narrow barely there maountain trails that went straight up. the air got much colder and clouds rolled in. i was able to look ahead and see where the group was a little more on this day, the idea of a destination was less overwhlming. i took some breaks, but not nearly as many as the day before and was often alone on the trail. the guides were farther ahead, the rest of the group behind. i sat on a rock, looking out at the desolate beauty of the himilayas. there was no one as far as i could see. the rest of my group were on either side of surrounding ridges, unseen and for the moment, not existing. the wind blew, moving the amber grasses back and forth. the mountains had brightly colored moss clinging to them, and at places downt he mountain i could see a few low trees. the moving grasses looked like sea anemones, and the moss clinging to rock looked like seaweed and barnacles. the wind felt like a strong ocean wind during autumn.the whole thing looked strangely aquatic, as if i would discover this underwater world during a scuba expedition. i sat and watched and tried to listen to the Language of the World. All i felt as i listened to teh wind and watched the ancient nature around me was content. i suddenly understood why people forsake the world of people and move into the mountains for solitude and answers. i could have sat there forever. the cold and the wind stopped mattering, becoming an extension of the heartbeat and breath taht kept me alive.

Shortly after my solitude was interuppted by the rest of my group, we reached the highest point of the trek, called Koali point. (i think, dont quiote me on that)i also have no real idea of how high we were, since everytime i asked i got a different answer. we took some truiumphant pictures and continued on to the spot that our lunch was promised. it got even colder. We had a dog that joined us at the start of our trek and followed us all the way up, down and around the mountains. She was a black mountain stray we named "Kala" (the hindi word for black)and she was a wonderful companion. She was blind in one eye but had no trouble with the mountain paths or passes, no matter how narrow or rocky. we stopped to regroup after the highest point and as thunder clapped above us, we decided to spereate. most of teh group decided to trek to camp and have luncht here while a few people would have lunch in a more sheltered place and try and make it to the koali pass. i deciede not to go b/c it was already so difficult for me, so cold, and there was no gurantee that there would be a view at all b/c of the intense cloud cover. we skipped off, singing songs from the sound of music and screaming as lightening and sleet started. the sleet became hail and all the downhill trials full of rocks became slippery and perilous. as i pointed this out, i heard a yell and a thud. alex slipped and crazked her elbow on a big rock. as we stood in the hail that soaked us, the first aid response began. siri ran to alex, preparing to immobilze the arm and xochi threw me some spandex she had for teh sling and i ran (carefully) over to them to help. siri was like a hero, so quick to help out and get alex down the mountain. the hail got worse, the thunder continued and the downhill became even more dangerous. alex and siri took shelter under a big fir tree and nikki and i squatted under some sort of flowering bush/tree that we have in CT. the longer we sat there, the colder and more soaked we got. the hail became the size of kix cereal. it coated the ground and turned our previously sunny day into a winter wonderland. our guide came to check on us and we got up, determined to make it to camp, tired of being soaked. we careafully picked our way down the mountain, singing the twelve days of xmas and then the song that never ends on the top of our lungs (since we couldnt remember the words to the 12 days, lol). we triumphantly made it to camp shortly after and ran into the dining tent to try and get warm. it was nutz! the hail continued and was no longer melting. the temperature dropped and it started to freeze as we waited for chai, hot food and the rest of our group. the amazing guys of red chilli had already set up camp for us so we didnt have to struggle in teh hail. we shared whatever dry clothes we could find and reveled in the weather, the adventure and the thrill of being alive. it was one of the most incredible things i have ever experienced.

there is something so unvbelieveable about looking up and seeing the snow capped peaks of the himilayas. sometimes i felt like it was a set, a backdrop, not possibly real and part of my experience. i couldnt stop looking at them and would just stand and stare at them, during sunlight, clouds and at night.

the last night there i saw shooting stars. they were shorter and faster than the ones i've seen back home, so swift my eye barely registered their passing. at first i just thought my eyes were tired, full of smoke from the fire and playing tricks on me. but one of our guides (in training) exclaimed when he saw them as well, and i spent the next hour watching for them, sitting by the fire and talking about diwali and the indian army with him. he plans to join after he gets qualified as a rafting instructor and a trekking guide. he was training during ours. it was interesting listening to his perspective about military service in india (he wants to be an officer and believes it is every young indian's duty to serve the Mother) and the american sponsered war on terror. i tried to explain to him the idea of national service, the service movement in america and how i spent the last two years serving my country, but without guns, fatigues or military training. i'm not sure he really understood what i was talking about, but it was interesting anyway.

we trekked with this very competent adventure company, named red chilli, that took care of all of our needs. they had donkeys that carried all of our suplies, a chef to cook for us and a crew of guys to set up and breakdown uor tents, take care of our things and generally provide for us. i repeat: i was trekking in the himilayas with a personal chef. take that, angelina and brad. they're in india right now, and i gurantee they aren't getting to experience anything half as cool as me.

the third day was the hardest since it was all downhill. we walked in between heards of sheep and some goats and again i was strongly reminded of the alchemist and santiago's flock of sheep. sheep sound alot like people when they are all bleeting together. i laughed so often, as i suddenly found myself in a mountain valley, in the middle of flocks of sheep, attempting to count them. the cutest thing i have ever seen: the youngest lambs are kept in tiny pouches to stay warm that are strapped to teh donkeys. instead of the normal luggage or crops they carry, there were all these adorable lamb heads poking out, bleeting at us.

the mountainside that we trekked through was beautiful and full of small hardworking people who greatly expanded my ideas of what humans are capable of doing in order to live. their houses, farms, roads, and irrigation systems from the river all seemed done by hand and incredibly difficult. they were harvesting, planting, building, breaking rocks, going to school, gathering leaves, cooking, laughing, herding cows, staring at us as we stared at them. my knees were about to give out halfway through and this was the first time i yearned for it to all be over. i prayed i would make it to the end and started to listen whenever anyone discussed the time or expected distance of our destination. i have no clue how these folks spritely run up and down the mountains without a second thought. we finally started wakling on more flat ground where the trails where easier to navigate. we made it through one more village and the cars were up ahead!!! siri gave us all high fives as we got to the bottom of that last hill and i felt like screaming and jumping up and down (as if my knees could even have handled it). we took some pictures and all i could manage was a rather loud "Holla!" as i looked out over the river below and back up at the mountainside we had just made it down. I think taht shows that no matter where i go, america goes with me. maybe. or maybe vapid mainstream culture has infiltrated my brain so deeply that instead of an articulate way to express the most important physical achievement i've ever accomplished, all i have left is the overused vernacular of commercial hiphop. who knows.

i loved it and cant wait to trek back home. hear that muju uncle? sierra nevada, here we come!

i'm in rishikesh right now, and yesterday we moved to the orphanage. the american woman who runs it is an imposing figure: tall, in her mid to late sixties, a doctor and definately used to doing things her way. the orphanage had over 50 children and several other institutions. most of the children are nepali refugees and often have at least one (not good) parent alive somewhere. there are kids there as young as 3. she told us that as the children get older, it is hard to keep them at the orphanage. they fetch a high price (the gurls do) and the boys get high dowry. they are skilled children who speak great english, learn classical dance and have a vocation. apparently 2 of the gurls were recenlty sold, one for 80, 000 rupees, and another for 60,000. the orphanage cant do anyhtign about it, they have no rights since those children still have living parents somewhere. the orphanage is full, and they only take some police cases. three children sleep to a bed, its so crowded. they are trying to build and expand.

it’s funny how things work. I was just observing that I felt a bit let down by the “inner journey” portion of this trip, not really feeling as though I had had the chance to be alone with myself. I had hoped that we’d get to experience something along the lines of guided meditation with ourselves, maybe guided reflection. I had just come to terms with the idea that I wouldn’t be able to really get that this trip. then we get to the orphanage. the woman starts telling us about the mountain center and tells us she will teaching us Reiki 1, and initiating us into it. someone asked what rieki is and she responds “ reiki is the channelling of the earth’s energy to heal yourself and others” . Whoa, I think. We went from talking about what state we were from to harnessing the energy of the world. Am I living in The Alchemist? Next she tells us that we will be going on a day long vision quest. One day we’ll spend in the woods by ourselves with nothing more than water and our journals. Another whoa. I start worrying about being alone with myself in the woods. I just finished reading Holy Cow by Sarah MacDonald (which turned out to be a really enjoyable book by the way; if anyone has some time and wants to hear a little about what travelling in India is like, pick up this fun read) and she focused so much on her neurosis and how difficult it was to be alone with herself that I think it rubbed off on me. But I was surprised by how quickly “the Universe” (as we always say within our group) answered my frustration. now it looks as though I have the spiritual retreat that I was craving. I’m not sure what it will be like, since we will be up at this mountain retreat center that the orphanage uses during the summer. it is a three hour drive up the mountains and had no electricity. we will be responsible for all of our own meals and will do yoga everyday. we'll be doing service to help the center:white washing walls, collecting leaves, planting an indoor garden for food during the winter, organizing their soon to be open coffee shop and helping the women's collective that combs angora rabbits to make creulty free angora scarves. I will miss Eid b/c I will be at the mountain center, so doesn’t look like I’ll be able to see Yusef’s family again before I leave. the upside of all of this is that we’ll be back at the orphanage for Halloween and get to celebrate it with the kids! we’ll be missing out on diwali, so it looks like we’ll be lighting fireworks with the kids once we get back. I’m excited! Halloween and fireworks, a piñata and masks! Woohoo!

Oh yeah. before i go, i wanted to share my wonderful health experience with you fine people. it seems as though i have an ameoba of some sort. a water born bacteria/parasite, something that keeps me from ever feeling great. i went to a doc here in rishikesh and am now sufering the indignity of having to give samples of various bodily fluids so that we can isolate which ameoba i have and presecibe accordingly. great right? my doc's appt cost 100 rupees. a lil over 2 dollars, to see a doc. india is crazy.

hope all is well with everyone.
COMMENT!!!! once i leave for the mountain center tomorrow, i'll be out of touch for 8 days, cut off from the world, electricity and a catered to existence. should be great.
love light and sheep:)

Sitting in the foothills of the Himilayas with my flashdrive...

2006-10-10T06:45:00.000-04:00

FYI: my health is better, no dengue fever so far. i've noticed that everytime we have to undertake a big travelling transition, i fall ill. my body doesn't do the change very well unfortunately.

Ok so i'll bet no one even gets the twisted reference i just made to a powerful song lyric, but it's sorta how i'm feeling now. the original is by rage aginst the machine " now i'm rolling down rodeo with my shotgun, these people aint seen a brown skjinned man since their grandparents bought one!" and my poor comparison to it was the title of this blog. I'm in Rishikesh now, done with Swami Rama's ashram a day early. My leader mixed up the date that we would begin our trek so we checked out of the ashram, got all packed up and waited for a ride that never came. We ended up taking autorickshaws down to a more central, and tourist packed, area of rishikesh. the views here are beautiful.

i'm sitting in an internet cafe that is really the booking office of the trekking company, enjoying the fan and western set up of the office. i'm isitting directly in front of a set of large windows that look out onto hazy outlines of hills and mountains. I only have to stand up to i see the majestic blue monsoon swollen rapids of the Ganga beneath us. The Ganga here is completely different than the dirty, scary mess of Varansi, and the timid, hydro dam altered river by the ashram. here there are vicious looking rapids that seem unreal. there are small buildings scattered along the edges and a small suspension foot (scooter/cows/monkey/motorcylce) bridge uniting the two sides. there are colorful mundirs (hindu temples)nestled in the lush green of the hill side that attract pilgrims from all over india. this is Shiva's country, and you cant take two steps down the street without hearing devotional songs about Shiva and Ganga-ma (Ganga is supposed to be another incarnation of the mother goddess, Durga)wafting around the holy cows and burning incense in front of all the temples that line the main one lane throroughfare that serves as a street.

there are tourists everywhere. stupid, loud, crass tourists. apparently tons of dirty, dreaded tourists come from all over the world to bum around here, "find themselves", go on a "spritiual pilgrimage" (which amazingly doesnt seem to have much to do with Indians, India, or learning a word of hindi) and act incredibly out of place. the trekking company is very professional and caters to the best paying clientele in the area. unfortuantely, that means alot of entitled, stupid americans/europeans. while sitting in the cafe at various intervals today i have witnessed: a middle aged woman in shorts that ended mid thigh and a cotton tank top that didnt fit well, a loud demanding american young woman trying to squeeze an empty computer out of the 5 available and occupied ones here, and many subtly belly baring tops/exposed skin and tattooes. people who run little shops here all speak some english and in no way expect us to know any hindi at all. they look at me like the dog spoke if i try and speak in hindi b/c they automatically assume i couldnt possibly and wouldnt make the efort. you can really tell they are used to foreigners here: no one stares at us as we walk by. we had to take a staircase down the hill to the ganga and a guy blatanly held up his camera to get pictures of us. i held my hand in front of my face and tried not to smack him with it.

i was eating a bannana as a snack when i noticed there were monkeys around. (how perfect right? the setup was complete. yaz walking with a bannana and crazed, angry monkeys clamoring around, waiting) i tried to hide the bannana as we walked down the stairs against the flow of people climbing up. the monkeys knew i had the bannana. they ran over to the (narrow!!!!) sides of the staircase and paused, glaring at me, getting ready to buond onto my head/body/face. i tried not to friek out as alex said over and over "give them the bannana, give em the bannana!" i dropped the bannana practically into the monkey's hands and then did my best to step around them as they eyed me for more. it was like getting mugged, but worse. monkeys, in their ever present evolutionary proximity, are aggressive, know us well enough to tell our moods, fears and weaknesses but have no reason not to be as brutal as they like. as close as we might be, with our similar hands, ability for expression and brain structure, we are not kin. they understand this. humans get caught up in how cute they are and the novelty of them. they see us as victims to be exploited for their material gain and personal (monkey-al?) amusement. i hate them.

after this terryfying encounter with my distant cousin the bundur, we attempted to walk across the suspension bridge in search of a airconditioned bookstore. all i noticed were the bundurs moving lightening fast up and down and across the suspension wires. i also had to watch my bag, not get run over by the two wheeled vehicles (one motorcycle was being operated by an older sikh man with large metal milk canisters on the side; everywhere i turned, he was there, honking his horn at me to get out of death's way), say no to the postcard hawkers and not step on any yougn children. we made it halfway before a young sikh man, smartly dressed and in a red turban, held up his cell phone as we walked next to his family and demanded a picture. it was alex, me, his mother and grandmother and his child. great. my first instinct is always to say no, but alex agreed and it was harmless. i didnt smile. it was more like a grimace. but the aunties were so pleased, i didnt feel totally bad. i have to remember i take pictures of people(them!!)here too, but normally dont ask. after we made it across the bridge, alex almost got gored by a stampeding bull in the street and we eventually found a bookstore.

it is hot here; the time and my energy melted in the sun's relentless rays. after buying some afternoon snacks, we returned to the trusty red chilli (i'm not kidding, that's what it's called) to enjoying climate control and internet. we ended up with a free day to just kick around in rishikesh because of the trek date mixup, which i shuold be using to complete my first paper, due at the beginnign of november. i'll get to it... i started it. my problem with free days is that i have no motivation to go find the world in front of me. it's hot. i'm tired, i hardly slept last nite. i'm trying not to contract dengue fever, malaria, and a million other bug born illnesses. i also spent the last few days at an ashram so my motivation and sense of urgency has chilled out more than usual. i have now dubbed the ashram hotel california. the whole place is done in a spanish mission style, with red tile roofs, lawns, landscaped gardens, no shady trees, and primarily american staff and participants. these folks come here to "get away" without ever actually being in india. as i think i mentioned in my last post, the ashram has 5 star accomodations, western toilets and is secluded (obviously) from the rest of rishikesh. dont get me wrong, there are indians there as well, but many more foreigners. we had been warned that this would be the most conservative place we were visiting, and that we had to be dilligent about covering up and conscious of our behavior. tell me why we get there and there are middle aged white american women with thier noses pierced wearing HIGH WAISTED (why highwaisted anyway? ur body isnt designed for all that extra fabric being hiked up around ur middle. u end up looking like a fashion victim with excess skin left over after your gastric bypass in fabric form!) "Workout" capris and sleeveless shirts? one of the main teachers, a californian who is a physical therapist and a resident there has lived at the ashram for fuor years and can only count from 1-5 in hindi. that's it. yeah.

i dunno. the american-ism of the place made me really homesick at times; i would spontaneously burst into tears when i thought of something from home. it was intense and strange, and i didnt like it one bit. i'm glad to be away from it in that respect. at the same time, i didn't feel like i got much out of the ashram experience (except daily showers and delicious simple food) in the short time we were there. i really want to learn more about meditation and hatha yoga and i had looked forward to the ashram as my chance. i want to go back and spend a solid amount of time there, at least 2 weeks, probably a month, to get to learn and build on what i am learning over a period of time.

i can't believe we're going on a trek tomorrow. apparently we'll be driving most of the day to get up to our starting point, and i am not looking forward to that all day drive. it will be up on windy barely there mountain roads and definitely be vomit inducing. another pukemobile ride is not really what i'm in the mood for after my recent foray into the world of vomit. we'll hike straight up about 6 miles the first day i believe, and around that much up and then down in the next 2 days. crazy. just gotta do it i guess. i'm excited though, what a challenge! after the trek is the week at the orphanage, a week at a mountain retreat center that belongs to the orphanage and then a week in Dharamsala wehere we'll learn about some buddhism, maybe run into HH Dalai Lama and finish up our assignments before our 3 days of free travel. after that, when we will hopefully visit agra to see the taj mahal and amritsar to see the golden temple, it's delhi and then cali. final retreat, then home. nutz. we're smack dab in the middle of the trip, with only a little more left than we have already completed. it is flying by....
love and miss you all
comment, email and overall just pray for me that i dont fall off the mountain.

Thoughts on puke and ashrams

2006-10-07T09:15:00.000-04:00

Hey everyone!
i sincerely apologize for the lack of posts for the last 7 days. Varanasi was exhuasting and incredible and i cant wait to go back. Durga puja was one of the most insane and interesting thingsi'veever been witness to. we had so many different exeriences that i cannot begin to write about them now at this crappy internet cafe in rishikesh. i am at the yoga ashram now,in the tradition of swami rama. we got here yesterday after the worst bought of travelling yet. i felt so incredibly sick in the first half of the day and puked all over the street before getting into the final rickshaw of the day. i was wearing this new shirt that a silkshop gave meto remember them by and i ruined it. future note to self: never let lemon juice touch new clothes that are hand dyed.after i puked, a rickshaw guy gave me half a lemon to suck on to stopthe need to puke. it dripped on my chin and i wiped it off with my sleeveand frieked out hwne my sleeve turned black. for a moment i thought i was going to die of the plague b/c i had black vomit. thankfully i didnt,and i'm not, but i spent all of yesterday in bed and all of today as well. i stopped puking and have a bad headache and flu/cold symptoms. i hope i dont have dengue fever. the train ride from varanasi wasnt thta long (15-17 hours instead of 22) but it wasnt direct and we had to take rickshaws to get to a bus stations,take a bumpy vomit inducing bus ride and then another rickshaw,all to get to this little ashram.

the ashram is beautiful. it has 5 star accomodations (indian though,not by american standards) and is totally designed to cater to westerners. it is manicured and landscaped with flowers, grass and no trees for shade. we have western toilets and a huge bathroom. i am staying in a cabin (with exposed brick) with 2 other gurls,we each have our own bedrooms and there is even a sitting room in the front of the cabin! the food is simple, organic and delicious. so far i havent actaully experienced any yoga or classes because i've been sick,but it sounds like a place i would love to spend alot more time in. unfortunately we are leaving tuesday morning to leave for our himilayan trek. there are alot of other westerners here. i hope i feel well enough in the next 2 days to take advantage of it. i've got to run to dinner,but i wanted to shout out the juniors and seniors at the Social Justice Academy in Hyde Park,MA. they will be following my blog as part of their world studies curriculum. i'm excited and cant wait for feedback. take care everyne and as usual,comment make my life better! send me some!

1! We are soldiers! 2! In our City Year shirts! 3! Don't we look good! 4! When we go to work!

2006-09-29T11:52:00.000-04:00

Congratulations to this year's 2006-2007 City Year Corps all over the country!!! Hey, hey, it's Opening Day!!! Especially those new corps members (Yeah CHEEM!!!) and returning corps members at CYDC. Now comes the fun/challenging part: service! Dont forget: this is hard, be strong. Bing! (ok, i know that was the cheesiest thing i've said on here to date, but i couldnt help it. you can only deprogramm brain washing so much)I can't believe two years ago, on this same day (ok, so it was oct 1 my year, you know what i mean)i was wearing my new clean timberland provided uniform, still proud of it, representing my team to the crowd of well wishers and DC photo op hogs, being formally inducted to Americorps, City Year and my year of service. Who woulda ever thought i would go on to serve another year (cept me, since i went in with that intention) and then be in India on the following opening day. crazy. life is so great! The last 2 1/2 years have been really fabulous, and it just gets better with time. :) i'm pretty happy. i got an email from my friend who i forced to do CY (you're thanking me now... let's hope it stays that way:) today, and he is loving it. i had hardly thought about it since i've been here, but getting his email showed me that i actualy do care at least a little with what is going on there. the other night alex and i talked about it, she was asking me questions about my experience and i suddenly remembered cheem literally filling my boots, standing on my shodlers, making sure the DC community is served. getting the email about what has been going on was like a portal next to me opened, full of a red-jacketed, Timberland army, threatening to suck me back into the high ceilings, wooden floors and hamster cage type cubicles of the MLK space and surrounding City Year office. I asked him to fill me in on all the details. he doesnt read my blog (apparently he is "just too lazy for your journal thing") but maybe other people who know him can guilt him into reading about my experiences.

So it looks like the Mother Theresa hospice is just not gonna happen for me, at least not while i'm intent on trying to work with a hindi tutor. It is festival season here in Varanasi, and apparently no one wants to work. We know have to pay double for one hour of hindi study with this teacher guy. i'll try it out tomorrow, but i'd honestly rather have the experience of serving here sometime during my last 5 days in Benaras. I had yoga tody with a tiny little man who looks to be about 58, although b/c he does so much yoga, he might very well be pushing 80. he is slim, incredibly flexible, strong, disciplined and is missing the bulk of two toes on his right foot. i kept getting distracted by them. he is so wonderful! he speaks enough english to explain postiions to us, and since today was my first class (yesterday i only ended up doing the breath work before i got pulled into my kathak class and today i had to miss the first 15 minutes b/c of a mixup with the male kathak teacher i didnt want to continue with; he apparently arrived at 3:45 expecting to teach me again today, since my leader was sick and didnt communicate the cancellation to him, i had the incredibly awkward task of expaining that i in fact no longer wanted to study kathak with him any longer. great)i didnt know any of the poses. he very gently and patiently explained them to me while he worked with everyone else. i can't wait for tomorrow's yoga. i'm sad we are leaving so soon, there is so much in varanasi that i want to see and do still (like raid silk paradise, the silk shop i spent 2 horus in yesterday) and visit the temples. On tuesday or wednesday everyone will be drunk and dancing in the streets, as they carry the statues of the gods to the river to return them to the ganges. that i can't wait to see. i'll be sure to find a rooftop to watch from though. no mixing with the locals for me. it is a bit perplexing, there are so many foreigners here. swedish people come, isrealis come and so do some japanese folks as well. but i consistently see women completely ignoring the norms of dress here and walking around in small things. i can't even imagine! i get (and we get) harrassed so much as it is, and we walk around in indian clothes, fully dressed and covered.

Alex and i got completely lost this morning, but i finally made it out of Assi ghat and saw some other parts of Varanasi. We couldnt find the place so we ended up buying a fresh pomegranate from a vendor, splitting it under a fern tree in a park and eating pom jewels in the shade as we talked about life. sweet:) i have to get to the friekin post office (find it first) and exchange money. it is almost dire. i have to pay my kathak teacher tomorrow and there are many other things i want to do as well, like go to the new air conditioned swanky bollywood movie theater to get out of the heat and away from the streets to watch a spectacular spectacular. It's late here, its dark and the internet shop is about to close.

more tomorrow inshallah
love
bilbo

At a loss

2006-09-28T09:10:00.000-04:00

I have had a wonderful day today; full, engaging, educational, fun and long. But i'm sitting in this internet cafe almost in tears from missing everyone so much. I just read an email from my little sister and the comments my fam keeps leaving after each post and i miss you all so much.

Today Alex and i woke up super early (6:15 am to be exact) to get ready (even after sleeping horribly in this oppressive heat where the power goes out and any relief from the archaic ceiling fan ceases), have breakfast and meet the rest of the group at 7:45 to go do service at the Mother Theresa House for the Destitute (a hospice for the poor, old and dying). We were to meet at Haifa, a hotel and restuarant approved as safe and clean for foriegners who need food, chai or refuge from the heat. we got lost because all of varanasi (that i've seen so far, although i've been told the rest of it is like this too) is small, low to the ground and built with no sense of urban planning whatsoever. the roads, if you choose to call them that, are either dirt or long ago laid flagstones in dirt, surrounded by mounds and mounds of poop from the leagues of holy cows that always have right of way or the armies of goats that relax on the steps to the Ganges and look at me funny when i try and rest for a moment near them in the sun.

my ability to read hindi script is limited to recognizing letters and starting to string together blends; i'm basically reading at a preschool level right now. this does not help with me being able to distinguish just what part of the unnamed main road (whose only saving grace is that it runs parallel to the ganges and can always help orient you as a result) i happen to be lost on. i did see a snakes on a plane poster in hindi when we got here; it is one of the joys of my walks from my host family's house that i pass it numerous times a day.

there is an amazing children's home run by the man who cannot be named that is within walking distance where today we had our first yoga class and i had my second Kathak class, which is the classical north indian style of dance i am interested in. It is well run, for children who are either orphans or from poor, not so stable families, clean, friendly, and loving. there is a wonderful garden (probably about 1/6 of an acre of green space) that it surrounds which we have been told is the nicest green space in this old smelly city.

I have finally started getting my bearings, although i have not yet been outside of Assi ghat. There are some kick ass book stores down here, along with a silk shop that is so amazing and wonderful alex and i spent 2 hours this morning there, taking chai with the shop keepers and designing new clothes for ourselves. The book stores are chock full of such interesting books about india that i would never be able to find back home; they adress the intellectual vaccum towards india that i find at home. books about partition, feminism, pop culture, hindu mythology, current indian economic & political realities. they also have tons of great western classics and books that have been endlessly recommended to me that i fully intend on reading someday. i'm reading India: A Wounded Civilization by V.S. Naipaul right now and really wish i had someone to discuss it with. i've been taking feverish notes as i read, trying to capture the purest reactions i have to the text before i have the chance to analyze & dissect. when i'm done, mike said he'd read it so that we can discuss it and i'll start reading A Fine Balance, which is a book he recommended to me. I have to say that Siri & Mike are the best leaders i could have ever asked for. They are so caring and anticipate our needs very well. They truly care about our comfort, experiences and growth. They have travelled to India and through India enough where they have many answers to my many questions, but are totally wiling to admit when they don't and help me find those. The group as a whole has so many great and intersting books with them as well that i want to speed through the books i've brought and the ones on my must read list so that i can take advantage of so many at my disposal.

Our morning, though devoid of service, was relaxing and fun. We splurged and got fruit salads as a midmorning snack at Haifa (3rd time we've been there in 24 hours) before our silk escapades and bookstore adventure. Aside from actually being in India, it wasn't that different from the way we might spend a lazy summer morning in america. I cherish those moments, they remind me where i'm my grounding comes from and what i'm grounded in. India is a wonderful place that i can see myself spending a great deal of time in during the next few years, but home is home. I often think of the fall season i am missing, the color changing leaves, the smell of fireplaces first being lit, the crunch of dried leaves under my feet on an afternoon walk, fresh hot apple cider, pumpkins, driving down the Merritt and soaking up the mosiac of autumn colors that New England never fails to provide. These things often seem like dreams, fantastical imaginings i've conjured up while sitting on the stairs to the Ganges in the vicious Indian morning sun. It is as if i can only reach that world through words now, either the ones i write or the ones i read in responses to this blog. A world where running water is plentiful and safe to drink, where meat is readily available and safe to eat, where racial profiling is an inconvenient (but usually not deadly) truth, where electricity is available 24/ 7 and constantly wasted and taken for granted, where open sewers don't line the streets, where toilet paper is in every bathroom (except those unfortunate folks who have run out but fully intend on buying more), where poverty isnt life and death and staring you in the face with its fly covered one, where underwieght children and underweight abused stray animals dont fight for your compassion, where freedom in dress and ritual/religion doesnt mean anything more, where the indivual takes priority over everything, where consumerism is identity. I miss and despise this fantastic place, just as i relish and despair over the place i'm currently in.

I want to do everything here. There are so many amazing internship opportunities, silver smithing, dancing (Kathak, Bollywood/filmi, poy or fire dancing) hindi, tablas, sitar... i want to do and learn it all. I started Kathak classes with a gurl my age who is a senior at BHU (Benaras Hindu Univ) in their 3 year Kathak dance program (which they call a bachelor's of music instead of Fine arts) at a local dance academy called Deeka Music & dance Academy. (At least i think that is what it is called!) She speak alot of english and is explaining Kathak to me as one dancer to another. I love it so far, ive been walking down the street with my hands in the proper position (thumb & index finger of each hand touching while the other three fingers are together and stiff, parallel to the ground) and my feet touching out the rhythms (instead of a typical 8 count, the steps are counted in syllables: Ta, Thi, Thi, Thut, Aa, Thi, Thi, Thut, repeat) while i mouth the rhythmic counts. Next lesson is tomorrow at noon. Hopefully tomorrow i will make it ot the Mother Teresa house and then follow with lunch and Kathak. Today i was so beat because our yoga teacher said we shouldnt eat 3 hours before class, and class was supposed to be at 3pm, so i ended up only having some Hide & Seek tea biscuits (small square crispy cookies with choclate chips...AWESOME), a baby bannana and water to take me through the middle of the day, 2 Kathak class and a yoga class. Not doing that again. I had two classes today b/c i wanted to try out both teachers available to me. The gurl my age is great, i really enjoy her style and her presence. The other teacher is an older man who teaches Kathak at BHU who doesnt speak any english. He was nice enough but rushed me through a bunch of steps and drilled me over and over, it wasnt that helpful.
i also dont feel that comfortable having him re-adjust my arms or have to regulate my movement. A gurl is better for that for me. I'm getting low on funds, i have to change money ASAP so that i can pay for my hindi tutor and buy the books i find. not sure how i'll carry them or keep them...but i'll work that out.

It is oppressively hot here. Did i mention that? Bugs have been attacking me like it is their sole evolutionary purpose and i hate them for it. On the other hand, i heart geckos!!! there are tons here, and watching them stalk giant grasshoppers, crickets and even flies is one of my favorite things to do. i wonder where our collective language and expressions would be without nature to steal metaphors and analogies from? we'd have to ceaselessly explain behavior without having a wonderful, easily graspable idea like "stalking its prey" or "being a chameleon". Anywho. Totally random. Please keep the comments coming, i need them! i will do my best to take some pictures tomorrow and upload them in some form or fashion to the blog.
Love, light and growth~
Bilbo

Spirit-ed Away

2006-09-27T08:05:00.000-04:00

So much has happened since i wrote last!!

I'm now writing from Varanasi, Benaras, the City of Theives, The City of Light, Shiva's city, the holiest city in Hinduism. It is in the state of Bihar, poorest in India; a hot plains state where Buddha attained enlightenment under a Bodh tree. We took a 22 hour train ride from Dehradun starting Sunday evening that after much adventure brought us safely into Varanasi by 6:30 pm the next evening. The train was an incredible experience in and of itself. I was dreading being on a train that long, but it was a sleeper,so we each had a cusioned slab to rest on. We had to keep all of our belongings chained up under the seats so that they could not easily be snatched, nd had to sleep wrapped around our things so that people could not sneak them away. The train is hard to descrie, but if you've ever seen the Harry Potter movies and seen the compartments they sit in on their way to Hogwarts, it is sort of like that except minus the doors to the compartments, any sense of privacy and any sense of poshness. The compartments have 6 bunk beds within them, two which fold down into seats for the day train travel. Across what would be the door/entry way to teh compartment is where my bunk was, up against the left wall of the train. There was an aisle seperating me and the 6 bunk compartment and a bunk beneath me as well. The bun ks on the the wall are shorter than the ones in the compartment and when i was laying down, the edge of my pillow was up against one wall and my feet were firmly against the end wall. I'm not a tall person, but that got uncomfortable. i had my leg running through the top strap of my kanagroo fanny pack and my dupatta as a sheet. I woke up at one point during the night slapping someone's hand very hard off of my arm. I saw a very startled looking man who may or may not have simply been holding onto the chain that suspends my bunk from the cieling in an effort to get by, but in any event, he hurried away from my bunk after my hard slap. After that, i didn't sleep as soundly and woke up a few times an hour with whatever niose or new stop. I woe up to a loud cackling noise early in the night only to discover many older farmer peasant woman sitting in the aisle underneath and near my bunk extending past the constantly open train doors into the corridor in front of the train's squat toilets (which were conveniently and sometimes unfortunately right next to us). They were having lively conversation about goodness knows what; I woke up again as they left.

The thing about indian trains is that tons of people that dont have tickets get on and will sit in your seat/on your bed with a concrete sense of entitlement. It becomes up to you at this point to either politely (or roughly, whichever your style) usher them out of your space, or deal with it and try and get comfortable. Once the sun had risen and i was fully awake, there were many pairs of male eyes trained on my every movement. Behind these curious (OBNOXIOUS!) young men with no seeming sense of shame, class or reason were an abundance of sadhus, ascetic holy men, young and old, squatting in the corridor. They had their own personal incense that they burned at all times, and their dreaded hair and ash covered forheads were like staring straight into a NAtional geographic special. Then the cultured young men began to taunt them, pull at their dreaded hair and call them names. The men got off at the next stop as a result. I had just enough space in my bunk to sit up, but not comfortably, and not for any extended period of time. I had planned to get a great deal of my curriculm work done on the train as i had not had the chance recently to catch up with it. Boy was that a dumb expectation. With each major stop, the shifts of unceasingly staring pairs of brown eyes changed, more often than not getting bigger and rowdier. some times they were funny and wanted to know about Mike's Harry Potter book and practice their english on us. They kept asking Sally (blonde 17 year old gurl from Nantucket) to sing (wierd) and for our autographs. As time progressed they got more obnoxious, to the point where i was biting the insides of my cheeks so as not to start any fights. I was as Jaime put it "like a princess" held captive on my bunk, the rapunzul kind where i have to let down my hair to access the world. They kept asking me if i aws indian, and when i wouldnt answer they would hound the rest of the group who would answe that i was american. Some of the guys would yell diff greetings at me to try and get my attention (Salaams! Namaste ji! Susrikal!!!) and the last group of guys kept making disgusting kissing noises and licking their lips at us. GROSS. One of the earlier groups tried to tke pictures of me with their cell phones and i noticed and put my duppatta over my head and face, like an Indian bride. They started laughing, and that was the closest i got to starting a fight. I was able to suffer through a good 12 hours of entitled patriarchal sexuality and misogyny and come out on the other side without getting arrested or hurt. Yay me! i must be reaching all kinds of new levels of personal growth.
Side note: They bring chai (tasty chai!!! those chai wallas are not fooling you, it is worth it) on the train every 2 seconds, for about 2 or 3 rupees ( the equivalent of 4 cents) that they would serve in these small clay cones. Once you are done with the cones, you throw them out the window and smash them on the ground. This seems incredibly wasteful. Everywhere we went, i saw piles and piles of clay cones laying on the sides of the tracks. Also, if you are ever in India, do not go near the train tracks. The squat pots are simply open holes that leaves whatever you do on whatever part of india you happen to be riding over. Gross. Althouigh the bathrooms were suprisingly clean. They also bring the newpaper (hindi & english), snacks and full scale meals that they prepare. I foolishly ate one, which was quite good, but then got horribly sick for the first night we were in Varanasi. We rode second class on the sleepers which were moderatley comfortable. I would love to try the first class, which means there is a door and air conditioning. It was overall a positive experience, and i'm glad i get to do it again in a few weeks. If anything bad had happened, i'm sure i'd feel differently. we all made it, safe and sound, all possessions in tact, with a deeper understanding of how zoo animals must feel. My first thought when i got on the train was "i've spent weeks fearing monkeys, and now i have to be one. great."

Leaving the beautiful coolness of the mountains and the home life comfort and friends in Mussoorie was hard; saying good bye to my new family there was the hardest. The upside of leaving was that my clothes were finally done and are comfortable and beautiful in a practical way. I have to get my pictures printed so that i can send Yousuf's family copies. We spent Saturday having the greatest day before we left. There was a sikh festival in honor of a guru's birthday which meant full scale punjabi celebration. There was a parade with all male Bhangra troupes from Punjab (apparently the dance that gurls do is called Gidha, and gurls arent allowed to do bhanra), dhol players, sikh marching bands, horses, blind sword fighters, fireworks, (shrapnel from these fireworks that almost killed Leah, Alex and I in our festive enthusiasm to get it on film), free chai, music, it was incredible!!!! We spent the morning at an NGO that teaches farming and Gandhian based self sustainability directed education at a school that focuses on the idea of Swatantrata, which roughly translated maens Self organizedness. It was so cool! i would love to back there and volunteer when my hindi is better. they farm organiclly and served us delicious food. there were 3 guys from a Info Tech university in Hyderabad there volunteering that made for interesting lunch conversation partners. I am really moved to laern more about Gandhi ji's ideas and principles.

Alex & I are staying with a small friendly Hindu family in Varanasi near the Assi ghat, which are the stairs that lead into the Ganga, or the Ganges, the most holy river in India. I saw a body float by yesterday morning in the fast, monsoon bloated brown waters as i prepared to do yoga. Other girls in the group actually saw the funeral pyres of one of the many burning ghats yesterday while i was napping, done in by the travel and the heat. It is said that a single dip in the Ganga will cleanse you of your sins, and the sins of your previous 7 and future 7 generations . It is toxically polluted. Bodies are thrown in wholesale to return to god and also are thrown in after they have been charred to an irrecognizable degree. For men, it is their chest that is not burnt, for women their hips; they are put into the Ganga to feed the fish and allow the fish to reincarnate as humans in their next birth. People come here to die, under the hopes that Shiva will grant them a pass out of the endless cycle of birth and rebirth. Everyday the city doubles its population size, from 1 million to 2 million as pilgrims and the dying come here to attain spiritual purity and closeness to Shiva. Today is the 5th day of Durga Pooja, a holiday honoring the Goddess in her 9 forms. I am still waiting for confirmation, but i believe that the temple i scaled a mountain to visit is in honor of this same goddess in the form of Devi. When she died, Shiva was mad with grief and paraded around the world with her body, screaming and crying the loss of his shakti, or female (and completely necessary) female balancer. Ram, the head god, cut up her body, and parts of her are all over india. It is said that their is a temple in Benaras where her eyes fell, but the temple on top of the mountain was where her head was supposed to lay. I could be completely mixing up my Hindu mythology right now and telling you a completely incorrect story, but like i said, i'm still waiting for confirmation.

Today is the 3rd day of Ramadan, or Ramzaan as it is known here. Ramadaan Mubarak everyone! This is the first time in 14 years that the Hindu festival season and Ramadaan are overlapping. The last time this happened, there were riots, incredible tension and violence. Michael, our Canadian contact in this, the world's oldest city, told us that that happened the same year as the Ayodbag masjid being torn down (on my birthday, Decebmer 6, in 1992) and that was why the riots occured. I was anxious about staying with a Hindu family in such a conservative, old school Hindu city. I was more than alittle nervous about anti-Muslim sentiment and my safety. I have brought this up to my leaders, and they have asked our contacts about it, and all seems good. But i can't help but feel a bit on edge while we're here anyway; I can't imagine how much Michael, or the Man who Cannot be Named (our Indian contact in Benaras cannot be named b/c there is a well established "Study Abroad Mafia" as it is known that all foreigners who come to Varanasi are supposed to go through. If it was known that this man was working with us, it would be a political and reputation disaster, so he is this story's inverted Voldemort) makes it their business to guage the anti-Muslim sentiment in Benaras within any group of people, but whatever. Inshallah I'll be fine.
Keep the comments coming. I'm still working on my GIlman Scholarship application since they extended the deadline to Gandhi ji's birthday, OCtober 2nd, I just discovered that my advisor at LEAPNow, Susan, has been undercutting my application prospects by telling another student about the scholarship and helping them apply. They have already submitted their application, as she anooyingly and traitorously pointed out in an email to me today. great. i was thinking to retaliate i would submit the two newpaper articles written about me and my city year service and maybe even the copy of my speech from the idealism in action gala. any thoughts? can anyone burn a copy of the speech on DVD to send to these folks to knock their socks off? Juan (and my new friend KAlpna) have helped me craft a kickass service proposal to do for the Gilman folks that i want to do regardles of whether or not i get the scholarhsip. hopefully i get it anyway! Inshallah!
Love light and safety
bilbo

2006-09-22T08:37:00.000-04:00

Impoverished Indian children who joined us for yoga(and begged and then chased us b/c people gave them $) our first morning in Delhi in the Tibetan Colony of Majnu ka Tilla

Skyline of Hong Kong

Lanterns in the streets of Hong Kong

2006-09-22T07:49:00.000-04:00

Fellow morning commuters

Sunset over the hills of Mussoorie

Motorcycles in Connaught Circus in Delhi

2006-09-22T07:04:00.000-04:00

Yoga in the morning in Delhi

Standing on the edge of the world

My third eye is open and ready to see you!

Yay!!! Internet!!!!

2006-09-21T06:54:00.000-04:00

I talked to my little sister yesterday, the one who just had a birthday. it was wonderful. it was for 7 minutes on skype, but it was a very fulfilling 7 minutes. We were both so overwhelmed to finally be talking that we didn't have a lot to say. but she asked me what the best and worst things about being here are, and I answered that being in India is the best thing about being here, and the worst thing is not feeling 100%. I amend that now. I can deal with the perpetual uncomfortable-ness that I feel but not having access to reliable, fast internet is the worst thing; it is the thing that I miss most. it makes it hard to blog, email or even just check the news when every two minutes the server is dying/crashing/overloading/not working. I think in Varanasi it will be different, but who knows. I'm not holding my breath.

On the topic of things I appreciate, I would also like to thank whatever guardian angel/good Samaritan/saint/yogi transferred $$ into my bank acct so that it is in fact no longer overdrawn and is still open!!! yay!!! You have taken a great worry off my shoulders. I would also like to thank (since I’m getting into Oscars acceptance speech mode here)all the family who is constantly supporting me and sending me love and positivity from across the time zones, miles and oceans. I feel loved and supported in a way that I haven’t ever before, and I think it is helping my experience a great deal to know that all the people that I love love me back and are behind me 110%. It means I don’t have to worry about how to spin anything, how to frame anything, how to rationalize or excuse anything so that it will be accepted. It is a lot of pressure and stress off me.

And now onto the news....... lol. So you know those crazy Opus Dei people from the Da Vinci Code that Mel Gibson's dad is a big supporter of? They do this daily self mortification thing to demonstrate their devotion where they hurt themselves. I think it also serves as a form of penance. And you know those stories you hear overreaching old folks telling about how they walked up hills to school both ways through the snow? Well a combination of those two things is my daily existence here. Every morning, I walk what has to be about a mile form the hotel to the language school, which is at the top of the mountain. It is a steep and grueling trek that every morning threatens to steal what little lung capacity I have left. It is not my daily worship, but it is certainly proof of my devotion to learn Hindi! Every day I trudge through increasingly familiar streets full of poop of all kinds (monkey, dog, donkey, horse, chicken, and often unidentifiable), freshly spat phlegm, trash, dirty water, old chai, fruit & vegetable peels from the fruit stands, leering men, overfriendly children eager to practice their public school English, honking scooters, motorcycles with entire families perched precariously upon them, on their way to school, delivery trucks with the loudest, most obnoxious horns that blare at you EVEN IF YOU ARE ALREADY CLINGING TO THE NEAREST WALL TO LET THEM BY, bicycles, dogs, monkeys, roosters, other tourists and the smell of very public urinals that are rather strangely located by the gurdwara (Sikh temple), the Jain temple and the Hindu temple. The incline of these streets becomes steeper than 45 degrees and just keep going. I often imagine my lungs and heart imploding from the incredible effort as all I can think of is the next step each foot needs to take. It is the most meditative, living-in-the-present- moment exercise I can do. The minutes seem to melt away, the seconds stop, all time and other people cease to exist. They people my periphery view as shadows, either witnesses to my daily quest to make it up the hills or distractions/demons sent to knock the last morsel of motivation out of me. When I inevitably make it up the hill, I am astonished to discover that a mere 20-30 minute chunk of time has passed and I am in fact, on time for class. The first class passes in front of me with very little participation or even awareness, it normally takes me about an hour to recover from the incredible physical exertion.
Basically what I’m saying here is that I’ve got all those bragging old people beat.

I’ve never walked this much in my life, and Yousuf bhai says that I am wasting away whenever I see him (granted, most of the time I am out of breath and trying to rest after I’ve made it up the hill). To add insult to injury, we hiked to Happy Valley yesterday. It is the Tibetan corner of Mussoorie where many refugees live and is covered in monkeys and Tibetan prayer flags. It is beautiful, but an hour and a half downhill hike. Sound easy? Imagine being pulled downwards by gravity with such alarming force that your only weapon, your knees, almost splinter from the effort. This is the trek to Happy Valley. It is also followed by an hour and a half hike back uphill. We visited the loudest Buddhist temple I have ever been to- there was a pair of monks who were doing pooja using cymbals and other marching band drums consistently for the better part of an hour while we were there. The temple was beautiful in a homey, loved and appreciated sort of way. It was so colorful! There were many prayer wheels along the entrance which are colorful, foot and a half long, foot wide cylinders that you turn in a clockwise motion before entering the temple to ensure a long and happy life for yourself.

The walls, eaves and ceiling were covered in paintings of the incarnations of Buddha. Every inch of space was bright, clean and colorful. There was a large cardboard cutout of His Holiness the Dalai Lama at the front of the temple next to the main alter/where the Buddha sits. At a quick glance, it looked as though HH was sitting at the head of the temple, waiting to greet and bless us. It wasn’t as enriching as an experience as I had hoped since there weren’t any English speaking monks and the Hindi speaking ones were old and somehow not engaging with us. It was still peaceful and incredibly refreshing to sit down after the constant fight against gravity we had to endure to make it to the temple. The view around the temple was spectacular. It was the first clear day in Mussoorie since we’ve been here, so we could see all the surrounding hills. The sun was shining, the breeze was gently blowing and two girls from the other group sat with me on the steps opposite the temple as we talked about he nature of love and anger and how our lives have been influenced by each. Then the group suddenly separated; one group left to go back to Landour Bazaar while another went to see hill tops full of Tibetan prayer flags. Erica and I stopped to find a toilet and never found that hilltop nirvana. We became permanently separated from our group and after a semi frantic search for the group aided by our friendly neighborhood Tibetans, we gave up and started back at a snail’s pace.

I have no idea how long it took us to walk back, but I do know that it was mid afternoon when we left, the sun still fairly high in the sky. As we walked, the sun began to descend, dusk set in, and by the time we made it back to Landour Bazaar, it was full on night. Turns out everyone was worried about us while we just figured we had been abandoned and headed back. It was quite the adventure. We had to walk through a small area surrounded by white bodied black faced langoor monkeys and while I prayed to make it through, Erica was determined to get a picture of them. I walked ahead holding my breath, convinced I would turn around and find families of langoors attacking her. When I turned around, she had a panicked look on her face as she rushed to get away from them. She got the picture though. We started out the adventure looking for a taxi or any vehicle on wheels to return us to Landour without us having to walk. The longer we walked, and the more we talked, it became easier. We talked about the lives of trees, Ents, Madeline L’engle, Tolkien, metaphysics, and the nature of life. We then talked about principles, racism, patriarchy and societal connectedness vs. disconnectedness. It was a great talk. It’s quite late now, I have to grab dinner and make it back to the hotel in time for a Spirit team meeting. Love you all.
Bilbo

sick!!!

2006-09-19T08:01:00.000-04:00

Yesterday i spoke entirely too soon about the being better thing. i spent the day in bed, trying not to die. last night we went to this great chinese place that looks like it belongs any where in america, and they had international radio on (which meant american)so we listened to american top 40, ate chinese food and dished about hot american actors. it was wonderful. then this morning i woke up feeling as though i was in the movie Alien and extra terrestrial life was trying to riggle out of my abdomen. HORRIBLE. so i miss an entire day of school and will have to play catch up. we left our host families yesterday and are staying at hotel urvashi palace, which is a guest house (very litle empahsis on the palace, much more emphasis on the "i can't believe i'm staying here ewww") and i was in bed all day. i felt homesick and lonenly, since it was jsut me and start gold tv. i watche dhte bollywood film "tum bin" which was all about duty and love and tragedy, yada yada yada. not the best thing to watch when u'r trying not to kick the bucket or puke into it either. it was enjoyable though. my hindi is so paltry! it makes me sad but determined to get good enough to understand everything in a bollywood movie. yesterday was my litle sister's 20th birthday, and i spent about a day and a half trying to call her and sing happy birthday, although the me getting sick again tootally killed that. i just called her on skype using my friends acct.
Note to family: don't we have skype? if we do, can i have the acct info so that i can call you fine ppl who i miss??? that would be great...

i am trying to soldier on and not die so that i can make it to varanasi this weekend.
might as well tell you guys about my 3000 ft hike. we visited a temple dedicated to devi on sunday, which was about 3,000 ft higher than mussoorie. we undertook the pilgramage aspect of it, taking about an hour to climb the steeep steps that were falling apart, were covered in donkey, dog and horse poop and try to adjust my sea-level lungs to the thin mountain air. it was worth all the trouble though. being in the mountains is pretty incredible. we get what looks like fog here, but is really just the clouds moving through. we saw a peek of the snow capped himilayas while up there, but the clouds surrounded us and the temple, so it looked as though we were in the middle of nothingness. pretty amazing. we got up to the temple and my leaders offered coconuts (which are apparently the vegetarian version of a live sacrifice), some dupattas, and some other food to the goddess at the shrine. her head is supposed to be buried at the spot of this shrine, high in the mountains. after they offered the food & stuffs, we all got the tikka on our forheads and the mita (sweets) called parsaad. we stepped out of the shrine and cracked the coconuts on the ground and all ate them. there was a priest who was going to do a special prayer for us (for a fee of coursE) but he was busy doing lunchtime pooja to the goddess. it was interesting...definiately thte first time i had been inside a hindu temple before. we got the tikkas to signifiy having seen "god", having been seen by "god" and our third eye being open to the world. it was a very short experience, considering how long the hike up was. there were some gurls there when we went who had come a very great distance just to make an offering to the goddess devi.
i still cant believe i'm here. sometimes all i can think about will be what i do when i get home, and other times, i cant imagine coming home. travelling is such a unique experience... i've only been out of the US for 12 days, and yet it feels like a world of time. i gota go hydrate now and try to hang in there till tomorrow. keep the comments coming. i miss everyone!
<3
bilbo

BRAT, chai, don't drink the water, and call me in the morning

2006-09-18T06:33:00.000-04:00

In my last post, I definitely said I would right again the next day. It has been 5 since then. During this incredibly timeless 5 day period, I have battled with the enemies of every traveler. I had some bad water, and as a result of my bout with "Delhi Belly" have been on the BRAT (Bananas, Rice, Apples, and Toast) diet for 2 1/2 of the last 5 days. I am thankfully better now.

There is so much to tell! I don't even know where to begin. Yousuf's family is wonderful. Umma ji is like a real grandmother to me, and today I was very sad to have to say good bye to her. There were only enough home stay families to have half the group be hosted, so we split up along group lines and Spirit was first. Before I left, she told me that i am like a child of hers and always have a home in Mussoorie to come back to. She also told me that i will stay in her du'ahs. She said that she has been praying for nothign but good for me and to trust in Allah that I will achieve the things I am working towards. I told her that she is my grandmother in India and inshallah when my hindi is better i'll be able to call her on the the phone and talk to her. Now that she is older and a bit more infirm, she is very lonely and laments having no one to talk to during the day. I will be visitng her after school in the afternoons of this week. The boy who is replacing me speaks very little Hindi, and is a boy, so she wont be able to really get very close to him.

I love Mussoorie and want to bring everyone I love here. It is incredible-the Himalayas surround us, the people are welcoming and friendly, and the monkeys are really scary. Since my initial warning about the bandurs, I have been chased by a few, and in constant fear of them. I was walking through landour bazaar (down the mountain) when I noticed a group of very close monkeys sitting along the high stone wall across the street from me. As I looked at them, I noticed them looking at me. I noticed their steely stares; they started to run down the power lines crisscrossing above my head towards me. I screamed and jumped into the post office, which I had been standing in front of. I met up with two girls from my group there and as soon as they were done I half ran half walked down the street to outrun the monkeys. They eventually lost interest, but not before they have made me permanently fear monkeys of any size. This fear is fast becoming a well developed paranoia/neurosis.
Hindi school is getting harder and harder, and I have not had the chance to review what we've been learning since every night I go home exhausted and then have dinner and chit chat time with my family. Staying with them will be one of the most enriching experiences of my whole trip. Their house is a modest multipurpose building of which they occupy 3 stories. The front most room of the house is on the street and serves as the tailor shop that the family owns and runs all day, morning to night. This family works so hard...it is amazing to see. It is also sad to me.

As my stay has lengthened, I have learned more about this family's history and the way Partition affected them. Yousuf, my teacher, and his brothers’ grandfather had been a member of the congress party during partition. He had been assured that Muslims in the party would be safe and able to stay in their homes, not forced to trek into Pakistan. Mussourie is very close to Pakistan, and although we have not talked about it, the little I know about partition makes me think that Mussourie might have been an area, like many others that was not clearly going to India or Pakistan. I will have to find out. His grandfather made no arrangements to leave or sell anything or even pack because of this assertion. Then, as Yousuf tells me, the killings began. Muslims in the area went missing, were being attacked and killed in a systematic and obvious way. His grandfather, who was the oldest of his family and a skilled tailor, sent his 2 younger sisters and 1 younger brother in a caravan to Sarumpur, a mostly Muslim community a few hours from Mussourie and planned to leave the next day on the train. They (grandfather & grandmother) could only bring the clothes on their back, their 1 year old son and a bottle to feed him with. His grandmother wasn’t even able to bring her bridal jewelry, which was her only source of wealth. They had to leave all their belongings in the house and went to the train station to wait for the next train to Pakistan via Saharmpur. They hid in the woods while they waited to try and stay alive as long as possible. When the train arrived earlier than expected, they could see people working on the train. They watched as people washed it; it was covered in blood. The train conductors and employees were washing it off so that the desperate fleeing people would get on it, none the wiser that they were simply filling the very marked shoes of the people before them. The train would go from Mussourie through Punjab and then into Pakistan, making all the people on it sitting targets for the killing that was sure to come. His grandparents fled into the woods at this point, waiting until the train passed through where they were. Under the cover of night, they jumped onto it and arrived in sarumpur. When they arrived, they discovered that his grandfather’s siblings never arrived. After partition, he spent two years in Pakistan searching for them to no avail. They have never been found.

Yousuf tells me that Mussoorie used to be a fairly successful Muslim area; there are 4 masjids that surround the Landour Bazaar area I am staying in. After Partition, almost all Muslims had fled this area or been killed. After some time, Yousuf’s grandfather returned and convinced other Muslims from Sarumpur to settle here as well. Now there are hardly enough Muslims to fill one masjid’s congregation. Eid only lasts one day here. Even though Muslims live here peacefully with the many other people here, there are very few jobs and occupations they can do. They are not trusted. For example, if a Muslim wanted to rent out tents and pots and pans for use during weddings, no one would rent from them because the Hindus, Jains and Sikhs are vegetarian and wouldn’t trust a Muslim’s word that the pots were used for purely vegetarian cooking. I think even being doctors wouldn’t be accepted, although there is such a dearth of them here that maybe that would be an exception. All of the taboos that are carried within the caste system are prevalent here. Muslims would never get elected to office or even hold any good high paying jobs. Yousuf has been teaching at the language school for the last 12 years, and is still only paid on an hourly basis. The large, nicer houses in Mussourie used to belong to Muslims; they are now filled with Sikhs and Hindus.

On Friday we walked down the mountain to Mussoorie proper and visited a masjid, a gurdwara ( a Sikh temple) and an Anglican church. All were within walking distance of each other. When we were in the masjid, Nasir, Yousuf’s brother, talked to us about Islam. After his brief introduction, I ended up talking the rest of the time we were there and answering everyone’s questions as best I could. I later found out that both Yousuf and Nasir were very impressed that I knew as much about Islam as I do. There are two main reasons for this. The first is that last year an American Muslim girl visited the language school and knew nothing about islam. The second is that in India, according to Yousuf’s family, many Muslims don’t know a lot about their faith. They are mostly in Hindu areas, and grow up going to public Hindu schools, learning much more about the Hindu culture, religion and way of life than Islam. When not surrounded by much Muslim community, they don’t learn much. Often this is through a decision on the parent’s part to not teach their children, but often these parents are in this same position. Umma ji told me about a distant relative of theirs who fits in this category. Earlier this year when there was all the international controversy about the incendiary (incredibly distasteful, irresponsible, purposely hateful and fire flaming) political cartoons that depicted Muhammed (PBUH) as a terrorist going on, said relative turned to Umma ji and asked “Why are the muslims of the world protesting against these cartoons of Muhammed? Who was Muhammed? Why do they care?”

On the walk back up the mountain after the visits to the different houses of worship, yousuf told me how as I spoke about islam he tried to gauge how close to islam he really is. He said that despite having many close hindu friends, they never speak about religion. It is so sensitive still, neither side (hindu or muslim) ever uses their word for God, they simply both say “Uppur Wala” which means man upstairs. I thought that was both hilarious and sad as well. I explained to him how my friends are of all different religious and non religious stripes and how we talk about religion and spirituality whenever we can. He lamented how those sorts of relationships are not possible here. He started telling me about how he thinks yoga (basically the idea of physical worship) is very compatible with Islam; I want to talk more with him about this.

Living with a family completely without the advantages of modern conveniences is a very different and humbling experience. Asma, Yousuf’s wife, wakes up at 6:30 every morning to start making breakfast for the family from scratch. She also makes my breakfast and the kids’ lunches for the day. The 5 year old and the twin 3 ½ year old boys all go to school. (They take their lunches to school in large metal tiffins that they carry by the thin steel handles that only look smarter with their crisp school uniforms.) They have a fridge, but they only run it sometimes, when there is a need to keep food cold for a short time. Every electrical appliance is unplugged after use, including the tv. There are only a few lights in the house, natural light is used as much as possible. Clothes are all hand washed and hung on the terrace to dry. This is both convenient and bothersome; the terrace is the part of the house that gets the most light (duh, it’s the roof) but the monkeys terrorize the roofs, balconies and windows of all the area homes. Just last week they ripped one of Asma’s salwar kameezes and then ran away. Each meal is simple; usually rotis with some daal and some vegetable dish. They seldom eat meat, more on special occasions. Chai follows or accompanies every meal.
Side note: I’m drinking chai! And when I say I’m drinking it, I mean about 3-4 times a day kinda drinking it. I hope you’re proud Mom.
All showers are taken using a bucket of hot water (again; thanks for the training Mom!!! Felt like I was a kid again, it all came back to me) in a small standing only tiled area that is a bit lower than the raised, tiled, porcelain squat pot (which I now have no qualms about using; more about that later). The bathroom is only accessible by walking onto the balcony which means my nightly trip to the pot is a cold and monkey fearing event.
The family eats every dinner together and everyone except for Yousuf has lunch together as well. They put a table cloth down onto the oriental rug that covers the cement floor and all eat together. We have the tv on during dinner, which is around 8pm. We watch Mr. Bean whom the whole family loves, and old school Looney Tunes. After dinner I drink chai with yousuf and Nasir bhai and watch CNBC AWAAZ (awaaz means noise in hindi) to catch the day’s news in English before we switch over to the all hindi stations.
This is my favorite part of the day. I get to watch Indian tv and best of all, get to watch Indian commercials!!!! Did you know there is a Hindi Seasame Street? Or that most of the cartoons and children’s tv programming in the US is dubbed into hindi? Watching coyote chase road runner or Sylvester and tweety fight in hindi; it is priceless. The marketing here is crazy! Bollywood actors & actresses saturate everything. I am equally disturbed by this and the overt sexual nature of many of the ads. It boggles my mind how such a conservative place where dating and PDA is actively taboo has no problem with Bollywood folk dating and breaking up and doing sex scenes in movies and then suggestively selling everything from candy bars to Coca Cola. It is almost time for me to go to the Jain temple and learn about this peaceful religion, so this is me, signing out. Since I spent the last 2 ½ hours in this funky Sikh run internet café listening to bhangra writing this, I fully expect plenty of lengthy comments. I’m still working on trying to get one or two pictures up. Till next time~
~Bilbo

Monkeys, mountains and Mussoorie

2006-09-13T10:20:00.000-04:00

goodbye delhi....heat, humidity, bugs, beggars, rickshaws of all kinds, dirty air, busy crazy city life.... hello himilayas, foggy cool mornings, monkeys (langurs)that attack if you bare ur teeth at them, homestay families, tiny curving mountain roads, tibetan prayer flags alongside the morning adhan, masjids next to churches, temples next to clocktowers, baazars next to monkey colonies. it is cooler here (thank GOD!) and way less buggy. it is like walking through a bollywood movie set every morning and afternoon on my way to class. today was my second day of intensive hindi classes, i'm in the intermediate class. my conversation is more advanced than anyone in my group, but i have never really studied the devangari script, and my leaders, the other 2 ppl in my A-1 class, know most of the characters. their pronunciation is horrible though, and we're considering getting me a private teacher so that i can work on the script slower and conversation faster. it's nutz, learning the grammer and structure for hindi is like geting the key to a map i'm already familiar with, or finding a code breaker to a code i've been usuing for years. i am staying with yusuf-ji's family, he is a teacher at the hindi school. he lives in a combined family situation, so it is him (he's 32), his wife (26) their three sons (5 yr old, and a set of 3 1/5 yr old twins), his older brother, his wife (25) and their 2 1/2 year old son along with their mother (umma-ji). their youngest brother is visiting right now to help with our group at the school (he's 25). my hindi is horrible, and although i am able to communicate with peopel and my group is constantly jealous and overestimating toward my hindi skills, i am reminded how vast the space btwn where my hindi is and where it needs to be when i work to speak with my family. we communicate well, but are constantly having to consult yusuf-ji and his brother who speak english for those difficult phrases or ideas we can't convey. umma-ji said i feel like one of her children, so that was very nice. the boys are adorable!!!! they are teaching me small hand games in hindi and it is just precious. it is 8:30 pm here now on sept 13, i've got to run home to eat dinner witht he fam. i'll continue this tomorrow and maybe uplaod some pics.;) love you all!
kal miljainge!
<3
me

Hello Delhi!!!

2006-09-11T00:16:00.000-04:00

Today is sept 11, 2006 and it is the morning here in delhi, slightly cloudy so we have some respite from the oppressive heat and humidity. its wierd, the english language newspapers are have articles about the 5 year anniversary of theWTC attacks and then frontpage articles about the bombing that happened theother day near Mumbai (bombay) in the state of maharashta, in a city called malegaon. the english alnguage newspapers here arefilled with bull shit about america like the latest gossip on paris hiltion or angelina jolie. there is also tons of gossip stuff about the bollywood stars, it's brain mush. the style of newspaper journalism here in the enlighs language papers that i have been reading seems really informal, and not up to the professionalism standards that i am used to in the west. there is alot of english shorthand that i dont understand here. there is also alot of ultural markers that i dont have. this morning i was reading about this guy who mysteriously died in a mall in the wee hours of hte morning. apparently, in this ity alled noida, there is a disoteque in the mall (this seems to be a ommon thing judging from the way it was mentioned in the paper) and th police werent called. he seemed to have either fallen or been ushed off a high floor into the mall's lobby. he was found nby his fiance, and then was declared "brought dead" (exact quote)at the hospital. the mall authorities then cleaned up all the blood. police and the hospital didn't identify this dude's next of kin, and neither did the fiance. now the weirdest thing about all of this to me is the casual nature in whih this is reported. no one seems too angry about it, it is on the front page, and even though it is under the headline "MYSTERY DEATH IN MALL: suicide of murder?" it seems sort of daily news-esque in the sensational, editorialized way they reported this. there also seems to have been some sort of grisly murder of this woman named jessia lall that is being investigated right now b/c of police negligance and evidence tampering that they ompared it to. anyway. onto different stuff.
being in india is nutz!!! it is so overwhelming! the sights, sounds, smells and sensations are all different here. alot of the things here are things ppl have always told me about india: the poverty, the beggars, the animals that just run around, the traffic, the smell. i had some idea what to expet as far as that went, but it is nothing like experiencing it. the poverty here is the thing that above all i have the most trouble with. women with infant hilden follow u, hand outstrethed, asking in hindi for a pittance in american pennies to buy her baby some food. it is harder for me in those instanes b/c i can atually understand what they are saying (more than the other kids i'm with anyway)and it is so hard to see all this destitution and desperation and not give everything i have. i know i an always make more money; inshallah i have much more life and earning ability ahead of me. these people have no hope, no chance. giving to beggars here is really dangerous, espeially some place you will be frequenting. they will then wait for you and hound you for more. the children here are just heartbreaking. like all hildren in the world, they are beautiful. joy in their eyes, music in their laughter, innocence in their interactions. also like many children of the world, they are undersized, malnourished, barefoot, extremely poor, in need of medial attention and often are hardly clothed. it really shook me when a woman (young or old, i have no idea, people here seem ageless. there are those obviously young, like the hildren i describe, and then the very old people, and everyone in btween seems beaten down by their lives to a point beyond reognition, where their hardships are all they know and death is present in every breath and moment. it really shook me when a woman (young or old, i dont know) walked up to our auto rikshaw in the middle of the street to beg for money for roti for the tiny infant she held in her arms. the woman's han was out, begging, and so was the barely 6 month old child's. talk about learned behavior. that broke my heart and made me sik at the same time.
i really like delhi, i wish we were staying longer. we leave in a few hours to head up to missuri in the north to our homestays and language school. there is so much to see and do here, i haven't even scratched the surface. every one else is really tired, experiencing culture shock and hating delhi. it is a rough place to get situated i guess, especially since we are leaving again so soon. i plan to come back here at some point, maybe next semester!!!
so my favorite way to travel here in delhi is by auto-rikshaw. it is a rikshaw that is powered by a motorcyle engine and is partially enclosed, more substantial than the bicycle rikshaws and runs on natural gas. three people fit comfortably in the back, and you can have someone sit in the front with the driver, but we don't recommend that. one of our boys was molested by a driver yesterday!!! horrible, right? it is insane to ride in them since you are literally an inch from every moped, bike, car, truck, bus, bike rickshaw, cow, stray dog, boar, or group of people on the street. some ppl saw an elephant on the highway yesterday, but i've only seen cows (bulls) and dogs running in the streets. we saw some blak wild looking pigs rifling through the many fetid piles of garbage on the side of a glorified dirt road btwn our guest house and the metro. delhi has a year and a half old metro system which seems clean and efficient. the people riding on it are better off, wear more western style clothing, have cell phones, and som of the younger ones hang out in co-ed groups!!! scandal!! things are muh more progressive here in the city than where we will be going next. the metro is a strange thing to reconcile with the inredibly bakward poverty that exists as soon as u exit. so many beggars! people who are limbless and so skinny you hardly notie their missing appendage wait for you when you enter the metro at connaught circus, whih is a place full of shops, restuarants, banks and some movie theaters where delhi-ites go. we tried to find lothes there, and i was too set on haggling, and i missed out on a really ute white short sleeved shilwar khameez i wanted. hopefully in missuri i will get some things amde pretty inexpensively so that i'll have some clothes. i brought 2 outfits to india, one i wore on the plane, the other i changed into and was wearing for 2 days straight after. gross. my leaders, mike & siri, suggested that instead of bringing my giant bakpaker's pack, i should pak as little as possible, put my things into small stuff sacks and divide it amongst my fellow group members. this way all ihave with me is my "freedom fanny," a giant fannypak that is basially a bakpak on my hips. i then have a small collapsable duffel bags that the last few remaining things go in and what i keep everything in when we arent travelling. i spent so muh $ on stuff before i got here; as soon as i get home, i'm returning it all. all of that is to explain that i need to get clothes so that i can be as clean as possible and not wear the same thing all the time. there is so muh more to write about!!!! i have to go pak to leave for missuri now...we're taking the train. this is a very common way to get around india and i am excited to experiene it, but it is very easy to get robbed on the train. we have to be on our toes to take it, and i have also read/heard about so many horrible things happening on trains in india (Earth anyone? the namesake? july 11, 2006, mumbai?) that i am a bit apprehensive about it. please comment once u read the blog!!! this is how i know u are and miss me:( dont u are and miss me? love, learning, growth and fulfillment~
~peace

Monsoons, noodles and Buddha

2006-09-08T09:11:00.000-04:00

I'm in hong kong!!! can't believe it. my day here is almost over, i will be boarding a flight to Delhi in about an hour. can't believe that either. hong kong is a beautiful and interesting city that is hot and humid. it is like a DC summer on crack. our leaders assured us this was preperation for india and its inhospitable climate. we got here around 5 this morning, a full ohur and a half before schedule. we watched the light fill the sky over the mountains that surround the airport and then walked (hiked!) up this crazy steep hill to get to a zoological & botanical garden where we did our morning yoga. i felt dizzy and started seeing white light so i didn't participate. instead, i gulped down a liter of water full of two packets of ermergen c. it helped alot. then we walked around the zoo/garden and saw the animals and wildlife. i saw this crazy moth that looks just like a humming bird and an incredible green house full of delicate orchids. we split into 4 diff groups after that and went our seperate ways. my group was supposed to be the low-key-we're-exhuasted group but we managed to check out a whole bunch of outdoor markets that went down this giant hill, two chinese art galleries, ate at 2 restaurants back to back, had haagen daaz, rode the ferry from hong kong island to the mainland of hong kong, took lots of pictures and got caught in monsoon like rains. the food we had today wasnt taht great unfortunately, but noodles are noodles. what can ya do? we did really good considering we hadnt been to the city before, didnt speak the language and had no real game plan. we crashed around 3pm and headed back tpt eh airport for our 10:30 flight. nutz. there is so much to see and experience here. even though hong kong has been a part of china for the last 7 years, the brutush influence is everywhere. the cars drive on the left side, the signs are in english and cantonese, there are white people everywhere, hollywood movies take up more space in the theaters than chinese films, and there are random british pubs every once in a while. it is a beautiful tropical city, lush greenery, large mountains; a paradise. i had a great time bonding with my small group of slackers today, and i'm getting really anxious as i wait to board the plane to meet india for the first time. my uncle and aunt came to see me off in san fran, and it was wonderful. seeing them made all the difference in the world to me, i went from being overwhlemed and on edge to being back in control and totally aware of how amazing and blesed this situation is for me. so now i've gotta trek back across the airport to get back to my gate, eat my take away noodles and then board the bird that will bring me to the rest of my life. hope everyone is well~
love, life, learning and growth~

Countdown to take off.....

2006-09-06T17:18:00.000-04:00

It is a little after 2 pm here at Maacama. We leave for San fransisco Intl Airport in 5 hours. We will then check in our things and wait for 4 huors before our flight leaves. We leave sometime around 2 am. We're flying on an airline i've never heard of but is supposed to be decent: i hope it is! I'm exhuasted and as usual, have a to do list that is a whole page long. it has been difficult to get anything done here because we haven't been allowed phone or internet access. Inshallah soon my financial stuff will get all figured out, my scholarship application will be submitted, and i wont need to worry any more about money for a while. Inshallah. the kids i'm here with are great! i'm excited to see India with them, and they regard me as the wizened old woman of the group, lol. in some ways i legitimately am, but more than a few of them have come up to me to tell me that they really admire how independent i am, and how inspirational it is that i am mostly supporting myself on this trip. alot of them are straight out of high school and squarely in mommy & daddy's pocket, but enough of them have actually applied for financial aid that i don't feel like a complete poor kid surrounded by richie richs.

i like the fact that i will be in the all female travelling group, spirit. it's hilarious to me that i can't ever get away from city year! SPIRIT, discipline, purpose and pride........just kidding. that is seriously what i automatically think of when they call us by group. i also brought my young heroes bright yellow fleece (b/c i didnt own another one) and my two city year black hats, one winter, one summer. Kids here know the game "Big Booty" and "Ride that Pony" and i introduced the idea of a daily debrief session at the end of our days in india, along with the power tool "Hands UP!" Hands up is when the person who needs the group to quiet down will raise their arm in the air and everyone else who notices will stop talking and do the same. it then spreads because everyone is looking at everyone else. it's crazy how much the americorps experienec/city year experience has informed my view of how an organization should (and shouldnt) run, and how to communicate within a group dynamic. i find myself trying to explain some efective (or ineffective) way to do a task and trying to not start with the words "In city year we..." We had to work on our individual and group purposes & intentions last week, and they have all been included in our bound curriculum guides for the semester which we received today. my purpose is:
"To grow as a woman, a communicator, a writer, an artist and a humanitarian."
and my intention is:
"To move forward into every experience and opportunity with deliberate pupose and resolve to gain as much emotionally, culturally, artistically spiritually and intellectually as is possible for my soul, mind, heart and body."

We had what turned out (for me) to be a very emotionally overwhelming intentions ceremony on Sunday night where our teacher, Cassie, handed us over to our trip leaders. the studio was dark, and we blessed ourselves with burning sage before we entered the space. we sat in our usual circle, but we were all dolled up, in whatever ceremony garb we had. in the center of our circle were 18 votive candles, in a circle, and four votive candles at the cardinal direction points outside of it. the north south east and west represented our leaders, and the 18 candles were for us students. there was a large candle in the center of that circle from which we each lit our small ones. our teachers and the rest of the staff that has been a part of our experience so far were in the circle as well, with their own candles. the students began, each of us getting up when we felt ready, lighting our candle from the main flame and proclaiming our intention before the universe (and more locally, each other). to symbolize letting go of the things that might hold us back from these intentions, we each picked a small stone up from next to the large flame and dropped it into a small bowl/pool of water with a final plunk that accented each intention. it is an interesting thing, to be sitting in a dark room, surrounded by people, and feel completely alone with your intention. so often in life we don't voice our intentions, let alone recognize what they are. it is both a liberating and scary thing to crystalize your intention into one statement and tell the world. as each person declared their intentions, the light travelled back to the circle with each of us, and the room got brighter. hearing everyone's intentions was like looking into the darkness of the unknown in each of them, illuminated by their small candle. i felt a sense of personal (and possibly cosmic?) pressure before i said my intention aloud; i was the last one. i wanted to make sure that i remembered it exactly, and that i would say it with all of the resolve and importance that i have towards it. i spent so much of the summer writing about my purpose, intentions and expectations, i really doubted i would be able to distill pages and pages of writing and life experience into a one breath statement. it didn't end up being one breath, but i think it sums up what i want out of this next three months.

i'm excited to go, i'm excited to change, and most of all, i'm excited to come back. i'll have no way of measuring how i've changed until i go back to my old life and see how much of it still fits. in a more literal interpretation of that, apparently the gurls that take this trip usually gain around 15 pounds, since all we eat is rice, naan, chapatis, parathas, samosas and the most cooked carbs you can think of. there will be many blogs to come where i detail my eating, drinking and non eating/drinking habits i think. listening to the leaders (and my family) warn me about what i can and cannot eat and how to avoid getting horribly sick makes me think that it will be a topic that is going to come up alot.
it's almost an hour later! i gotta go pack!!! leaving in four hours!!! oh my gosh!!!!!!! gotta go!! keep those comments coming! love you all!!!
:)

Two nights away from Hong Kong!!

2006-09-05T00:53:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting in a wooden rustic cabin surrounded by 3 gurls I didn't know from Eve a week ago. I'm the oldest by a few years, and browner by a few shades. the last few days have been very full; i am on kitchen crew here, which means i wake up an hour before everyone else and have to help prepare the organic, mostly vegetarian delicious meals. we then go to the Studio...it is a multi purpose space in a small empty one room house style building. it is a sacred space, meant to be used for reflection, work, practice and anything else (we have dance parties and concerts up there since there is an ipod speaker base thing) we can think of that isn't loafing. we start the day off with movement, which is when we learn yoga and other eastern movement disciplines. we then meditate after our sun salutations and go to eat a breakfast of fresh baked bread, fresh cut organic fruit salad, admittedly wierd porridge, boiled eggs and sometimes scones. our teacher is a former pastry chef and modern dancer who has had her own companies in ny and WI or something. she's cool.
it's techinically a night before i should be using the internet, but my gurl alex, who reminds me a great deal of myself, in her penchant for overpreparedness, her heady interests and her ability to talk, got one of the eternally-miscommunicated-to leaders to give her the password to the wireless network. then someone came and asked us what we were doing, followed by the aforementioned leader apoligizing, and cancelling out the email that was up while leaving the connection. we then followed alex to her cabin and have been here ever since. there is a line (a very long line) to use the beautiful white portal to the outside world. it's nice here in maacama, but the real world follows me whereever i go. we went to REI (a FABULOUS moutain sports store), Target, and Trader Joe's today to get supplies. It turns out that alot of the things on my expensive and completely generic packing list were not specific to india. so alot of us spent alot of $$ we don;t have on shit we don't need. it was definately a VERY unhappy and even bitter group of us this morning.
the people here are sincere and open, these kids are really ready to experience India and are very open to the cultural grounding that i have tried to remind them they need. the "great sprirituality" of india and the "non materialistic worldview" of the people are obvious contrivances of the west, especially when not taken in context of how stratified the Hindu culture is, and how the status quo is so violently enforced that people's spirits are beaten into submission with every word, action and ritual from before they ever enter this incarnation of life. i appreciate that they recognize that the india they imagine is not the india that exists. they are very eager to learn more, and be corrected. they do not want to ever fall into the "stupid white americans" category.
there are 18 of us: 15 gurls, 3 boys. a few gurls are 20, everyone else is 17 or 18. we have been split into two even groups, each with a female and male leader. there is one co-ed group, and one all female. i'm on the all female one. we are the "spirit" group, and the other group is the "shanti" group. (shanti means peace) we will travel some of the time together, and the rest of the time with just the 11 of us. i'm really excited to be in india already, i can't imagine what it will be like at all. we've started having "India Orientation" with our 4 leaders today. They seem nice, quiet and slightly clueless. Not about India, but about the trip's ultimate details. They seem nice, and i look forward to getting to know them. Each of my leaders, Mike & Siri, has been to India 5 or 6 times for long periods of time. They are both very into Buddhism and learning/improving their Hindi.
There are two kids from CT here, one from Darien and the other from Weston. The gurl from Darien shaved her head along with 3 other gurls here. Crazy. Bald heads everywhere. Their sillouettes in the backlit curtainless windows look like mannequins. It's almost lights out, and as usual, there's way more to say.. i'll try and get back to the computer (illegal or legit) to post more.
Hope yall are checking back here, and PLEASE!!!! leave me comments when you read stuff!!! I haven't really gotten too many emails back either, which sucks. I miss everyone alot....please write me! i love long detailed updates of what is happening in your lives.
MUAH!!!!!!

vineyards, sonoma and silence

2006-08-29T19:47:00.000-04:00

I'm here. I made it. After a harried 2 weeks of near cancellations, near breakdowns and near death, I have made it to my retreat center to begin my LEAPYear. I have met a few of the kids, they are all 2006 high school grads except one gurl that i met who seems cool. I'm staying at Maacama, a retreat center nestled in the hills of Sonoma, right next to Napa. It is beautiful out here, classic northern cali; tall trees, clean streams, rocky, moss covered hills, quiet, sunlight, scorpions and poison oak. I am currently illegally using the internet, after today, it is 6 or 7 days with no internet or media of any kind. i am staying in a unfinished cabin that students of this program built about a year ago, sleeping on the top bunk of a rickety bunk bed; there are spider webs all over the room. if a spider falls or climbs on me when i'm asleep, i'm going to scream bloody murder. everyone seems nice; everyone here is white. there are apparently two kids from CT, a gurl from Darien and a boy from weston. there are a few really crunchy looking kids, and most ppl i've spoken to so far are vegitarian or vegan. i have free time right now, but later on tonight there is a presentation ceremony where we get introduced to our leaders and they get introduced to us. i'll take pictures and post them as soon as i can. i hope i dont get stung by a scorpion before i can. i'm exhuasted, i need sleep. i know we will be doing lots of deep touchy feely stuff soon, but i need some sleep before i can get outta my cranky-trying-to-be-open-totally-suspicious attitude. here goes!!!