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.

South Asian Education and Development: Rooted in Histories

From missing internet for a dreadful two whole weeks (half sarcasm noted), I missed some news and good articles. Thanks to Neelofer, she sent me Nicholas Kristof’s article, “More Schools, Not Troops.”

Now, I debate with myself over Nicholas Kristof and the sincerity and authenticity of this work. This article was one of disappointment.

I can agree with Kristof’s overall point: a message to the US government to stop bombing countries and start to develop them by providing schools. This is one of the best ways to bring recurring, deep change. He brought up Greg Mortenson, a humanitarian I have mentioned before who has pioneered building schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan with his bare hands (not an expression, actually true.) Kristof noted that these schools are secular and are not being threatened and are welcomed by the community. Rich Islamic extremists are building schools that teach solely radical Islam, which end up being the only outlet for poor families to give their children an education. If extremists are investing in the youth to spread a particular message, can’t we start to invest in schools to spread a more secular message?

Then Kristof compared Pakistan with Bangladesh. First off, not a good idea. The two nations may have been one 50 years back but that in no means allows for a comparison: the Pakistan of 1947-1971 was forced by the British, nations separated by their enemy, India, speaking separate languages with differing cultures and economies. These differences lead to the Liberation War making Bangladesh it's own country. Pakistan is to Bangladesh as the US is to Nicaragua. To this day I don’t know how India survives with it’s own diversity.

Kristof makes the comparison that Bangladesh focused on education since becoming it’s own nation in a way that Pakistan never did. But Bangladesh received more help than Pakistan. Bangladesh was the poster-child of a desperate nation so much so that George Harrison along with Ravi Shankar held a concert in New York in 1971 to send money through UNICEF. No one did that for Pakistan. Also, Bangladesh has become the ‘development capital of the world’—education not the only focus but providing medical, social and environmental services. Education will do nothing if the current surrounding society isn’t improved. Kristof then claimed that, “Bangladesh now has more girls in high school than boys.”

At first I wondered how accurate of a statistic this is (it was not referenced). Looking at UNICEF, it seems that Bangladesh is a forerunner in achieving equality of gender enrollment in schools. Enrollment is one thing; attendance and continuing education are another--25% of Bangladeshi girls don't actually finish their primary school education according to UNESCO 2007. Kristof then says that “those Bangladeshi women joined the labor force, laying the foundation for a garment industry…” Educated women do not go into the garment industry. This industry is one of mostly unskilled labor for the most part so much so that children can work there.

The next day, I mentioned the article to an amazing friend; his father is Burmese, and his mother Persian, they met in Chittagong, Bangladesh then moved to New Jersey. He speaks English, Bangla, Urdu and local Chittagong language. He agreed, and shared some of his insight by mentioning how Bangladesh is very homogeneous: everyone speaks the same language (though dialects) and it is a very small country where it is easy to travel (via river or over the land which is mostly flat). Also add into the fact that Bangladesh fought for their country: an instant camaraderie existed as all Bangladeshis fought behind Bangabadhu for their language and culture. It was their choice and their families and neighbors as one.

Pakistan, even Afghanistan, are quite heterogeneous where communication between tribes is difficult over endless hills, too much desert and a myriad of languages. Perhaps now Afghanistan and Pakistan are uniting in their own countries—but at the rate we’re going it’s going to be in hatred against us.

While I support Kristof’s, I urge him not to compare too much two different societies. Of course, use one as an example but take into account the different histories that lead to the differences that exist today.

With Privilege Comes Responsibility: The Case of Corrupt Governments

I’ve been thinking about superheroes stories. In all the comics, movies and tales, when one is given extraordinary powers, they either execute them for good or evil. Obvious that those who choose to use their new power for evil do so to gain more power over those who are weaker—a pathetic and unsophisticated way to spend your time here on Earth. What interests me more is the urge of responsibility heroes like Superman and Spiderman felt with their power. Their superpowers are a privilege, an obvious advantage over the rest of the human population. With this privilege, they felt an overwhelming responsibility to protect and spread their privilege.

Note the word ‘superpower’ and think about today’s politics...

A story meriting little mention to the world was an assassination attempt here in Dhaka a couple of weeks ago. The attack was aimed at Fazle Noor Taposh, a lawmaker and nephew of the Prime Minister of the Awami League party Sheikh Hasina; only 13 people were reported to have been wounded.

I was told this the morning of my last day of Bangla class. My teacher Pulok revealed the story to Hiroto and I. Somehow I brought up the corruption of the Bangladesh government, listed to be the second most corrupt government in the world according to Nation Master. I began to argue that the Bangladeshi people kept the government corrupt by electing the same officials and politicians who don’t do much for citizens.

“How can we elect new politicians when you can’t become a politician without money?" said Pulok-Da. "The same people keep getting reelected because it’s the same people who have all the money.” It’s something I’ve noticed too; there is a very small middle class in Bangladesh, mostly living in Dhaka. And when they are poor – they are destitute. When they are rich – they. are. RICH! I’ve seen Escaldes almost flatten beggars on Mirpur Road.

Pulok-da went on to say that it is up to America to end corruption in government (and other Western governments, but we’ll use America as the example because the world DOES use us as an example: we are both the lock and the key to the worlds problems.) “It’s up to America to put pressure on our government to change her ways of corruption. America has already done that with Islamic fundamentalism—and it’s working! Believe me that there are less violent uprisings and radical groups than a few years back. A lot of it has to do with the money America gives to us to suppress these radical regimes, and the investigations to confirm the money is spent to end these violent ideologies. If America would only do the same for our corrupt government, maybe we would get somewhere.”

I stated that yes, external pressure from governments does have some effect (i.e. South Africa’s apartheid), but pressure has to come internally—from the people themselves. Pulok-da looked up and said, “With what rights? This is not a democracy, only a façade. I have no say. The police can arrest and frame me for anything. If Obama’s daughter committed a murder, she would be jailed, she is not protected just because she is a VIP. But here, if Sheik Hasina’s cousin did the same, he would be protected. Even with my job, I have to listen to everything my boss says. If he said to walk from my house to my work, a trip of over 4 hours, I would have to. I risk losing my job if I ever disobey and how will a find another? You must listen to your boss in the US but you have rights and you can argue and still keep your job. If you were unlawfully fired or hurt, you can seek retribution. We can’t argue here. No, we need you.”

America’s superpower is that of voice—the freedom and the protection of our voices. Let’s think clearly of how we are going to decide to use it. Unlike other superheroes who didn’t ask for their privilege, we created our superpower and with it our responsibility.

Life is always more complicated than a comic strip, but perhaps our principles can be more simplified...

Follow-up: Response to Nikolas Kristof's Op-Ed

My New Family

At breakfast on Halloween, I'm told that I am supposed to go to the first birthday party of my mother's nephew. Instead of dressing up like Pat Benatar for a Halloween party, I dressed in a nice new salwar kameez and celebrated like a Bangladeshi. Shuyojit, my 'cousin's' first birthday was held at a restaurant around the corner from our house with about 40 friends and family. We took over the place--well, Shuyojit took over the place walking around and investigating the koi pond and other tables. With him was the entourage of 15 people wanting to coo over him, hold him and take a photo with him. He was well-behaved most of the night, which was surprising for me because the last few times I met him, he cried at the sight of me. "You have new face," says my mother Dipali.. The white devil, perhaps. But today, he blew me kisses so I was satisfied.

I liked living in Banani by myself, I liked my freedom--but this new place is too wonderful to go back. My mother Dipali is an excellent cook, even though we have power struggle over who will scoop my food: my independent, American little stomach vs. the massive scoops of a Bengali woman. And I love having someone to talk to, my 13 year-old sister Hia. She practices her English and I practice my Bangla. We are both dancers and goof around all the time (she knows salsa!)

Below are some photos of the birthday party, and Hia and myself being paagli together on my MacBook...

Click here to see more photos!

Most of the time I just stumble over my Bangla until I think my message gets across. They probably think I'm nuts, but I always give them a good laugh...

Example: it's normal for a mother to serve her whole family and guests first before serving herself. She scoops food onto Hia's plate, then goes to mine. Being the independent little woman I am, I insist on serving myself, in part because I fear the huuuge scoops she gives to me--it's hard staying fit on a diet that consists mainly of white rice! One day, she told Hia to scoop her food herself--but Hia couldn't hold the big spoon! She is so accustomed to having her mother do it that she spilt the food on the table. Dipali turned and said, "You're like your father--he can't scoop either." So I start crrryyyyyying from laughter with this image of my head. I take the spoon from Hia, turn it upside-down so the rounded side is up and try to scoop the lentils as if I've never seen a spoon and say in Bangla: "Why can't I eat? Why can't I eat?" as the lentils roll off the spoon back into the bowl..

I tell you, man, we cried for 10 minutes laughing our asses off. So simple but laughter is so beautiful.