A Vegetarian View of Qurbani Eid

The city is humming. My stomach keeps me from moving out of bed, but inshallah, I live on the 7th floor and can't see our garage. Today, of the 55 families in my building, 35 cows are being slaughtered under my building. Probably a few goats, too.

Eid Mubarak.

Qurbani Eid (Eid al-Adha) celebrates some of the sacrifices Abraham made for God. God asked Abraham to devote his son Ismael to Allah in oblation. Out of love for God, Abraham was ready to do so. As he hacked his son's neck, he discovered a sheep died is Ismael's place. God was only testing Abraham and his sacrifice was fulfilled without the loss of his son. (There are discrepancies as to which son was sacrificed: Ismael or Issac.) All across the world, Muslims are to raise a sheep (or in some cultures, like Bangladesh, goats, cows or camels) to offer in the name of God; mirroring the sacrifice and love of Abraham. It is tradition to donate some of the meat to the poor who cannot afford an animal.

I can respect that. The love of Allah is eternal and animals are killed every day for various reasons. But the unnecessary public display seems contradictory. Not only because I can't stomach it and the streets will smell of rotting blood for several day, but because it turns into a contest: who bought the biggest cow, or who could afford to import a camel? There is even news coverage discussing which of the upper class families spent the most this year. The sacrifice was extremely personal to Abraham, not a public display to the world but to God alone. At least here in the city, the animal is not raised to be loved over a year as if it was part of the family--as if it was a son. It is no loss, no oblation, if the cow is bought the day before in a market down the road, whipped down the street to sit in front of the house and await her death. I asked my friend, "Are the cows considered good Muslims if they are sacrificed? If so, do they get 70 virgins when they reach heaven?" He just laughed.

It's obvious by the title that I can't really be a huge fan of day, and they holiday shouldn't end because it's symbolism is beautiful. But if it must be practiced, then I wish it was kept to be a private and personal family affair out of love for God and the animal, not to keep up an image of wealth. Same with Christmas--I see more Santa effigies than Jesus and I forget who's birthday it really it.

But today in Dhaka, most of the sounds coming from the streets are indistinguishable. Mostly it's men cheering with additional strange thudding sounds. It's 20C but I turn on my fan, the motor is so loud that I only hear children scream every once in a while. A fellow Fulbrighter called to tell me, "Don't worry, the streets aren't running with blood. But it is a good day to be a crow: they are tearing through two carcasses outside my window..."

For me, it's a good day to just meditate.

a cow awaiting her death--at least she's dressed nicely

A Dhaka Thanksgiving

Who would have thought that even though I'm away from my Chuchi Nancy, I still got drunk on Thanksgiving?

Well, it certainly was a night of beautiful randomness. I went with my friend and her family to Patrice's house, with several ex-pats (ex-patriots) and their children. All American by birth or marriage, everyone consistently lives abroad working for different NGOs and departments of the US government. It was nice to speak in my New Yorker accent, eat REAL cheese and chocolate, and see an alternative side to life in Dhaka. Even more so, I was spoiled when Patrice insisted I allow her driver to drop me off at my friend's house in her SUV.. Our government treats our employees well, and rightfully so--they are intelligent, hard-working people with open hearts. I'm grateful for the hospitality of my American friends here, and grateful for the endless amounts of love from my family and best friends sent from Northport, Long Island!

Click here to see full photo.

.. and Northport, New York :)

Field Work

see more at: FLICKR

In Case of Fire...

Just because I find it amusing how safe I feel in this country:

[next to the gas station]

Journey by Emma Thompson

Way to go Emma Thompson!! If you are lucky enough to live in New York (i miss her), check out Thompson's anti-trafficking exhibit called "Journey".. and report back!

Update 11/16: My amazing friend Jika Gonzalez went to see Journey, here's her entry on it:

http://metrosection.wordpress.com/2009/11/12/journey/

STUCK: between a rock and a hard place--or a car and a rickshaw..

I arrived at the center today to hear that Shona* was home sick. I imagined a cold or cramps. The story unfolds that a few days earlier she went to the market and was smashed in between a rickshaw and a CNG, penetrating her stomach.

With one other girl from the center Lila*, myself and three aid workers head to Shona’s house. Weaving through the cool morning on a rickshaw, one aid worker Rahim* shares Shona’s story. Her parents are not around and she is married to a man who “is not bad, but not good.” She was a sex worker for a few years when she had no other livelihood available. Finding the organization, she has been working for them doing crafts and making a steady income. Her husband doesn’t work and relies on Shona to support him and their two year-old daughter. The other aid workers gush about Shona, saying that she never argues with the other girls and always helps them when they need it. I see it in her: she is a complete doll. She and I have dance sessions to entertain everyone at the center. It’s uncommon for a Bangla woman to laugh as loud as she does, and I mirror it with my own.

It starts getting quiet as we get farther away from city’s business center and the sun stronger as the buildings shrink from 5 stories to at most 2 levels. The roads increasingly dirtier, bumpier, at parts non-existent or slanted from earthquakes. Getting off the rickshaw in an alley that can fit only three persons, Lila leads us through the garbage filled ditches rotting in the sun. A constant cloud of flies swarm around my feet as we step into a cluster of tin homes, each perhaps three times the size of my clothes closet on Long Island. Seeing aid workers and a bideshi (foreigner), adults and children start popping out of everywhere to follow us. Shona’s name is whispered amongst the indistinct Bangla around me when we enter her home.

She was lying on a bed lined with a plastic table cloth with one sheet covering her. The bed took up one third of the entire house (one room) with tin walls and ceiling. Her husband stood in the corner, watching us pile in with the curious entourage behind us. The rest of the room had one chair and shelves with clothes, pots and plastic bags with personal belongings.

Shona was moaning in pain, holding her stomach. Seeing us, she began to cry and grasped onto my arm, mumbling in Bangla. I covered her forehead with kisses. She lifted up her sheet and revealed the wound. I looked away, I couldn’t see it. Her daughter came around the corner with the biggest eyes and sweetest cheeks, happily placing herself in my lap as she watched her mother breath heavy. Bangla was thrown around the tiny hut too fast for me to understand. Just as I felt that I was going to hit someone if I wasn’t informed as to what was happening, Rahim finally explained: the doctor saw her for a few minutes, gave her 2-weeks worth of antibiotics cost 1000tk and Shona’s husband took out a loan of 500tk to pay for the visit but now have no money to pay for food. That’s about 20 dollars. I handled the money situation but I was so concerned about what she was feeling now. Ambulances don’t really exist, no car or even bicycle could make it to her slum door: so she must walk with this pain to the street, get on a rickshaw and bounce her way through the slum then through traffic to the hospital.

What else can we do, I keep pestering. A stretcher to the street and I'll get a taxi? Can we bring a doctor to her? I was met with nothing but blank stares. Nothing else could be done.

Rahim told me that Shona’s husband was going to take her to the hospital. Tomorrow we will see the outcome.

But that’s all I can do right now. I don’t know what else to do. Recalling the monring, it reads like any other humanitarian documentary covering a similar story. That’s what is so sad: there are so many stories like this: continuously and daily, too common that it’s cliché. But I cannot bellow loud enough or clearly enunciate how though it is prevalent, it is still continuously harrowing and crippling for them. Shona may not have experienced life outside of permanent devastation, but that doesn’t mean that she is ignorant that it should be better.

* Names have been changed.

A Start to My Project: My Talent As A Human

I haven’t written too much about my work because I don’t know where my field notes will end up so confidentiality must be practiced. I’ll share a smige:

Currently I am working with a center that provides skills training (with certificates) for women who are trying to leave prostitution. In an old part of the city, I spend a few mornings a week with about 20 young women who learn to sew and make crafts for a living. There is one shop here is Bangladesh that sells their work as well as one in Norway.

My goal is to learn about these women in all ways possible: their backgrounds, their stories, their dreams. How did they end up as prostitutes? Why did they come to this center? Is this center helping them the best they can? How do they feel working here? As my Bangla improves, I am being a good anthropologist and performing participant observation. As the women are getting to know and feel comfortable with me, I sit on the floor with them and help them do their crafts. My body is even learning to sit like them for long periods of time (feet flat, knees bent touching shoulders).

My project, like most of my life, is overambitious. It takes months to understand then break into the professional world of this country—proven after speaking with some British women who said it took one year to begin their project on anti-trafficking with a team of ten. I am alone fighting this fight and sometimes I can be my work enemy. So my final work will most likely drift a lot from what I aimed for, but I plan to absorb as much of my topic as possible in the meantime. Fulbright is an amazing opportunity in that I have this flexibility to explore everything I want.

So the women at this center is a great start to hopefully a solid project. But as we learn about each other, I am just enjoying their company and love. Today, I sat on the ground listening to the girls gossip around me, tearing the thick strings out of square piece of green cloth. It felt therapeutic—to work with my hands, creating something, surrounded by these beautiful women all struggling to better their lives. With my current knowledge of Bangla, I’m not good for much except a good laugh and taking photos. But it’s a start—because we can always offer affection. More often than not, it’s returned. My sisters here certainly give it back tenfold…

And it’s vital with this week being an emotional week as I think about this time last year, and a young, unfortunate death. Even more emotional when I think about all those who are affected, mainly my best friend. I urge you all to show affection to those you care about—no reason necessary other than you can.