The First Interview

She's always cracking a joke. Most of them are dirty jokes, but she always has everyone around her laughing at her bold antics. Now, Mekti is ready for the interview, sitting strong, twisting the tip of her moss green kameez. Her hair is in two short braids with big white ribbons hanging down her back as she leans forward. With her earrings dancing to the steady tone of her voice. She continues looking down at her hands as she shares her story...

Mektis' father had two wives and abandoned her and her mother for the other wife. With no livelihood, she came to Dhaka with her uncle. They lived together but he went abroad to Malaysia then her mother came. Near her house, there was a boy that she loved. They wanted to be married but her mother didn’t agree with it. Eventually, when she was 13, they did get married. Soon, her mother told her: "If you’re married now, then your husband can take care of you." Being kicked out of her house, the new couple rented a new house in the slums of Dhaka. Her husband wasn’t working and Mekti kept pressuring him to get a job. Finally, he thought the best thing was to pull a rickshaw to make some money. When he went to a rickshaw owner to rent, the owner asked that his wife come to also give her word that he would pay rent on this rickshaw. When Mekti went to verify the contract, the owner thought she was very pretty. The owner arranged for another man to steal Mekti’s husband’s rickshaw. Because he hadn’t been working, the couple, both accountable, did not have enough money to pay off their new debt to the rickshaw owner. The owner then bartered: “If you can’t give money for the stolen rickshaw, then you can give your wife’s body as payment?” Her husband made a decision. They had no food, and were now in debt. In the interview, Mekti said, “What could he do?”

For the first few days, the rickshaw owner came alone to her house to use her body for his sick sexual pleasure. Soon after, he began to bring other men with him, two or three people at a time, “torturing” her. It was an extreme struggle and pressure for her having men come in and out of her home, abusing her entire self: mind, body and spirit. “I was young,” she said, now at the age of 18. “I felt death upon me when they came.”

She tried to stand up, not agreeing to perform this role. Her husband began to beat her, and tell the neighbors a false story to justify the bruises. By watching the money the rickshaw owner was making off of the additional men her brought to exploit his wife, Mekti’s husband became interested in selling her himself. He began doing business by her, now making money that was fully spent on heroin.

Eventually, Mekti’s mother heard about what was happening to Mekti, offering to take her back home and marry her off to a better man. Mekti at first refused, feeling that he would gain some sense soon. After more days and weeks of men coming to her home, abusing her, then watching her husband spend all the money on drugs, Mekti saw that he was getting more money this way and would not let up.

For some time, her husband left Dhaka so Mekti stayed in her mother’s home for four months. Upon her husband’s arrival back to Dhaka, he refused the divorce that Mekti and her mother were demanding, even offering to pay for the whole annulment. Finally, he gave in and Mekti received her divorce from the District Office for 2000tk.

Living with her mother after the whole incident, neither Mekti or her mother knew what to do next. With no education and a complete loss of self, she was 16 with no life options. Finally, her mother contacted a staff worker at the centre, wondering what she could do. Going to the office, Mekti told her story and they agreed to help her. She began taking vocational classes, learning how to sew. While she was working, another man, Dulal, took an interest in her. A hotel worker, Dulal agreed to marry her as long as she didn’t do work outside again. In the interview, she grinned and took a picture of him out of her wallet to flaunt. Her husband is very careful and she needs to ask permission to go anywhere out of protection. He knows everything about her life, from her past to her every day activities. Because he is from Syllet, after her training is finished, they will move back there. She said that this office gave her life light and feels that she will live a good life from here on out.

Please read soon on my first analysis of her life.

Submissive to Too Much Eye Glitter

"I'm sorry I can't speak any louder," she mumbled through closed lips. "If I do, my make-up will be ruined."

Now, I've seen wedding reality shows in the US, and attended weddings where one bride almost fainted and one actually fainted from not eating to squeeze into their 'perfect' wedding dress. But the glitz and glamour of South Asian weddings is beyond sanity. This--on top of the need for women to look whiter. I spent two hours waiting in a beauty parlor waiting for my friends getting their hair and make-up done for the wedding. The bride was there for a total of four hours. Sitting in the waiting room, I watched several brides come out in full dress and make-up. Each one was more sparkly than the next, and each bride had about an inch of white make-up caked on their skin, neck, and even hands.

I attended my friend Rashna's post-wedding dinner, where the couple first presents themselves as a married couple. On the car ride over, Rashna told me she was exhausted and just wanted some water but didn't have time between the parlor and reception. Brides traditionally are to be quiet and submissive during the wedding, with eyes cast down. In wedding I attended in Kolkata, a part of the ceremony was the bride holding leaves over eyes to keep from disrespecting her husband by looking at him directly. Rashna's eyes were down-cast even before we arrived; not because of traditional cultural roles, but because her eye glitter was too heavy. In the second floor of a large restaurant, she entered to a room of people waiting for her to join her husband on a small stage for photos. With at least 6 professional photographers and dozens upon dozens of guests with camera phones, the photo session lasted for 3 hours. The couple just sat, shoulder to shoulder, as all the guests came up to take photos with them.

Finally, Rashna and Arif sat for dinner. I had the privileged seat to sit next to the bride, which I immediately poured her a big glass of water. She gobbled up her meal and didn't say a word to anyone. Before the wedding, she was teeming with excited. Now, on the last day, I imagine she just wanted the make-up off and the photos finished. Who could blame her?

It makes you think: why all this pain and fuss for a few days? Mostly there is pressure from family to have a 'good' wedding, and to take 1,000 photos to show off like the neighbors did. We are so obedient to these social roles and expectations, as well as to these fairy tale fantasies that we forget why we dressed up in the first place. A Reverend friend told me recently that each bride spends exuberant money and time to make her wedding reach this unattainable fantasy, that winds up being the exact replica of the wedding the next room over. "Every bride thinks her wedding is unique, but when you attend one every weekend, you know most aren't." Seeing all the women in the parlor, I see it's not limited to the US.

Boksheesh: The Case of "Forward Asking"

“Apu, ar rong ashe?” Do you have another color?

I spent a decent amount of money buying small gifts from America to give the women at the training center. Each little gift consisted of a tube of flavoured lip gloss and sparkly post earrings, for 27 women. I bought several flavours and colors, each wrapped and distributed randomly. I decided to do this at the end of the day, knowing what would come..

“Apu, my sari is pink, do you have more pink ones?"

“Didi, I want the red lipstick! She got red, why didn’t I?”

"Can I have more for my sisters?"

The same thing happened when I gave out pictures: one is upset because she only received four when another girl received five, or another doesn’t like the dress she is wearing in a photo and wants a new one. Now, it’s not lie that I have more money, but printing out over a one hundred photos each time (five photos for 20 women), it adds up. How could they, when receiving a generous and spontaneous gift, ask for something more or different?

This also comes up from security guards, rickshaw-wallahs, door men, and other service people. For normal service, nothing out of the ordinary, people ask for boksheesh, a tip. At a bakery, the door man twice asked me for boksheesh. I thought, I've opened the door myself, and are able to continuing do so, you don't need a tip. Even my Bangladeshi roommate find it frustrating to see our security guard ask us for an additional tip for doing his normal job. Why are they so forward? Isn’t a tip something you voluntarily give based on someone’s satisfactory service?

There is no real custom of tipping here. It’s not really common, to give an average waiter an approximate tip of 15%. It is common, however, in Islamic morals, for rich people to share their income with less fortunate people. Remember the five pillars of Islam—one being to give alms? Possibly out of this, a culture of forward asking arose; forward enough to border begging. Of the people on a street at a given time, it feels like 1 out of 15 is a ‘professional’ beggar, especially lining mosques after prayer. They live on the street with their jobs to approach your car or pull on your leg for sympathetic pocket change.

With it being so common, and with so many people and so little money—you have to be unashamed and put yourself out there. Without this bold attitude, surviving, let along crawling out of poverty, might be impossible. When it comes to giving, how often and how much, I supposed Allah will judge you for that.

Desi Time

It's common joke that in South Asia: there is digital time, and there is desi time. One hour in digital time is one hour. One hour in desi time could be up to about four hours. Time is viewed so differently that it's frustrating for a New Yorker living in Dhaka, Bangladesh to be patient during late appointments and hours spent making one decision. Being here for 6 months, I've considered myself adjusted and daily brush it off as a cultural trait I'd have to 'deal with.' But then I given funny insight that made me view it differently.

Flying back to Dhaka from Kolkata, India, my ticket itinerary reads that I will land at 4:15pm January 6th. I tell my Bangladeshi friend to pick me up at 5pm. After going through immigration and baggage claim, my phone reads 4:40. I call my friend, who answers the phone, surprised, "Are you at the airport? I haven't even left the apartment yet! You said to be there at 5.. it will take over an hour to reach you." Rolling my eyes, "Well, it's a bit early , I guess. No worries, I'll take a taxi." I shrugged off her lateness, relaying it as a desi trait.

After surviving the hour long, traffic and polluted ride to my apartment, I arrive exhausted. "What time is it?" I ask my Bangladeshi auntie. "Five," she responds. Umm, wait--how? I left the airport at 4:50 and certainly spent well over an hour in traffic, how it is five o'clock? Thinking she's nuts, I log online and google "Dhaka time". It reads 6:04pm. As does my phone. Jet lagged and confused, I text a friend: "weird question, what time is it?" He responds, "Haha not so weird cuz we change the time 1 hour back while you were away. it's 5:08."

Bangladesh, already having her own time zone, decided for the first time to have Daylight Savings on June 19th, where they pushed their clocks ahead one hour. They then decided to change back on January 1st, where they technically had two midnights.

But no one knew. My flight itinerary didn't know, the airline didn't know, India didn't know, even the internet was (and still is) wrong! Bangladesh citizens were cued in, the world was not. My friend was going to be on time to pick me up, I was the one who was in the wrong--and was an hour early. Shame on me!

Sitting on my bed, fitting all these pieces together, I realized how I could always view desi time in that way. I joke that in New York: if you're told to be somewhere at 9, you arrive at 8:50. In Dhaka, if you tell someone to arrive at 9, they will stroll is around 10:05. I always viewed them as late, but in all reality, they are on time, just a different kind of time. Maybe New York is too on edge and needs to be late sometimes. Adapting is not to just recognize and simply 'deal with' a cultural nuance as if 'they' are wrong, but to truly adopt a different view.

Now my friends are pissed because I’m late all the time. When in Rome, I say!

Article: The Ghost Within

An amazing piece about an American woman who has found lumps in her body, and her explanation why.

This is further proof that sex work is in most cases not a 'choice' of a woman, how she isn't stupid or drug-addicted, how she CAN bring herself out of the mess she was forced in.. and how our society forces them to view themselves.

Cacophony

I just want to record this sweet little moment:

I moved into a new apartment: four bedrooms, four balconies, three bathrooms, kitchen, dinning room and sitting room. We are three Bangladeshi and three Americans which we aptly named the Wonderful Six Women Nest: Choy Nari Chomotkar Basha. Right now, one of our maids singing about an eggplant tree cleaning in the kitchen. Our live-in maid, who we treat as a roommate, is chopping potatoes on the floor with a special, curved Bangladeshi knife. One of my roommates is putting coconut oil in her long, black hair to keep it soft and the smells are coming from her room into the dinning room where I'm typing away. Another roommate is tuning her guitar in her room behind her bright pink and purple curtain.

And in the back, the call-to-prayer rings from the mosque around the corner, singing his sweet melody to Allah and all who love him.

I tilt back and smile, grateful. Then cough from my sickness and blow my nose, to trumpet the cacophony of sounds.

STUCK Part II: Drowning in boiling water

Work at the training center is going well. My girls are used to me sitting with them, watching over their shoulder, taking notes. There hasn’t been any emergencies since Shona’s accident, gratefully, so days go by with ease.

Shona hasn’t been in to the center since her accident, and didn’t attend her certificate ceremony. Tuesday morning, I ask the girls how she is doing.

“Oh, Shona is better, but her daughter is hurt—a pot of boiling rice water fell on her.”

Minutes later, I’m back on a rickshaw with one other girl and a staff worker, heading to Shona’s house. Driving through the morning fog, we are back at the same slum. I feel less jerks bouncing around the roughly paved roads, going with the flow of the devastating surroundings. As we climb through the entrance of the cluster of homes where she lives, the curious crowd of 20 people follows.

Shona begins to cry as we enter the small one-room, dirt floor hut that she calls a home. Sitting on her bed with her feet flat under her, her little daughter sits on her left hip, donned in a ski cap and wrapped in a shawl. The first and last time I met this beautiful, long-lashed baby girl, she looked at me and crawled into my lap as if we were old friends. Many children stare at me in wonder, and my auntie’s nephew cries every time he sees me. But this little one isn’t afraid or intensely curious of my eyes or skin, and just relaxes.

Now I see her, sitting on her mother who holds the baby’s right arm out and away from the shawl. Her neck is covered in round, tender bubbles where her skin boiled from the water, down her shoulder. On her arm is 6-inch burn, her skin yellow and shiny. Dried blood surrounds her wrist and elbow. Biting back my own tears, I wipe away Shona’s as her pressed her daughter’s head into her breast.

We chat with her a bit, looking at the medicines the doctor gave her and allow her to vent to us. With the door crowded, the staff worker shoos them away to give them some space and privacy (not a common habit in Bangladesh.) One little girl stayed, hanging around the door, inching closer over the visit until she was sitting on my knee.

I gave Shona a small Christmas gift, as I did with the rest of the girls, and she wore her new earrings right away. As I hugged her to leave, I slipped her some more taka. With neighbors still watching, I didn’t want to be obvious. And I couldn’t help but look to the skies and say, “She just healed herself, and now her daughter is in pain. All their money is being spent on medicines because of accidents. She can't work because she's taking care of her baby, and her husband's a deadbeat. How can this happen twice to the same family in one month?”

It was an easier visit than the first, I suppose the misery is becoming routine to me too. Bouncing back in the rickshaw, holding the other woman’s hand, I wondered if it was harmful or helpful to become numb to grief out of survival. I arrived at the center with no answer.