Paagli Didi, the Fulbright Scholar, Bangladesh

Holes Carved in my Soul: The Final Word

2010-07-22T17:42:00.003+06:00

I am almost back in the United States. What a year it has been. To begin to describe the Fulbright journey is to begin a novel of my personal and professional growth. As I sit here in the Edinburgh airport waiting for my flight to New York, I leave Bangladesh free as bird. Not that Bangladesh ever caged me. It was my frightened, insecure ego that kept me confined. But Fulbright and Bangladesh gave enough space to spread my wings and discover a world of endless possibilities--a world available to me if I climbed out of that shell and believed.

My heart still aches for Bangladesh: for the work that finally came together, for the friends who stole my heart, for the passion of such a congested place. I passed through Kolkata on my home, stepping into memories where the paagli didi journey began--I know I'll be back in Bangladesh at some point. My first visit to India effected me enough that I went back. Then when Bengal touched my heart, I came back again. I've proven that when I care about a place, I manage to find a way back.

So here is the end of my Fulbright experience in Bangladesh. I recommend Fulbright (or any similar scholarship) to any young person wanting a challenge. It has been the most rewarding experience in my life (though young, I've had plenty of amazing experiences). As for Bangladesh: when people ask the trite question, "What is Bangladesh like?" My answer is always "intense and beautiful." South Asia is just raw and real, that's what's beautiful. To paraphrase a metaphor by poet Andrea Gibson, Bangladesh is a knife that carves holes in your soul so beauty can make its way inside.

Endless thanks to those who were a part of this odyssey, both in Bangladesh and abroad. The shape of the journey depends on the company, and your company enveloped me in love. So love is all I experienced.

If anyone is interested in learning more about women's empowerment, Bangladesh or the Fulbright scholarship, please email me at amanda dot ferrandino (at) gmail dot com.

Cribz Video: Dhanmondi

2010-07-22T17:40:00.000+06:00

COMING SOON :)

Christened

2010-06-22T23:28:00.003+06:00

I think I officially became Bangladeshi today. I was christened in the monsoon rain on a rickshaw wearing a sari going to my center in Old Dhaka, holding three-kgs of mishti and directing the rickshaw-wallah where to go because he was lost. Once at the center, sitting with the women, gossiping and laughing, and singing Bangla songs. And the day ended with faluda and friends.

Oh how I'll miss this crazy place.

The Power of Government Destroys Youth's Little Freedom...

2010-05-29T23:31:00.003+06:00

I re-joined the goddamn social networking site to keep in touch with Bangladeshi friends...

then this happens: Bangladesh Government Bans Facebook

What I Will Miss About the Desh...

2010-05-26T03:00:00.013+06:00

15.) Bargaining for clothes (well, I'll miss Saba and Dola bargaining FOR me).

14.) You can mix and match every color/pattern/neon and it will somehow look good.

13.) It is completely normal to have a live-in maid with breakfast ready when you wake up.

12.) Wearing bindis/teeps (definitely NOT the orna).

11.) Every day is Thanksgiving: tons of food laid out on the table in 20 different bowls and everyone shares.

10.) Really good dhal (lentils), tomato bhorta (mash) and faluda (indescribable).

9.) You go out with only 2 friends then you wind up with 20 somewhere on a roof with spontaneous singing.

8.) Mango and litchi season (my sweet tooth believes this is heaven).

7.) Strangers call each other mama (uncle), apu (sister), bondhu (friend).

6.) The soothing voice of the muezzin's adhan (call-to-prayer) from the mosjid on Road 6/A.

5.) Each and every meeting/visit/class begins with cha (tea) and mishti (sweets).

4.) Dhanmondi Lake, 'Kamala Buli's ship house,' and our Road 4/A Chomotkar Basha.

3.) Everyone takes off their shoes as often as possible.

2.) Saba, Dola, Abdul, Fahim, Emy, Diya, Parvez, Sayaka, Kyungai, Hia, Dipali, Lucy, Pappa, Shilpi, Zahir, Eva, Regina, Feline, Liza, Bokul, Runa, Jaganmoy, Nayeem, Sujan, Emi, Rumi, Sam, Saad, Sara, Rahib, Samdina, Nupur, Pakhi ... did I mention Saba?

1.) Simply: the Bang's rawness.

Art of the True Romantics

2010-05-23T10:35:00.007+06:00

I've been lucky enough to live with and befriend all sorts of musicians, artists and theatre folk here in Bangladesh. Bengalis are romantics at heart, so their art is of the most expressive and dramatic in South Asia. A friend pointed out that in South Asia, the most business oriented nations have little art or literature (i.e. Gujrat). While Bengal has given birth to the most distinguished minds of art and intellect for centuries. Kolkata was (though arguably still is) the center of progressive art and theatre for decades. Bangladeshi theatre, music and art share many of the same traits: the vivid colors, the eccentric dramatics, the impassioned words and the fervid performances. These photos and video do not do justice to the grandeur of Bengali art.

Dhaka University Boishaki masks--even rickshaws are this colorful

performance at Shilpakola Theatre

(choreographed by my roommate Dola, written by my friend Bokul, performed by my friends' theatre group, Prachyonat)

(L-my friend Dalia's poetry reading at Banglabandhu Museum, R-performance of tribal dances from Chittagong Hill Tracts)

(my roommate Dola being a snake in the green!!)

performance by Kangali Sufian, a famous 65+ bawl singer at the BCFCC

Notes on being a Paagli Didi

2010-05-23T02:06:00.006+06:00

It was a joke—this nickname. When studying and volunteering in Kolkata, I slowly picked up words in Bangla. Forever the entertainer, I was always trying to find words to bring comedy to the young women at the shelter where I volunteered. I learned that the word paagul meant ‘mad/crazy.’ One day at work, I called one of the girls paagul in jest. Everyone snickered as they said that paagli was the feminine of paagul. “Uhh…well then, tumi paagli!” Squealing at my new Bangla, they aptly rebutted with, ‘na—tumi paagli’ (no—you’re crazy!). After I said that we all are crazy, I became the leader, the didi—the big sister.

Working in that shelter inspired me enough to work on women’s empowerment as a career goal—and enough to tattoo this nickname on my wrist. The blue, soulful ink was aimed to be a reminder of my role as being the big sister to all I can: to help those in need, contribute positively to the world, love and support everyone in their challenges...even if I’m slightly silly and fun with it.

Trust me when I say that I forget more often than remember this to be my role. Especially in Bangladesh, various trials push me in a negative worldview causing selfish actions where I lose sight of being patient, charming and supportive. I’m still grappling with leaving school (one year graduation anniversary!) and facing the world on my own for the first time. I’m still forming opinions on all that surrounds me, tossing with truths and lies. And Lord, I chose to do it in a place outside all realms of normalcy!

So in this Fulbright experience, I wish I could have given more sisterly insanity. But the truth is that every didi has to take care of herself too. Often I found my spark submerged in the pollution of Dhaka, unable to find my heart’s compassion to be a paagli didi. There were a myriad of factors drowning me in self-pity and misdirected anger. While I came back to Bengal with the lofty expectations to deeply investigate women’s empowerment, it turned to be an extended (maybe endless) lesson of my personal and essential role in the world. I answered questions of who I am and who I want to be: what I love, what makes me feel good, what am I good at, what do I suck at, what can I improve, what can I accept?

I recognize the journey of self-discovery is crucial but a part of me wishes I could have incorporated my work more, helped a little more. But in the end, I think it’s best that I took the time to review my personality and morals—for what I believe is how I will act. Opinions can change from year to year as we mature with experiences, but the core of who you are shouldn’t. We should be eternally digging through the socially conditioned layers towards the heart, avoiding hypocrisy and superficial aesthetics. Self-awareness and self-love is the first step to being a true paagli didi.

I have a very special woman in my life. Enchanting, cheerful and forever radiating warmth, she is the most self-sacrificing woman I know. No, excuse me, than most people will ever know. She can remedy any problem of all who come to her with her networks, perseverance, compassion and intelligence. But in all that selfless beauty, she is drowning in others’ (and her own) constant and high demands—so much so that she isn’t taking care of herself. I admire and envy the truth of her but I am constantly reminding her how no one will receive help when she’s run into the ground.

Seeing her like this validates the importance of taking time for yourself, your body/mind/spirit before you can effectively give. Giving all the time will eventually leave you with nothing. I now have compassion for myself that I’ve been selfish in this journey—it’s needed. And I will compensate for it in due time.

I’ve accomplished a lot professionally and academically here: I’ve made contacts with several innovative (and no-so innovative) empowerment organizations and witnessed a range of progressive programs. Meeting these women firsthand and interviewing them in their village will remain the most crucial lessons of my professional career. Already I am shipping home reports, notes and books on my topic for future reference along with over 60 business cards of relevant employees in Bangladesh. But most importantly, I am dragging home a stronger Amanda: one who battled her own ill-temper, loneliness, doubt, and hatred—who came out still believing in the paagli didi inside her.

I am leaving Bangladesh taking more than I gave. But this relationship is far from over. I’ll make it up to her.

Epiphanies on Rickshaws

2010-05-18T16:09:00.005+06:00

My brain doesn't have an off-switch, it just doesn't shut up. "Talky as a jay-bird" might be the phrase, something to say about everything but too scattered to remain with one topic. I rarely never find concrete solutions or satisfying answers to any of the madness that thunders around in my head.

However, traveling has always soothed my unrelenting consciousness. When I was young, I could stare out the window during long car rides and be content. Today I'm the same on buses in Nepal, planes over Borneo or trains in India. Give me a window with a moving picture and I'm at peace. During university in New York City, I loved the subway because the ride was always in-between my destinations, where I could quiet myself and be present. At work I had to think about tomorrow's meeting, at school I had to think about tomorrow's paper, at home I fought with myself over yesterday's mistakes. But the hum of the train's wheels muffles my brain. During that silence, plenty of answers have come to me, even when I wasn't asking anything.

For my first months in Dhaka, I dreaded finding transportation because (1) the buses scare me when they look like they've survived WWII, (2) I hate having to argue for a price of a rickshaw or CNG and (3) I'm consistently lost because 'urban planning' is a joke. As I adjusted over the last ten months, I have come to enjoy transportation again. Even over all the sound and air pollution, I can still find the little epiphanies.

This afternoon was one of those days. In the quiet, it came to me that despite all the stress I've been through this last year, regardless of how many more grey hairs I have now, how I've been molested, how I didn't accomplish all of my work, how I cried till my lips bled.. that it's all worth it. This deranged place has taught me too much to ever really hate her. And she's produced several beautiful souls with whom I have eternally connected with. No--despite how I've been beaten by her, I could only love Bangladesh.

With only a few weeks left, that damn Cinderella song is stuck in my head: Don't know what you got 'till it's gone..

Empowering for you and me

2010-05-17T08:37:00.003+06:00

“Anthropology was the science that gave her the platform from which she surveyed , scolded and beamed at the world.” Jane Howard on Margaret Mead

That's how I always felt about anthropology. I felt connected to the art by being about to learn about the world as wholly as possible. Feeling that we need to understand this world before we can help it, development research was a great way to do so. I imagined myself working for a research institute or the research department of an NGO, personally interviewing the people we want to help and finding out how we can help them. That was the drive behind this scholarship: to learn about programs that try to empower women and ask the women themselves how they want to be empowered.

Doing this work is another story. I enjoy interviewing survivors of sexual violence, because I learn about where they come from, what kind of programs they seek for empowerment and what they're dreams are for the future. With this information, I was hoping to publish a paper discussing their needs so better programs can be created. But during all the interviews, I felt I left them just as vulnerable as they were before. I began to feel that I was taking something from them, their story, a piece of them, to use for some high language, post modern academic paper that they will never see nor understand. To add insult to injury, most people who makes decisions on empowerment programs would never consider my findings because they are too wrapped up in what donors want anyway.

Where's the empowerment.. for anyone? I feel I left them not changing anything, leaving them as powerless and as scared of their future as were before I came. I can give them love, of course that helps, I'll always believe that. But that's not a tool they can hold onto, that's a feeling that will fade once I leave. I may have touched some lives, but my work is not sustainable. And in all honesty, where's the empowerment for me? I have felt powerless this entire trip, lost in the colossal mess of Bangladesh's corruption and violence. There were times I lost interest in my work completely because what was the point?

But this weekend, for the first time in the last 10 months, I finally felt I did something right.

My roommate Saba has self-defense training that she attended in India. Looking at the materials, I fell in love: physical and mental self-defense techniques and positive confidence building in a 2-3 day workshop with a group of women only. I begged Saba over a month to let me do a few workshops with her before I leave. While we're still in the process of planning with a few NGOs and universities, we held one 2-day workshop in our living room this past weekend with 8 of our girlfriends.

I never was so happy this entire trip. Combining my own personality traits with my knowledge on sexual assault, I was able to teach other women (our friends) why we face such tragedies as women in patriarchal societies. With Saba's help, we trained our friends how to escape from an attacker by hitting the the most vulnerable parts on a human body. We talked with them about how to define and assert their boundaries. We shared tips in positive personal decision-making and how women overcome the sexist barriers in front of them. It was only two days, it was just our friends (which, most of them are already quite aware of gender violence and are already pro-feminist).. but I felt so f-in good! What I loved was that personal feeling of empowerment being able to empower others. We ended the workshop not knowing how much they will remember, but at least we put these techniques out there and created a safe space for women to share all the awful experiences they keep to themselves. I really loved being a trainer.

So this is my career path: become a trainer on women's empowerment. Who knows where that exactly will lead, training companies on sexual harassment to sex education to confidence building techniques for young girls. I've found several promising organizations in the new city I'm moving to in September. Finally, I'm excited about my future, my empowering future, again.

Love to Charlotte

2010-05-03T10:10:00.003+06:00

Every paagli didi needs her own sisterly support. Love to Charlotte for her endless compassion, patience and gentle honesty. It takes a super strong woman to pull another strong woman out of the dumps. Love you!

"Isn't that rape?"

2010-04-21T12:33:00.005+06:00

I'm livid. Personally livid.

As a researcher who studies gender issues and sexual violence in developing countries, I come to hear of some horrifying and disgusting things. But truth be told, I've been getting better at numbing myself to it. It's easier to push into the back of my brain and focus on my work. A lot of stories don't even shock me anymore (like when I came to find that brothels here stick freshly boiled eggs up sex worker's vagina's to punish them). Don't get me wrong, I'm still overwhelmingly angered that gender violence and discrimination is STILL occurring in the goddamn 21st century--but nothing surprises me anymore. Also, most of the time I'm talking to women who escaped and are now with an NGO, (hopefully) out danger. Maybe distancing myself is the only way I can continue with my work.

But it's a whole new set of emotions burst through that wall when something happens to someone you know.

I was supposed to hang out with my good friend yesterday but she cancelled. When I asked her why, she said that her family suddenly informed her that they have a marriage proposal for their 17 year-old daughter (my friend's niece). My friend has been paying her niece's school fees because her brother and his wife aren't working but are living on her family's land. I started to freak out, I thought she wanted to go to college. "I'm going there to meet him and ask her what she wants," my friend responded. I knew I regretted asking: "How old is he?" "35." You do the math.

I spoke to my friend today: "Well, my niece is getting married today." Restraining my fit of rage I ask her, "What did she say?"

"Well she said, 'Why not?' Amanda, she isn't allowed to leave the house now. My brother keeps her inside. She isn't allowed to go out and talk with her friends. She thinks that maybe when she married, her parents can't say anything and she'll have more freedom. She is miserable now, might as well try something new."

I sighed, "I still don't understand why a 35 year-old wants to marry a child."

"For the sex, Amanda. What else?"

"Isn't that rape?"

"Not here."

I know the gender imbalance of her country upsets her, but she just brushes it off as normal. I just can't accept it: because no woman wants that as a normal life, wants marriage as her only choice of escaping tyrant parents. 'Choice'--a word she doesn't know.

I've met this niece at a family gathering, she's sweet. It's just too close to home. It's repulsive and a violation of who we are as humans.

Epic Love from My Sister

2010-04-21T12:02:00.001+06:00

Happy 23rd to Me : )

2010-04-19T00:29:00.005+06:00

ladies: strike a pose!

gentlemen: boom boom pow

we take it low low low low low...

my favourite friends, vodka and sheesha--what more could a girl want?

we finally found cheesecake!

i love being 23 years young!!

endless love to all who celebrated my birthday over the last week : )

Drunken Promises

2010-04-17T20:02:00.001+06:00

Last night, you slept and left me alone

And tonight pretending to be asleep, you toss in all directions

I thought you and I are one until the day of resurrection

What happened to your drunken promises?

- Rumi

Subho Nobo Borsho!

2010-04-15T14:29:00.008+06:00

Subho Nobo Borsho! Happy Bangla New Year! Today is the first day of Boishakh, the first month in the Bangla calendar. The calendar was created by the Emperor Akbar (15th century) to revolve around the rice harvest of Bengal. It was originally a Persian calendar with Persian names; but considering it was for Greater Bengal, they months received Bangla names. It's considered the New Year because it's the beginning of a new season, where flowers start to bloom.

Abdul and I painted traditional masks (though ours was slightly unconventional

with Farsi writing) with art students at Dhaka University's Arts Department

Everyone gets dresses up in red and white to spend the day wandering the streets,

watching floats, performers, and eating with neighbors and family.

A very sweaty musical performance at 9 am in the street of Dhaka University near Shabagh.

Friends from Germany and us celebrating with ASK on Dhanmondi Lake

(Feline, Liza, me, Regina, Eva, Abdul)

Our friend and TV personality Imtu hosting a music program for ETV. I was dragged

on stage to dance and speak bad Bangla on national television.. ugh!

Beautiful people (Imtu, me, Abdul) before getting smashed and molested in the sweating

throng of people wrestling to get free food at ETV's office. We made it out alive

to go home to a bottle of vodka, singing Bangla songs on a wood cart.

Tangail's Brothel and Sex Work: The "At Least" Sydrome

2010-04-15T11:46:00.006+06:00

Black and red smeared eyes peered out between the curtains of their rooms. Some women’s faces were painted white as a Geisha, dressed in vibrant, sparkly skirts. We didn’t know if their make-up was to appear more enticing to customers, or to disguise who they are under a mask.

Despite all the color and glamour, this was a dark place.

Diya and I took a trip through Bangladesh’s oldest brothel in Tangail. Walking through the small alleys, it was similar to a dirty, slum. The ground is the wastebasket and everything reeks of various human fluids. Houses (single room shacks) are practically on top of one another, sharing walls as apartment buildings. There’s no privacy with curtains for doors and outdoor bathrooms. The narrow alleys are filled with sex workers waiting for clients—and clients just dawdling, chatting with shopkeepers selling soda and chips, watching with televisions. It’s own self-sustaining community with food, shelter and water pumps. People could stay inside for weeks without needing to go outside the brothel. Diya turned to me at one point: “This is the strangest place I’ve ever been.”

It was only so uncomfortable knowing what goes on behind these billowing curtains. Shirtless men peered out from the beds, staring at us foreigners unashamed. Honestly, I couldn’t even look at the men. To the women, I tried to smile but I felt intrusive walking in on their work and home space. I didn't take photos for that reasons. And it was mid-day.

It was additionally heartbreaking after hearing the personal stories of the women. I don’t want to sensationalize their lives in this blog, but I do want to create awareness. Some women cried to us during their interviews, sharing how their parents abandoned them or they were sold into the brothel. One woman was so small, ten years old, that she wasn’t even menstruating when she was forced to have sex. Her body was so young and fragile her hip broke when one man was penetrating her. Some girls look (and are) so young that some madams (women pimps) inject hormones used to fatten cows. (Thanks for the link, Neelofer!)

Often, young girls and women are chukri, bonded prostitutes. A relative or the trafficker have a large debt that is endowed to the young woman. They work under a madam until it is paid. With extremely high and unfair interest, women have no other livelihood or skill by the time the debt is settled. Some continue with sex work or become madam, continuing the cycle. Often times, they make more money selling sex than any other job, but the cost of living in this brothel is much higher than living outside of it. Their earnings rarely stay in their hands.

We learned that most of the violence doesn’t come from customers, but from police and shopkeepers. Sex workers are constantly chastised and beaten when they step outside the brothel. Clearly these men don’t think that it’s their brother or neighbor who is buying sex services, perpetuating the demand for female sex workers.

The organization we went with gives trainings to the women on how to not appear like a prostitute outside the brothel. Their explanation was: “Sex workers are treated as their work all the time. A businessman can leave his business and be a father or brother. Sex workers are beaten when they aren’t working because people can tell what their work is by the way they walk and dress. We give them training on how look more respectable in the public eye.”

At first, I was disappointed by this training’s approach. The problem lies in the idea that men think that women’s bodies are dangerous and must be hidden. Telling sex workers to change their appearance is reiterating that sex work is immoral and should be kept out of the public view. But violence is occurring—what can be done to stop it now? By helping these women change their dress, they can at least be safe on the street.

“At least”—that term was ringing in our heads throughout the entire trip. So much violence is happening: physical, emotional, structural. There’s no way to change every thing at once. With small steps, though not perfect, women “at least” are moving forward on the long road to equality and empowerment. “At least” it’s better, not perfect, but better.

We witnessed the NGO workers holding hands and gossiping with some sex workers as if they are normal women (because, shocker, they are normal women). The staff was really sweet and non-judgmental. Diya asked the women about the organization’s work and it’s impact on the brothel community. Women responded that it was truly helpful. They are helping release bonded prostitutes from their debts and instructing condom use. The organization has this really innovative approach to providing services to women who are traumatized: a workbook that uses symbols for women to draw their experiences and express their needs (see left).

One woman responded that if the organization wasn’t there supporting the sex workers, some company would have torn down the brothel and built a factory. Without this community and space, sex work would be much more difficult, and dangerous.

I still toss around my opinion on legalizing sex work. One of the world’s oldest professions, it’s not disappearing. It’s impossible, and unsafe, to try to erase it. People will find a way so we should 'at least' protect them. But legalization does not suddenly transform how most sex workers don’t necessarily have much of a choice in picking that profession; nor does it erase the bullshit patriarchal notions behind sex work: that a man has such ‘unruly’ hormones that he can’t control his sex drive and need to use a woman’s body to fulfill this uncontrollable desire. Therefore, she is turned into a slut, something worthless. I will accept it’s legalization with maybe the following conditions: sex work is consented by the worker and client together, there are scholarships and services for workers who want to leave the profession, psycho-social therapy services as well as amazing health care (like athletes), anti-discrimination laws... and there are just as many male sex workers as female with just as many females clients as male. And let’s forget heteronormative sex. It’s confining and boring.

UPDATE: Thought-provoking article on laws against sex work in the UK.

Coconut Dreamers

2010-04-12T12:32:00.006+06:00

Groovy break at the Mermaid Eco-Resort with Fahim!

happy faces : )

Matador: How Female Travelers Can Deal With Sexual Harassment and Assault Overseas

2010-04-08T17:26:00.002+06:00

Please read my article on the Matador Network: How Female Travelers Can Deal With Sexual Harassment and Assault Overseas

All life's a stage

2010-04-04T15:05:00.007+06:00

Sitting on my balcony, a body covered in a white sheet is removed from my building into the parking garage. On a wheeled stretcher, the blanket it wrapped as a gift, tied in a neat bow at the bottom.

Over thirty people crowd. Silent. Women's heads are covered as they grip onto the ends of their ornas. Men place their hands on their hips, looking around nervously and impatiently. No one stands too close. The buildings guards place plastic white chairs for all neighbors, as if someone will perform.

An old woman in white screams, "Baba!" Her deep nasal voice cuts through the air and starts the symphony of sudden sounds. A dozen women sob, wailing and yowling. Women engulf the body, men start shouting and directing people where to go. Children dance and jump around the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse. Someone gently unfolds the cloth that covers the head. In his tomb, the face is shown. Big nose with a mustache underneath. A woman almost faints from the heat stimulated by both weather and the irrupting onlookers. Hand fans are brought out. No one moves.

The crowd turns into seventy bodies. Four video cameras filming the whole thing.

A religious leader comes out to say prayers. The old woman continues to bawl and rock her body. An green electric fan is brought out. New people arrive and I feel the heat rise to my balcony. One man continues to remove the head covering, waving his hand over the bare, dead face as if he's some magician. Perhaps he is a magician. He will cover the body, say the magic words and PRESTO, he breathes.

It's Easter Sunday-- but no rebirth today.

Bangladesh Surf Club

2010-04-02T19:01:00.001+06:00

Beautiful Video of Bangladesh and a new surf club --> HERE

These images of Bangladesh that I wish I could capture.

Love Is The Truest Health

2010-03-30T16:59:00.001+06:00

"Reason has no way to say its love, only love opens that secret.

If you want to be more alive, love is the truest health."

- Rumi

Bathing Beauties in Cox's Baazar

2010-03-29T02:00:00.005+06:00

View more photos of Cox's Baazar

Madator Abroad: Coming to Grips (Or Not) With Violence As Communication in Bangladesh

2010-03-23T21:45:00.004+06:00

Please read my article on Madator Abroad: Coming to Grips (Or Not) With Violence As Communication in Bangladesh

Cool, Unlying Life

2010-03-21T12:26:00.004+06:00

“When we get out of the glass bottle of our ego and when we escape like the squirrels in the cage of our personality and get into the forest again, we shall shiver with cold and fright. But things will happen to us so that we don’t know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in.” - D. H. Lawrence

Jahangirnagar University

2010-03-17T17:41:00.002+06:00

View on YouTube here.

The Skeleton (1924)

2010-03-15T23:50:00.003+06:00

There on the plain, on the way-side, an animal's skeleton

` is lying on the grass,

the same grass that had once given it strength

` and gentle rest.

They lie, bleached bones in a heap,

` time's loud dry laughter,

like death pointing its finger, insinuating:

` Where the beast ends

` there you end as well; there's no distinction

` in your case too, when life's wine's been drained,

the broken cup will be left like that in the dust.

I said: Death, I don't believe what you say

` mockingly of emptiness

My life's not the sort that becomes a total pauper

` at its journey's end,

` that at the end of the day

pays with hollow bones its last bill of board and bed.

All that I've thought and known, spoken, heard with my ears,

` all that has burst from me in sudden songs

` were not contained in a life hemmed by death.

` What I've received and what I've given back--

` on this earth of mortals where can that be measured?

Many a time has my mind's dance transcended

life and death, and gone where beauty lives

` eternally. Can it then stop for ever

` at the boundary of bones?

` My true identity

` cannot be measured by flesh.

The hours and minutes don't wear it out by their kicks,

` nor does the wayside dust pauperise it.

For in the lotus of manifest form I've drunk the honey of the formless,

in the bosom of suffering found in the dwelling of joy,

` heard within me the voice of eternal silence,

seen the way of the stars through the dark empty spaces.

` No, I'm not a big joke of the Creator,

not a grand holocaust built with infinite riches.

-Rabindranath Tagore

Jessore: Liberal Rural Life

2010-03-15T11:19:00.007+06:00

We were both excited and dreading to make the trip out to Jessore. The Lonely Planet wrote that there's nothing interesting about the town except hotels and restaurants. From other people, an image was painted about this border town of being, quite frankly, a shithole. But, being a border town, Jessore has an array of anti-trafficking NGOs so Diya and I made a trip.

But did we eat our words! Jessore was a wonderful little town: quiet, clean, driving with battery operated scooters. People were endlessly polite and not intrusive towards us two foreigners. Friends of friends took us to their village where we spent a day with a beautiful, warm family: a father who coaches the girl's cricket team, a mother who loves her straight-talkin' daughter-in-law, and a son who worships his girl child. And the town was filled with interesting, progressive and thorough NGOs.

We were both surprised at the progressiveness of a place that is dyed at rural, ignorant, traditional--and unswayed. However, after interviewing a few NGOs, looking at their groups and services, and attending a probing round-table discussion, we felt that this little town was doing substantial work, even more progressive than many of the programs we've seen in Dhaka.

For example, we met with an organization that is supporting over one-hundred women's empowerment groups in the state of Khulna. The org gives training, information and confidence building to men and women to go into their communities and establish groups that fight for community rights including women's rights. Through these trainings, they learn how to seek justice for domestic abuse. We met one beautiful, humble woman, Iti, who quoted a member of her community saying, "If you hit me again, I'm going to set Iti on you!" She has almost singlehandedly supported the women in her community from the training she received.

I've been thinking a lot about the important of rights trainings, confidence/empowerment groups and space. What I view as a huge problem of Bangladesh is it's limited space, not in the sense of it's crowded population, but it's expression. For surviving through a hectic day, whether a poor rickshaw-wallah, a troubled student, or a homesick ex-pat, there isn't much space to release all the pent up energy and anger. Part of has to do with the inability to pay to use space, but there aren't many free or cheap public or private spaces to let go: no bars, arcades, parks.. safe spaces to express yourself. That negative energy stays inside, builds up and is released in destructive ways, like domestic or child abuse. Man have more options with street-side tea stands to shoot the wind and relax, but women don't have those options.

Women's groups seem a vital way to permeate human rights into culture and society. It's not that women don't seek empowerment, it's that they don't have a space to even discuss it let alone take action on it. Groups as these give a space that is 1) safe, and supportive to share their frustrations and experiences of living as the second gender, 2) creative resource to fight for their rights and develop ways to create change and 3) encourage confidence that they are not wrong or alone and to stand with conviction.

One interesting note from the trip was the presence of technology. Mobile phones are as common as ever. Hotlines for human rights and legal justice are ever present and many groups mentioned how they can communicate to find information (ie. safe migration for example instead of trafficking). But with mobile phones, traffickers can also communicate to each other in forcibly sending people across the border. Now, as in the West, information is easily accessible--what skill in now needed is how to critically judge what is good information and what is bad.

Also, it was mentioned that there are a lot of extreme religious schools established in the area than ever before. Wahhabi Islamic money is flowing into the country from Saudi Arabia funding extremist schools. Slowly, this subversive ideology is penetrating Bangladesh's religious morals and I'm afraid of how it will rear it's ugly head in days to come.

View pictures of Jessore here.

Note of thanks to my Fulbright colleague, Diya Bose, and her endless patience, understanding, energy and intelligence, of whom I view more as a fabulous mentor than research partner.

Srimongol Video

2010-03-15T11:11:00.002+06:00

View on YouTube here.

Baburam the Snakecharmer

2010-03-09T00:50:00.003+06:00

Hullo there, Baburam--what have you got in there?

Snakes? Aha--and do you think there's one that you can spare?

You know, I'd love to have one, but let me tell you this--

The ones that bite aren't right for me--nor the ones that hiss.

I'd also skip the ones that butt,

As well as the ones that whistle,

Or the ones that slink about

Or show their fangs, or bristle.

As for eating habits, I think it would be nice

To go for ones that only take a meal of milk and rice.

I'm sure you know the kind of snake I want from what I've said,

Do let me have one, Baburam, so I could bash its head.

- Sukumar Ray

Srimongol: A Vacant Vacation

2010-03-08T17:47:00.012+06:00

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;

There is a rapture on the lonely shore;

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar;

I love not man the less, but Nature more...

-Lord Byron

Srimongol in the state of Sylhet--a much needed getaway from the chaos of Dhaka. Myself and my friends Abdul and Mark hiked, biked and waded in rivers for three days among the quiet and discreet tea plantations. We could sit and not be plagued by the 15 million critters of the city, but simply watch two butterflies dance. We could hear each other in the openness of silence instead of the gale of motors and horns. Stumbling upon personal revelations, I forgot how much I love having nothing to use but my own hands, head and heart.

Click here to view more photos of Srimongol

Too Beautiful Not to Post

2010-03-07T23:37:00.007+06:00

Mark, Abdul, Mehedi, Samdina, myself

(Click here for large size.)

Abdul and I, looking fione!

(Click here for large size)

Happy Holi: Healing Our Skin Disease

2010-03-01T13:18:00.006+06:00

Happy Holi--only one street participates: Shankharia Bazar. Nicknamed 'Hindu Street,' there is one street that you can buy all things Hindu. The first day is calm, walking in and out of temples, getting our faces fondled by gentle mothers offering flowers to the gods. We buy bags of Holi powder and return the welcoming gestures.

But today, it's roped off to make sure that no one ignorantly wanders through the street.. you will not come out clean. Little boys pop out of small alleys with water bottles filled with paint and used as pistols to christen us in pure white. The boys are fully painted with colors and have cruelty in their eyes that reminded me of Halloween: the camouflaged opportunity to reek havoc on whomever you want. Residents from balconies are pouring buckets of colored water onto our entire bodies. Then the rotten eggs and tomatoes come out, injuries gonads and causing nausea. Seeking refuge, we find our way down a pitch black alley to a water pump with a kind family sharing their soap. We emerged, to be plastered with green, red, purple and blue as we all danced in the street to Bollywood music.

After 40 minutes of trying to convince a rickshaw to take us home dressed as ghosts, we laughed at ourselves and the, literally, thousands of people laughing at us. In Hindu Kolkata, everyone gets painted.. but Muslim Dhaka, it's quite a surprise to see three women sitting on a rickshaw, wet and greenish-blue. Laughing and singing the whole way home and trying to convince people we have a skin disease, we scrubbed our bodies as clean as we could with coconut oil and soap. The marks are still there, but we survived.

This rebirth would have never taken place without my citadel of amazing friends: Abdul, Dola and Saba. Thank you for everything--your personalities are no less vibrant than our newly dyed outfits!! And always--chodmarani, chodir bhai, chuida bole, chudi ney !!!

MATADOR ABROAD: The Origin of the Ugly American

2010-02-21T23:22:00.003+06:00

Read my article on Matador Abroad: The Origin of the Ugly American

Inarticulate Poet

2010-02-15T21:30:00.003+06:00

"Inside every Bangladeshi is an inarticulate poet." -Herb Propper

We'll miss you and your wisdom, Herb--and well as your refreshing sarcasm : ) see you in VT!

Dhaka Voted Second Worst City to Live In

2010-02-15T21:13:00.001+06:00

Economic Intelligence Unit Livability Ranking

At least I know it COULD get worse..

The 'Living' Problem of Achieving Empowerment

2010-02-12T09:31:00.017+06:00

Research Update: I don't write much about my actually research because I'm still processing what I'm learning at different development organizations, shelters and centers. Women's empowerment is a deeply rooted quandary--a complicated and living topic. 'Living' not only because it deals with real lives but because there is no one, consistent answer or path to empowerment: it's constantly shifting and changing as the world does.

My Fulbright colleague, Diya, is working on an almost identical topic about rehabilitation centers and their roles in creating empowerment. Last week, we (along with my visiting friend, Jika) went to the town Rajshahi to visit a community development center that has a few interesting programs on women's empowerment. The picture to the side is the three of us crammed in a rickshaw. We are still looking into the projects and I cannot divulge an analysis now (you'll have to wait for the published paper!)

But something that keeps coming up in our endless, circled conversations is how grey the solutions are. Our ceaselessly critical minds are never fully satisfied with any program we encounter. We've come--or are beginning--to understand that while there is no perfect answer, the best solutions are individual based, not system-based.

Organizations that are devoting their programs previously practiced method of empowerment don't leave room for the individuality of women's lives, decisions and cases. For example, often organization's play off the "typical" story of a trafficking victim (which, there is endless debate over using the word victim or survivor--an entry on constructed identity will come). The typical story being she was sold to a man who brought her to a brothel and was raped for 3 years until she escaped. Though that story does happen, there are millions of other stories that you don't hear.

At the center we visited, we heard a story of girl who was caught at border and man with her, presumed to be trafficker, was detained. The community center discovered after one year of working with the girl, the man was her adopted father. They begged together on the street and he took care of her. She wanted to cross the border to find a better job. When she was crossing, this man followed her to make sure she made it through okay. The man is legally blind and has no other family, just wanting to protect the only daughter he felt he had. "It's tragic," Diya said.

This is one case; one fish in an ocean. But that's the reality of trafficking: there is so much grey and individuality of cases that there can't be one solution. In all truth, there is not one 'evil man' and one 'victim,' instead various levels of informed consent exist. The man may not know the girl was trafficked or she might have chosen to migrate. But, the law doesn't work like this: there is moral and immoral, right and wrong, legal and illegal. If the law acknowledges that she consented to at least part of her 'trafficking,'* then she should be en-prisoned for illegally crossing the border, even though she was informed that the trafficker would cheat her. If you don't acknowledge her active consent, you see her as only a victim of unfortunate circumstance, not a woman trying to find a better life.

There is a line: where us as social beings are cornered by our cultural positions and responsibilities--and where we are active agents. Empowerment, as well as the path leading to it including justice systems, should be acknowledging and coaching our individual agency. This means looking at problems not in right or wrong verdicts, but for best options.

This woman to the right is a member of a women's empowerment group in a indigenous village outside of Rajshahi. Hearing the women shares stories about how they have changed their village from creating private ladies toilets, to having their sons and daughters attend school, to banning bootleg alcohol vendors, they were beaming and speaking with confidence and pride. Together, they worked on what they felt needed to be fixed in the village--and did it! Their empowered action worked for them and their tribe.

What they did might not work for everyone. Their needs were different from a neighboring village. But the confidence and power they gained is universal and everlasting--and with these skills they can continue to adapt to new problems and create new solutions. That's empowerment: never perfect, only ideal, by having ability to produce new ideas.

*Some women and men ask/want/need to migrate for jobs and need someone to help them cross the border. Depending, again, on the case, this can constitute trafficking or not; but it's not always clear because the victim may not be informed fully of their awaiting job or contract. So is it trafficking if he/she agreed to migrate but didn't know to where? Those questions and ambiguous answers create the grey.

The First Interview

2010-01-30T17:05:00.004+06:00

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

2010-01-28T23:49:00.008+06:00

"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"

2010-01-28T23:05:00.003+06:00

“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

2010-01-28T22:34:00.000+06:00

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

2010-01-23T14:45:00.004+06:00

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

2010-01-18T12:51:00.003+06:00

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

2010-01-17T13:24:00.002+06:00

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.

America Week in Rajshahi: Dec 7th-12th

2010-01-13T14:12:00.004+06:00

more photos

Child Sexual Abuse in India

2009-12-25T04:29:00.000+07:00

Article on sexual violence in India

NoMadderWhere Interview

2009-12-12T12:24:00.002+07:00

Interview a Traveler: The Fulbright Scholar

A fellow '07 SASer, Lindsay Clark, did a little interview on my life here. Enjoy!

Supporting a Cause: The Case of Organ-Grinding Charities

2009-12-04T14:01:00.005+07:00

I love Barbara Ehrenreich: "Slap On a Pink Ribbon and Call It a Day"

What I love about her article is discussing how easy it can be to get people to follow you on a cause. Non-profit marketing are like advertisements: just buy into what we're showing you. No one asks whether or not the Dove shampoo destroys forests in Indonesia for it's chemicals (which it does, by the way) because "their ads are for real women!" And no one is asking whether or not a charity organization is actually doing good, sustainable work, because "my aunt had breast cancer, I want to support the cause." Please, I encourage you to support your aunt's disease, but we need to be asking better questions, as Ehrenreich said. Our support is meaningless if the organization is not doing real good work.

I've been looking at a multitude of development organizations here in Bangladesh. Something similar that has been gnawing at me is how organizations 'pimp out' their constitutes. In order to get money from donors or gain support from the international community, charities or NGO/FBOs show off 'good cases.' In Dhaka, organizations touring the slums take foreigners with their digital cameras, photograph smiling slum kids, show them the shitholes they live in--and leave. It's all a performance, to shock the money out of you. Where does that money go, and how much actually reaches the ground? The worst is for victims of sexual violence: "Look at her--she was raped by her uncle then sold to a brothel in Bombay. But we saved her, sheltered her and now she has a sewing machine to start a business! Now donate us money to do this for the next girl..."

This woman is humiliated as you are now privy to her saddest secret, and was she ever asked if she wants to sew? To me, it seems as if they are treated as stage monkeys, paraded around on a street, dancing to the organ: a way to get your attention and make money.

I place some blame on donors, both corporate and individuals alike, who are fickle and impatient as hell. Change, especially on the grassroots level, takes years; therefore investments and donations should be promised for years. Most grants don't cover for more than 3 years. So, charities wind up develop program budgets based around what donors want to see and not always what the constitutes need.

Just because you have a pocket of money and are full of good intentions doesn't mean that real change will happen. Development work takes a strong critical eye, uninterrupted efforts and extensive knowledge in local culture. It takes good training. I am even seeing that my work for one year is not enough time.

A Vegetarian View of Qurbani Eid

2009-11-28T09:44:00.011+07:00

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

2009-11-27T14:34:00.004+07:00

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

2009-11-25T17:58:00.007+07:00

see more at: FLICKR

In Case of Fire...

2009-11-25T16:22:00.003+07:00

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

[next to the gas station]

Journey by Emma Thompson

2009-11-11T11:27:00.004+07:00

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..

2009-11-10T15:07:00.004+07:00

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

2009-11-10T00:08:00.003+07:00

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

2009-11-09T20:11:00.007+07:00

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

2009-11-03T20:37:00.002+07:00

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

2009-11-03T19:38:00.009+07:00

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.

Pieces of Old Dhaka on an Early Friday

2009-10-24T00:00:00.007+07:00

Click here to view more photos

Michael Jackson Tribute - Dhaka

2009-10-20T08:47:00.002+07:00

my friends breakin' it down, Thriller style, making me and MJ proud

My First Rickshaw Accident

2009-10-19T21:26:00.005+07:00

In the oldest part of Dhaka, aptly named, Old Dhaka – a friend and I went to do some shopping. Taking a CNG from Banani to Old Dhaka, we wandered around aimlessly until we realized we were not near Hindu Street, the main (and best) shopping street in Old Dhaka. It was my friend Sara’s One Year Anniversary of arriving in Bangladesh on the Fulbright, so her Bangla is impeccable. However, as always, none of the dozens of Bengalis following us understands our accent nor can I understand how a sentence is slurred together into one word.

Finally, one rickshaw driver knows the street – which shouldn’t be surprising because it’s the only street to buy all things Hindu. Then we climb onto what we don’t know to be the Rickshaw of Death.

Driving down new streets in Dhaka is bumpy, so driving down old streets is a whole other game. Dhaka makes a joke out of the video driving games in sports arcades. We keep yelling (yes, yelling) at our driver, “Bhai, ashte!” (Brother, slow!) But he is dodging around and through throngs of people, small streets busy with carts full of animal skins and boys playing futbol. At one point, on fairly wide part of the road, two men were walking hand-in-hand from our right side (reminder, South Asia drives on the left side of the road). Our rickshaw-wallah keeps ringing the bell, warning them of our path. To avoid them, he starts to steer around them—to the right. But, they saw us approaching and stopped walking. So, in this misunderstanding: we kept turning right, they stopped walking to our right…

We smashed in one man with the front wheel and kept rolling until we pushed him up onto the wall and into the sewer. As we are colliding into him, Sara clutches my left knee then jumps to the left off the rickshaw. Being on the right side of the seat, I can’t jump out because I’ll hit the wall, so I grip onto the back of the seat and hang on. We plow into the wall—and the man—and ram to a complete stop. I jump out to see that the back wheels of the rickshaw are in the air.

Within 4.7 seconds, 39 Bangladeshis rush to gawk at the scene. Sara grabs my arm and we exchange glances with eyes widened. We have been told that it is not safe to stay near an accident. It is common for people to attack the driver who caused an accident, in essence to punish him. But no real damage was done to anyone except shock. People start to argue but we get onto the rickshaw and drive off. Our wallah apparently didn’t learn his lesson because he kept pedaling and swerving.

We survived, thank Allah. The rest of the day was spent buying cool Hindu pictures and finding cheesey Bangla movie posters. I found one of the singer I danced in the video with, and we found the movie that Sara starred in called "Chaichi Tomar Bondhuta." I bought the movie—it’s a classic, I'll tell 'ya! Some shop owners recognized her and asked her to autograph their hands. Her one-year survival of Bangladesh, gaining the ability to converse in Bangla, have unique experiences (i.e. starring in a movie) and survive the bureaucracy and accomplish her goals gave me hope to do the same. With several promising meetings this week, I hope my field work will begin soon!

Amar Mishti Mashi

2009-10-19T14:44:00.007+07:00

Click here to see the rest of the photos with captions

Power of Listening

2009-10-18T15:08:00.003+07:00

20.9.2009 -- Aseia

She chased me down the street. It was a lame day, the day before Eid. As much as I adore her, I was in no mood to talk

After school, I pass by the hotel next to my flat and practice speaking with the steps sweeper. Some days, I’m on point. Most days, I am still too slow to understand what she is saying, and she is not accustomed to simplifying her phrases for a bideshi. So most days, I pick up a few words to understand the topic, nod and smile a lot.

But every day, we walk together holding hands from her steps to my gate.

But the day before Ramadan, I was exhausted, I couldn’t put in the effort to listen and respond. As I walked past pretending not to hear her, she caught up with me, handed an envelope and ran away. “For Eid!” she said, smiling.

Inside was three pieces of jewelry. A gift from her. A gift of just spending time with her, for taking the time to listen to her. Words are powerful, so listening is just as powerful – even if you don’t understand.

Women and Islam

2009-10-15T15:31:00.008+07:00

As a woman living in an Islamic country as a researcher of women’s issues, the matter of religion frequently rears its unresolved head. After reading several articles by Muslims, feminists and Muslim feminists (ie: Anouar Majid, Iman Hashim, Margot Badran) as well as a recent biography of Muhammed’s life written by a woman (Eminent Lives: Muhammad by Karen Armstrong), I will try to share a little of what I’ve learned of women in Islam.

The first important point is interpretation. Even with a book like a Qur’an, which is to be followed verbatim, there still remains historical context and diverging interpretations among the community. Muslim friends explained that many people who consider themselves Muslims have never read the Qur’an, but only hear other people’s interpretations. With the intent of the speaker differing across the world, many messages of the Qur’an are distorted. A friend said, “we should read the Qur’an as individuals, and what we get out of it is how we should practice. And not read just once – but many times. I have read the Qur’an when I was 18 and one message stood out to me. Read again at 25, other messages stood out. When I was 40, I learned something entirely new.”

This notion of interpretation leads into how there were particular intentions of Islam that were lost in dominating cultural pulls. “The gender question should be reexamined, as the gender revolution was intended in Islam but never took off. It was aborted arguably for two reasons…[one being] the door of ijtihad [intellectual effort] closed and the gender revolution was thereby aborted. (Mazrui, 1993)" The end of the intellectual effort (ijtihad) referred to what my friend mentioned above: individual interpretation. But because many followers cannot speak or read Arabic for themselves, the message and intellectual interpretation was lost.

Also, Muhammad faced intense adversity when trying to spread his message. One message was the equality of men and women: “Whoever performs good deeds, whether male or female and is a believer, We shall surely make him live a good life and We will certainly reward them for the best of what they did” (Qur’an, 16:97). However, some of Muhammad’s followers began to turn on him when he began to profess equality of women – equality extending as far as allowing women to take arms to fight for Islam.* In chauvinist Arabia, enemies against Islam became to use this ‘weakness for women’ against Muhammad while even his closest followers were aggressively disappointed in his equality stance (Armstrong). Muhammad’s message of equality, even with his charismatic ways, could not beat the ties to local culture (Armstrong gives an excellent review of how local culture affective the development of Islam). Overall, full gender equality was destined for Islam, however, like the development of the whole religion, was trapped by pre-existing Arabic culture. This entrapment is why the Qur’an permits men to beat their wives, which Muhammad feared and abhorred.

Then if these interpretations are accurate, then why do we hear so much anti-women and anti-equality professions of Islam?

First, sexism, chauvinism and misogyny still exists – everywhere. Those who preach male superiority quoted in Islam are widely considered to not be Muslims by Muslims. Second, Western media bombards us with the worst of the worst. Replaying images of women dashing out of their houses after the liberation from under the Taliban seeps into our mind, molding us to view all Muslims as the Taliban. We receive little public and personal exposure to Islamic ideals outside of the media because of the small population living in the west. It’s important to make judgments about a group of people that many of us have barely had a conversation with. One comedian, Russell Peters, put it so eloquently: “The only Muslims we see on Western TV is like people of the Middle East seeing Rednecks as the only Westerners.”

It’s important to remember that there are deeper layers of colonialism and exoticism at work. The West, past and present, perpetuates negative images of Islam in order to maintain it’s own superiority (as if we are perfect.) Attempting to make us sympathize with ‘subjugated veiled women’ gives the support they need to sanction their ulterior motives of wars.

“Muslim women’s entrapment in a false debate may well have started…with the publication of Qasim Amin’s book Tahir Al-Mar’a (The liberation of women) in 1899. [He] used the pretext of the veil…to launch an assault on Islam, despite Victorians England’s own patriarchal attitude towards British women… ‘Amin’s book then marks the entry of the colonial narrative of women and Islam—in which the veil and the treatment of women epitomized Islamic inferiority—into mainstream Arabic discourse. The opposition it generated similarly marks the emergence of an Arabic narrative developed in resistance narrative, not in the inferiority of the culture and the need to cast aside its customs in favor of those of the West, but, on the contrary, the dignity and validity of all native customs coming under attack—customs relating to women—and the need to tenaciously affirm them as a means of resistance to Western domination. ‘(Lelia Ahmed)” – Anouar Majid

Simply put, when people are attacked for their traditions, they are on the defense, griping even more tightly and fervently to what they are chastised for. Key point, however, is that the attackers hypocritically, aggressively and imprecisely combat ancient traditions.

I was once talking to someone about Islam and how misunderstood it was. Making a what I thought to be an obvious remark, that “not all Muslims are terrorists,” their response was, “but it is odd that most terrorist groups are Islamic.” Sadly enough, you can’t help but agree with their point, however the answer is deeper than their identity as Muslims, but into experiences as the colonized.

Like mentioned above, Islamic practices are so often being attacked that certain groups respond by vigorously asserting the exact practices that they are reproached for. The West’s past and present roles as colonialists and so-called ‘global leaders’ is in part at fault for exploitation of culture, resources and labor. Even apolitical, non-academics such as Greg Mortenson, the author of Three Cups of Tea, explains that the more we keep pressuring people to change, the more they will tightly grip onto traditions. Mortenson prompts us to work with and teach the on-the-ground population of other countries, especially by fiercely supporting education instead of bombs (please review article discussing Islam and Mortenson’s potent approach)

Islam in itself is pluralistic and ever-changing, as is the role of women in both Islam and global society. Trust me in that I’ve only scanned a brief surface of the issue and am still learning myself. But what we should already know is that it’s important not to assume we understand everyone experience and beliefs because of one label. We are more individual than that.

I want to end with a rather cute quote by the Sufi poet Jalal al-Din Rumi:

“The Prophet said that women totally dominate men of intellect and possessors of hearts. But ignorant men dominate women, for they are shackled by an animal ferocity. They have no kindness, gentleness or love, since animality dominates their nature. Love and kindness are human attributes; anger and sensuality belong to the animals. She is the radiance of God, she is not your beloved. She is a creator - you could say that she is not created.”

* The concept of the jihad is complex and historically rooted. When I feel I’ve grasped the doctrine better, I will speak on it.

Spontaneity and Her Role

2009-10-14T14:22:00.005+07:00

To put it politely, the professional world is handled ‘differently’ in Bangladesh. My meetings have been cancelled because someone forgot to tell me that they decided not to come to the office today – discovered after I made the 100tk and 45 minute trek to their office. Or how professionals are always out of the office doing fieldwork, with no voicemail box and emails that bounce back. Or moving offices and not updating the new address and number on their website for 5 months. Or continuously postponing a meeting – for 6 weeks.

Yesterday, I was supposed to attend a meeting on the other side of the city – 20 minutes and 1.5km in a traffic jam, I get a text saying it’s cancelled – again. Should I just head home, or head to this place with nothing to do? It’s very hard to wander aimlessly in this city without the fear of falling into a sewage system or accidently winding up in a slum with your $600 camera in tote.

I stayed in the CNG and called another Fulbright Scholar, Herb Propper, knowing that he was doing a lecture in the same area. Herb and his assistant Saba have been kindly helping me try to get in contact with appropriate organizations for my project. Again, they generously invited me along to their event – which I then discovered was a private psychodrama session. With permission of the group members and my oath of confidentiality, I was allowed to sit in on the session.

It was one of those days where good things fall apart to make room for better things. I was blown away by the effectiveness and energy of pyschodrama. I saw, and Herb, correct me if I’m wrong, that a large part of psychodrama surrounds the concept of roles – how a drama has the different character actors, director etc.; our psyche works the same. One group member began to feel confused, pressured and weak. These feelings bubbled during one experiment. With this group member, a full psychodrama was performed, playing different roles to dig up the truth of the feelings and how to address them.*

I was stunned: sitting in a chair in the corner observing yet fully absorbed. I couldn’t help but cry at the intensity of this group member’s feelings, relating them to my own. I have a blessed curse of being able to relate to any emotion and being moved to love the person expressing it.

Herb began the session with an important theory that I needed to hear as well: the theory of spontaneity. One part of the simple definition of spontaneity is when you have an old, familiar situation with a new response – when this occurs, you have acted spontaneously. I have been here for three months still searching for avenues to do my topic. For three months, I’ve been approaching this project the same way, and I way I am used to (expecting speed and results). Clearly, it’s not working. So now I must adjust, adapt and change – either my process, or my topic.

So today, with the help of Saba, I finally could call one organization I’ve been trying to reach. They told me that in order to work in their shelter, which still doesn’t fit the ideal description of my project, I must write a letter to ask permission to just have a meeting with head of the shelter to then ask for approval to simply visit, let alone study. After a month of trying to reach them, yet another step! I was ready to throw the phone off the roof when I heard this. All I want is to love these women, is that so difficult?

But – I must adapt. I am here with a goal and it will be met, just in ways I don’t expect.

*Due to absolute confidentiality, the exact events of the drama will not be revealed.

Pieces of Dhaka from an CNG

2009-10-13T20:59:00.005+07:00

inside a CNG sitting in daily traffic

the blue shirts indicates who is a licensed driver

(see photo in large size)

a man selling something on the street

(sidewalks barely exist independently of streets, most times indistinguishable)
(see photo in large size)

I Am Blessed

2009-10-12T20:39:00.000+07:00

Bangladesh's Future Rests on Development of Ethical Financial Markets

2009-10-09T17:57:00.002+07:00

Article by fellow Fulbright Scholar, Dr. Parvez Ahmed

A good article to understand the markets and ethics (or lack-thereof) of Bangladesh.

Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss: Backpackers Vs. Expats

2009-10-06T15:03:00.009+07:00

“Tell me more – I want your life!” I said to Kim, an Australian cyclist that travels the world on her mountain bike. She responded, “That’s funny, because I’m trying to find ways to have your life…”

I met this woman during tea break of our Bangla classes. There are many foreigners coming in and out of the centre: here for a few weeks or a few years. Kim only plans to stay in Dhaka until the end of the week, then is biking to eastern Bangladesh, Sylhet, then back west into and throughout India. Like the Brit, Marc, she had all these beautiful things to say about Bangladesh, being here once before for a few weeks. She described biking through the endlessly flat and green scenery; through tiny towns not knowing the name where men on their motorbikes will ride up beside her and offer to buy her some tea in the next town where she is surrounded by villagers all excited by her presence.

She described previous trips, through Southeast Asia into South Asia , flying over to Africa where she said it was too dangerous to bike. I asked her what she considered dangerous – “after all, you are a white woman on a bike.” She responded that her gender doesn’t have a negative effect on her experience, but that people are so surprised by her then feel a need to take care of her. She said, “the best thing here is that 99 out of 100 people smile back at you, so I smile at everyone. I don’t want to be one of those travelers that walks around sunglasses on ignoring the people.”

I told her how refreshing it was to hear her perspective, sharing how I’ve stop smiling my experience here is that it invites negative attention more often than not. And I think here’s the key: I’m living here. A different perspective exists between traveling abroad and living abroad, between backpackers and expats.

My experience as a woman has been more negative than hers because the reality is that it is not easy being a woman in Bangladesh. The root of the positivity and negativity is in the art of moving. My negative experiences occur on the buses and trains – while she is biking around. Sitting still on a bus makes you more vulnerable, while biking summons an image of strength, and you move too fast and often for reality to sink in.

I wish to see the world, and this country, the way I used to, the way she is now: with broad optimistic smiles. When everything is new and exciting, you’re open and no need for the armor myself and other expats wear. The armor worn from the monotony and reality may protect us but weighs us down. It’s easy to find the good where you are offered tea due to your constant newness as you ride by; rather than attempting to become a local, understanding real life and studying topics like violence against women.

But, while clichés like “rolling stone gathers no moss” hold true – as does, “the grass is always greener on the other side.” While I was envious of her ceaselessly stimulating travels and positive outlook, she was jealous of my life of puncturing a culture to fully understand as well as deeply exchange with its people. How could I understand the emotions of trafficked victims if I wasn’t consistently digging deep? As my friend Sayaka said about a slum she works at: “I’ll see other white people coming into the slum with NGOs, taking pictures, playing with kids – then never come back. And locals notice – they remember names and ask for people who visited once months ago, but are now back in their country. They leave an impact but it’s so superficial.”

So there’s the argument – what is more important to you: nonstop traveling with a big pack brightly viewing the beautiful new diversity, but maybe on a more superficial level? Or living in a local apartment drudging through the ups and downs of reality, but grasping a deep and well-rounded understanding?

Both are valuable and important, but maybe the best is to drudge through reality of the latter with the bright, open smile of the former. To add one more cliché: is the glass half empty, or half full?

For the sake of my sanity with 9 more months left in Dhaka, I will look at it in this light: the difference between eating the skin of an apple, or munching on through right down to the very core – what’s more nutritious? I just need to enjoy each bite, even if I find a worm..

Learning Script

2009-10-05T19:34:00.004+07:00

Finally, I'm in the third and final month of Bangla class -- finally learning the script!! And it's a good class: just Hiroto, myself and our fun teacher, Pulok. Script is hard but fun! I wanted to practice my handwriting but I don't want to waste paper. What's a Bangla student to do...?

Solution:

buy a 'magic board' from the local market for 2 bucks !!

Finding a Diamond in the Rough: The Case of 'Absolut' Beauty

2009-10-02T14:51:00.007+07:00

Who would have thought that I found myself at the birthday of a woman who rented out a floor of the Regency Hotel for a party with 250 of her closest friends?

Well, I certainly didn’t expect it when I showed up in jeans and a T-shirt, and all the women were in beautiful cocktail dresses. It never occurred to me to bring a knee length dress to a country where there are still recent accounts of acid thrown on women who disobey husbands. But low and behold – there is some good fashion here! I also didn’t think that I would be handed a shot of tequila in Bangladesh – but what’dja know…

My good friend Sayaka invited me to her friend Nadia’s party. Everyone I met over the next few hours were from all over the world: Morocco, Turkey, Britain, India – and plenty of Bangladeshis who have lived abroad. And apparently there was a famous Bangladeshi singer there (forgetting her name) that I sat in the booth with as we drank champagne bought by the son of a Turkish ambassador.

Not to assume that any of these people were ignorant elites; but I will say that it is entirely possible to never see the torment and destitution of Bangladesh if you tint your BMW windows dark enough. If there is a middle class here, it is miniscule and hidden – but the upper class is too ostentatious to not be noticed. I’ve personally been struggling with the reality of this nation because I walk on the street, passing slow enough to see the desolation, the un-organization and the systematic corruption. Now I found myself screened from it all behind frosted bottles of Absolut and green strobe lights.

To a point, I can’t blame anyone for wanting to hide from it. I do myself when I wear my thick coat of armor on the street: chin up high, not glancing down at the deformed beggars or up at the pestering rickshaws. If I do, I’ll find myself buried under endless levels of misery. But, deep down, I know hiding is not what I value. This article by travel author Allison Cross aptly illustrates my view.

But there I was, 3am tipsy in a fancy hotel – and truthfully grateful for the escape: grateful to not be at home for another night reading about systematic violence against women and the brutal lives of trafficked victims. I’m drained, jaded, and numb, but I felt the beat of the woofer under my skin and that’s all I wanted right then. The people I was surrounded by felt the same: one friend just returned from vacation, wondering why she was back in this ‘hellhole,’ a man who hasn’t seen his three-year old daughter in 10 months, another man who couldn’t name one good thing about this country and an eclectic mix of people avoiding reality.

But, there was a diamond in the rough, and I received a beautiful dose of optimism..

After some crazy dancing, I sat next to a Brit named Marc. I knew he was visiting his sister, a friend of Sayaka’s. After revealing he had been in Dhaka for three days, I asked him what he thought of Bangladesh. His face lit up with excitement, “Oh it’s so wonderful! I was expecting insane poverty and devastation, I was expecting to cry. But instead, all I’ve seen is the amazing ability of people to adapt and smile through adversity. They live in squalor, everything’s a mess, but they live just like you and I do!” He was stumbling over his words – one could blame the potency of the alcohol, but I could feel it was the intensity of his feelings: “Maybe this is condescending, maybe I’m just naïve, but I’m just so surprised and happy at how beautiful everyone is, how strong they are, and how they just make their lives work. I love our species, we really are wonderful! I mean, if London or New York was destroyed right now, yeah it would be devastating, but we’d adapt, wouldn’t we?”

Immediately I thought: “I don’t know what frightens me more, the power that crushes us, or our endless ability to endure it.” (G.D. Roberts, Shantaram). But Marc wasn’t frightened, and neither was I. For once I’ve said, “Every day I saw the pain of these girls, struggling to overcome their violent past. And every day, I saw their endless ability to continue to dance, to smile, and to love.”

Amidst the superficiality, I found some grace. And that’s what it’s about: our view on the world is a choice, an active choice to nominate optimism as the winner. And where would any sports team or famous actress be without their fans? We need to be a fan of reality, of our race, of this world. This man reminded me of this in a place least expected. Beauty is everywhere but you can’t find it or believe in it if you hide – or even walk to fast with your chin up.

New Moon

2009-10-01T21:13:00.003+07:00

Eid Mubarak!

Well, it’s over! The new moon is out and Ramadan has ended. Hopefully a fresh start for me as well.

As mentioned, Ramadan is the month of fasting and extra prayer. Muslims fast from the every day nourishment and activities; all given up in the name of Allah and bettering themselves as Muslims. By challenging themselves, they become closer to Allah and better themselves as Muslims.

The month of Ramadan, though not fasting, was a difficult month for me. By moving to Bangladesh, I have challenged myself in each aspect of my life: physical (food, weather), mental (cultural barriers), professional (working in an unorganized and corrupt nation), and personal (learning to exert self-discipline.) All in all, I am fasting from my normal, comfortable life in order to challenge myself to be a better person. But as always, it’s easy to forget the reason for your fast; whether it’s for Allah or yourself, that ‘person’ is easy to lose.

As Stage Three of Culture Shock sunk in – hard – I lost sight of my ‘future/strong/ new-and-improved’ self; the self I hope to attain at the end of this expedition. All I saw was the frustrations of living in one of the most underdeveloped nations in Asia (use your imagination as to what the aggravations and derailments are…)

But here it is, the end of Ramadan. Life is back to normal for all Muslims and citizens of Bangladesh. But my fasting remains. But I literally dreamt a few nights ago that I sawed off my leg in order to challenge myself. How appropo of my life in Bangladesh: I’m literally handicapped and limbless in this new place. My dream also showed me all my friends who rallied around me, also an accurate reflection, not only friends from home but new friends here. But when you lose a leg, a limbless life must become normal, you must adapt.

On Eid, I hung out with my friend Emy and her family. She was born here but lived in Florida most her life. Here with her parents and brothers, we drove around the empty streets of Dhaka blasting Jay-Z and Luda, chillin' and laughing, had a private Reggaeton dance party between the two of us, and stayed up until 4am talking about the difficulties of adjusting here. Though slightly different situations, we both feel a little lost and outcast here -- but comforted that we are not alone in it.

So now onto Stage Four of Culture Shock – adaptation: learning to find the beauty here, to understand the cultural nuances, blending in, making it home. As the New Moon rose ending Ramadan, I hope I enter a new stage of my life in Bangladesh.

**(I had photos from Eid, the end of Ramadan, but my memory card got ruined L so there are no photos.)

Sexual Harassment: Is separate space helping to integrate the sexes?

2009-09-17T14:01:00.007+07:00

New York Times: Indian Women Find New Peace in Rail Commute

The above article discusses how in India, there are now separate train cars for 'ladies only' to commute due to the sexual harassment that occurs from their male peers.

Believe me, I understand what they're feeling. In some Bangladesh buses, the front seats are saved for women. A few weeks ago, I sat in the back of a bus for the first time and was groped by a man; actually, a man who worked for the bus. I smacked him hard on the head but that, of course, changes nothing. I argue to sit in the front of the bus from now on to avoid harassment...

But I question: is creating separate space harmful or helpful when you are trying to integrate the sexes into the same space? The title is misleading, saying that there is "new peace" -- but the article goes on to discuss how men are harassing the women more, even defecating on the ladies' train to show disapproval. Men are not happy - why? Because their power is being taken away, of course. Now not only can women get jobs, but now they are encouraged because they can feel comfortable commuting on these new trains.

Until recently, I've played devil's advocate by supporting the hijab, the Muslim head scarf. I frequently recite something a female friend from Malaysia told me:

"When I was of age, my parents started making me wear the hijab. I hated it, oh it was the worst. I used to go to the mall with my friends after school and we'd rip off our hijabs and let our hair flow free. But as I got older, I started to understand what it meant. It wasn't to cover me up, but to protect me. There are a lot of bad people out there, and they know that I am a woman of Allah. It's like Christians wearing a cross around their neck to show their beliefs..."

I'd share this in my Women and Gender Studies classes, saying that after living in India, sometimes I just wanted to cover up too, hide my body so I won't be harassed. It is common to say that women should cover up in order not to tempt men into committing sinful deeds, like harassment or rape. My female friend in Malaysia said that they feel more protected from the eyes of dirty men in their hijab. Outside of religious context, I compare the 'ladies only' trains to the wearing of the hijab for the purpose of protecting women from wandering eyes and hands.

But is hiding and protecting going to change the attitude that it is alright for men to inappropriately touch women? Is wearing a hijab going to stop a man from realizing you have breasts that he could grope? Is keeping all the women at the front of the bus or in separate cars suddenly disintegrate their immoral desires? Instead of separating women, shouldn't they be teaching men to withhold and destroy these desires? When did hiding or running away from the problem actually solve it?

What needs to happen is an attitude change: a change in the male perspective from aggression to acceptance and understanding of the positive effects of women empowerment. I've read articles of both Western and local women and men giving lectures about positive aspects of women's empowerment to men. I've read signs placed in public spaces by the government and NGOs declaring the value of women's housework. But how often is our life changed by reading a sign during traffic?

One major problem I believe is implementation via the police. The NYT article states that violence against women as increased: "Between 2003 and 2007, rape cases rose by more than 30 percent, kidnapping or abduction cases rose by more than 50 percent, while torture and molestation also jumped sharply." A story is told about a woman who was beat by her husband for having a Western haircut. What happened to the husband? Did he do what is commonly done and pay off the police and got off scot-free?

The government is in favor of women's rights and empowerment, clearly stated in their order to universities to allow women to wear jeans, though the universities consider it 'indecent.' The government funded the 'ladies only' trains in an effort to allow women to take outside jobs. But, how often does the government force implementation on the rights violations of women? How often are men imprisoned for rape and assault against women? The violent acts are increasing, is imprisonment increasing at the same rate?

If Indian women, and the government they vote for* are making the decision to step outside the home and break down traditional patriarchal structures, hiding in private cars and under loose clothes will not change inherent animosity from those who take stock in patriarchy. The women and it's government must be prepared to fight and show that this isn't temporary. They must not stand silently during harassment, and the government should prove that it will not stand for the increased violence that occurs. They must prove that this change is not temporary.

For further information, check out the Pink Campaign for Women's Empowerment in India.

*India is the world's largest democracy.

And thanks, Courtney Parks, for sending me this article!

Nari Khomotaeon

2009-09-12T14:46:00.004+07:00

This entry is long overdue but I had difficulty deciding what to say. The title of this entry in Bangla means “women empowerment.” It’s a topic often forgotten, usually lost and sometimes thought unnecessary and discriminatory. It is too deep a topic to dive into for one journal entry – but it is my life’s work. It is still an issue in every country, including America – but for now I will focus on Bangladesh.

First, I want to share some statistics and stories of women’s reality here in Bangladesh:

- On the Gender Development Index, Bangladesh was ranked 120 out of 154 in 2007

- BD is one of the top ranked countries that seclude and restrict its women (HRW)

- The average age of marriage is younger 20 years, most likely not by choice but by parents, mainly father’s, choice ( )

- 50% of women have said they have experienced physical abuse by male partner. In 2002, 68% of Bangladesh women never spoke to family or officials about their abuse (WHO, HRW, AI) Only about 4,100 rapes are reported each year – this might be due to the silencing of women, as well as the fact that there is no law acknowledging marital rape. (WHO, UNIFEM)

- Honor killings regularly occur, and 50% of all murders in Bangladesh are of women by their husbands (US Dept of Justice, HRW)

- Because sons are still strongly preferred than daughters, 1.6 million girls are missing (missing means that by average, there would be more daughters in families if this discrimination didn’t exist. Instead, they are missing, meaning killed, aborted, sold or not given proper medical attention or food.) (UN, US Census Bureau)

- 85% of assembly line workers are women. Factories demand unskilled labor at miniscule salaries – girls are less likely to have an education so they provide the unskilled labor for little pay.

- More than 25% of young girls don’t finish their primary school education compared to the 10% of boys. In universities, only about 35% of students are female. And only 15% of primary school teachers are women. 59% of women are illiterate compared to men’s 46% (UNESCO)

- Less than 5% of land owners are women due to widespread discrimination against women inheriting, owning or controlling property (ICRW)

Depressed enough? Hold your hats, I haven’t even dove into the stats of trafficking yet. But we’ll wait on that for another day.

In my two months here, I have met some amazing women. When selling Iftar on the street, no exaggeration, 99% of the customers were men. One women came to the table with a private car and beautiful purple sari. Striking a conversation with her, she revealed to me that she had three jobs: professor of psychology at Dhaka University, private practice in psychology, and a writer for a children’s television program (the Bangla version of Sesame Street!). I went to a lecture on Gender and Development at Dhaka University, the lecturer standing up there, confident and proud, arguing in favor of positive discrimination to a room full of men, with her daughter sitting on the side because no one was home to watch her. Enormous strides have been made in women’s rights, including the passing of an act to reserve seats for women in Parliament, more women are attending school and working alongside their husbands. Even one man proudly said, "Women can drive now!"

But, I have yet to see a woman driving here. Laws are changing, but cultural practices are deeply embedded and are slow moving. Empowerment is defined has the ability to make a choice, controlling life decisions and claiming rights. By law, women are claiming more rights, but on the street and in the villages, too many social pressures exist that keep women inside, silenced and devalued. Often, law enforcement official do not value or practice these laws.

But I will share one story that gave me hope: at the lecture on Gender and Development, the woman lecturer was stating that positive discrimination was needed to raise women to the power level of men. One example is on the crowded streets and buses that should reserve seats for women because men push women out of the way to get on the bus, and if she gets onto the bus, she is likely to be touched. One man argued against this, saying, "Of course on a crowded bus you will be accidently bumped. There's no need for special treatment."

Across the conference table, one of the 7 women in the room, wearing an hijab and quiet most of the night, leaned across the table and said, "I know the different between an accidental bump and a hand down my dress."

He shut up.

Women are speaking up. Voice is the first step towards empowerment: vocalizing your situation, hearing stories to organize and create real change. Just because Bangladesh has a woman Prime Minister, doesn't mean that governmental and structural changes reach the women who need it. These cultural changes have to start with the women themselves.

How I Spent My Afternoon on 9/11

2009-09-11T23:53:00.004+07:00

Today, I went with a fellow scholar’s family to the mosque for jumu’ah, Friday prayer. Though Muslims are to pray five times a day, Friday is the mandatory day for men to go to the mosque. I was dressed up by the women of the family in a long sleeved blouse with my orna wrapped around my head as a makeshift hijab. It was nice to blend in (for the most part) and not be gawked at for being foreign.

I joined Ms. Ahmed, her mother-in-law and her daughter in the section for women upstairs. It is not mandatory for women to attend Friday prayers at the mosque because Mrs. Ahmed said, "We have so many things to do, like care for the children." The khutba, sermon, was in Bangla mixed with Arabic but I was clued in. A few of the words that I kept picking out was ‘maph koren’ –forgive. The imam was reminding everyone that while asking for forgiveness, to remember to forgive yourself. The Ahmed family shared that this is why they come to mosque: it’s a time of the week to have reminders of what Allah has said. Today was a reminder to forgive yourself for whatever mistakes you made. It was personally a good reminder for me.

I arrived home to realize: it is September 11^th. I think it was quite fitting that I spent an amazing afternoon with a beautiful, dedicated, welcoming and compassionate Muslim family. Admittedly, I have my questions and concerns about Islam, which is hard to escape when you read American news.

But the most important thing I learned today is that the Qur’an states that there is no compulsion in Islam: that you do not try to convert people, but let them read the Qur'an themselves. Only this way can you understand the true beauty. Too often are people listening to someone's flawed interpretation. Mrs. Ahmed shared that a lot of the challenges of Islam stem from individual, local cultural practices not the chapters of the Qur'an.

I am still looking for a Qur'an in English because I would like to read it myself. As any religion, it cannot be understood after one prayer session, but I cannot make this more clear: just as the terrorists on 9/11 should not have judged all Americans to be ignorant, immoral, malicious people, we should not judge all Muslims as the same.

**My fellow Scholar, Parvez Ahmed, wrote this article for the Huffington Post the day before we went to the mosque. Please take a look!

Quiet North Bengal

2009-09-06T23:20:00.002+07:00

Hosted on YouTube here

Development In(-)Action: North Bengal Part II

2009-09-06T22:53:00.005+07:00

“They hung their heads in shame as their mother stood behind them, the end of their sari wrapped around their head and mouth, listening to their children’s grades read aloud to the entire village…”

Last Saturday my friend Maude was gracious enough to let me tag along to watch her work with her NGO. We hop on the back of her friend’s motorbike that takes us to the river. Maude turns to me and said, “Today we are going to a char to do interviews.” We climb onto this long wooden boat with a motor, bamboo roof and wicker mats to sit on.

“Oh, by the way, the trip is almost two hours.”

Staff from the NGO climb into the boat; one is able to speak English, Maude’s translator from the NGO. They all play card games or nap the whole trip, while Maude and I speak with the translator about Bengal politics and finance. At one point, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, so we head to the top of the boat. Quietly we pray that the bamboo will hold us and the three other staff members sitting on the roof under umbrellas. No worries – it did. And how refreshing: cool breeze, clean air, no noise or staring. Laying up there, I could breathe.

We drop off other staff members at different chars and we ended up at Sidai. The reason for Maude’s visit was to interview teachers and students about a ‘student-friend’ program the NGO started. A student from the school must tutor a child who doesn’t have the chance to go to school. Tutoring them enough should bring them up to speed to join school the following year. Maude needed to see how effective this initiative was by talking to teachers, students and the principal.

As we get off the boat, we must walk through mud barefoot, into shallow, murky water that almost reached my knees. The bottom the river was super slippery with mud and I kept slippin’ and slidin’ all over. We get on land, albeit not dry, but solid was all I could ask for. Walking through this little forest of skinny trees, the ground became less muddy the farther we got from the river.

Then the parade of children began to grow behind us the closer we became to the village. A couple, a few, several, a dozen, a few dozen… The children at least keep a safe distance from you. When we walk through, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea, opening in front and closing behind. But it’s a sea of little black and dusty faces.

“What is your name?” they ask. After my response, in their little accented voices, ‘Amanda’ is echoed back a few hundred times. Maude is speaking with the different staff about the project for the day, while I try to play with the children. ‘Try’ being the operative word because it’s so hot I can barely breathe. Plus, I don’t want to drink water in front of a crowd of people who 1) can’t keep their eyes off of me and 2) are fasting. Ramadan rules my life.

Maude invites me to sit in on her interview with a teacher about the “student-friend” program. A vital part of interviewing is having a good translator: who understands what you are trying to accomplish, and does not have anything invested in the project. Maude’s translator was sweet, but because he works for the NGO, he often answered the questions himself without asking the interviewee. At one point, a question was asked to the principal who responded, “jani na” – I don’t know. The translator turned to Maude and answered the question himself. Maude knew enough Bangla to know the response was “I don’t know.” She said to me, “How am I supposed to help them improve the program if they won’t tell me the truth about how it works? If they don’t know an answer or are frustrated with something, I need to know so we can fix it.”

Bangladesh is one of, if not the, center of development. There is a mammoth amount of foreign aid pouring into the country as well as development projects and programs. The biggest NGO in the world is Bangladeshi: BRAC. And from my experience, Bangladeshis are very nationalistic, very proud of their culture and country, regardless of its shortcomings (like poverty and corruption). I found that talking to Bangladeshis here, they only share what they love about Bangladesh, rarely what they dislike. Other countries I’ve been to like India, Japan, Italy; the citizens will give a well-rounded view of their country – the pluses and minuses. But as a foreigner here, I am only lectured on the golden qualities of Bangladesh.

I wonder if this overwhelming pride is shared with me because most people assume (rightly so) that I, a foreigner, am here working on a development project. So many foreigners are coming in to discuss all the problems and things wrong with Bangladesh, trying to ‘fix’ her: from labor rights to how they should kill their chickens. Constantly they are put on the defense about their culture (especially their religion) attempting to shed a good light to people who often see the dark side. Their patriotism is reasonable.

But from a development perspective, NGOs seek the terrible stories in order to develop. The reality and truth must be shared, no matter how embarrassing or tragic it is. For Maude, it was vital for her to hear the reality of the program: what worked and what didn’t. Money is hard to come by for NGOs and it’s better to know that it’s being spent on effective, positive and well-liked projects than a project that is dispensable. Tough choices have to be made. She also understood that it is difficult to come to a char for the first time demanding answers. It’s intimidating. As someone working to create change, you have to know the people, have them trust you – so you can trust them that they will give helpful, truthful responses.

It’s slow, which is frustrating because funders want results – fast. Destruction is easy, development is slow.

Later, we had the chance to sit in on a parent-teacher conference. And by parent-teacher conference, I mean a conference with most of the parents and all of the students, and a few of the teachers. The leaders of the NGO read all grades aloud to everyone. Everyone clapped for the students who received 100s across the board. One NGO leader turned to me a few times when some boys were called, saying “There goes the next President Obama!” I know it was said in pride of the student, certainly, of course - but no girl was remarked as being the ‘next Hilary Clinton’ or even their own Prime Minister, Sheikh Hasina. Girls are still devalued, but that's my next entry...

The student who failed and were lowered in rank – they hung their heads in shame as their mother stood behind them, the end of their sari wrapped around their head and mouth, listening to their child’s shortcomings said aloud to the entire village. The leaders of the NGO end with: “You should pay more attention to your child and their school activities.”

I sat there in the heat, burning at this NGO. I don’t think competition is ever a good way to teach children. Instead of competing with other students in the village, the child should work and be pushed to the best of his abilities. Unfortunately, it is about 99% sure that these children aren’t going to grow up to be the next Prime Minister, or even a political leader. They live in a village surrounded by water with little electricity and a school that just arrived three years ago. It’s not negative -- it’s reality. Instead of them competing for first rank and grades, they should just be learning to improve their quality of life by reading and writing. The first place to start is by not announcing grades aloud, because both the children and parents were humiliated in front of their friends and neighbors. One-on-one meetings are much more effective: the teacher, who knows the student, can talk to the parents about their child’s progress: both positives and negatives; not a NGO leader who stops by a few times a month.

Also, the NGO was telling parents, “pay more attention to your children.” Let’s think about this: do you honestly think that the parents, after sitting in a hot room for two hours, half of them embarrassed that their child did poorly, will actually go home to ask their children about their day, because some man told them to in a lecture?

One-on-one meetings again are effective, because the teacher can sit down with the parents and find out how their home situation is. Maybe little Ahmed is sleeping in class and failing because his father lost his job so little Ahmed works after school while his parents scramble to find work at night, leaving little Ahmed to watch two other siblings because his mother can’t afford birth control. A large meeting could not discover this – you must be one-on-one with a person to understand their needs, the reason for their needs and the capacity they have to do something about it, and what role you can play.

I can’t blame the NGO for these shortcomings. Too often do development programs fail not because they were ineffective, or they had bad leadership – but because funding is lacking. A lack of funding leads to a lack of capacity so unfortunately, it might not be feasible for this NGO to perform one-on-one meetings because they can't afford to pay overtime to the staff that might be overworked.

What's shameful: I hear that because there is not much structure here in Bangladesh and no follow-up or registration, some NGOs exist for profit with a façade of charity. Maude told me that one NGO built a well right next to another well in one village just to state on their Annual Report that they ‘provided a new clean well for a village up north.’ It was a façade to boast for funding, but utterly useless to the village who already had a well.

It’s a tricky business, which is unpromising because so much good could be accomplished with development research and studies -- it shouldn’t have to be a business.

Transported through Transportation: Visit to the North

2009-08-31T17:05:00.010+07:00

My first visit to rural Bangladesh was one of transportation: we rode countless buses, rickshaws, boats and walked on foot through paved streets, dirt roads, shallow rivers and mud puddles. We were definitely transported to another side of Bangladesh being outside of Dhaka, so it was fitting that we did nothing but use transportation to entertain ourselves: just looking out the window is a cultural experience.

I visited my friend Maude in the town Gaibandha, in the northwest state Rajshahi. She will be working with the French NGO, Friendship, and interviewing young students from a new project they started. The six-hour bus ride was certainly a trip – I might have lost hearing from the pleasure the driver took in honking the horn. But it might have been necessary, because he liked to drive on the right side of the road (which is the wrong side of the road here) to pass the sluggish trucks full of bananas, jute or chickens.

Friday is the weekend, the only day-off the whole week. But most stores are closed, then most restaurants are closed for Ramadan, as are the museums. As women, we are not allowed to visit mosques – so what is there to do in Northwest Bangladesh?

Well, quite frankly, nothing. But Maude and I decided we did not travel here to sit in the NGO office alone. We hopped on a two-hour bus to the town Mahasthangarh (still having trouble pronouncing it myself.) We were dropped off at a mosque then wandered down a road to the museum to discover it was closed. The road was beautiful: lined with rice pattys blowing in a soft breeze. It was so quiet that we could hear the wind, something lost in the madness of Dhaka.

After discovering there was nothing more to do in Mahasthangarh besides breaking rocks with other rocks, we hopped on another bus to a ‘bigger’ town, Bogra. It was after noon at this point and we haven’t eaten all day with all the restaurants closed. But after breaking through the swarm of bus hustlers asking, “kothay jabe?” (‘where are you going?’), we found a hotel for foreigners that had a restaurant. We enter sweating, and smile in the breeze of the fans and in the soundlessness of the lobby away from the hustlers – then the electricity goes out.

We wait 40 minutes for the fan and our food, but Maude and I are super chatty so it went fast. And luckily, in the hour we took for lunch, it began then ended the daily rain. We talk to our waiter about what there is to do in Bogra: "Nothing," he responds. “Go to Sariakandi and take a boat ride around the river for 50tk.” Why not?

Hopping on to rickshaw, we swerve through Bogra into another city for 20 minutes then stop at a bench. “Bus station.” We sit on the bench and ask the ticket man when the next bus to Sariakandi is coming: “Five minutes.”

Twenty-five minutes later, there are a constant horde of about two dozen Bangladeshi men standing around, sometimes so close I can feel the air from their open mouths, staring in curiosity. None of them try to talk to us. I try to talk but they just stare. Their dialect is different and can’t understand me. I try to make them leave, but they just laugh. Finally the bus came.

Onto another bus ride, which by the way - women usually sit in front. Mostly to avoid harassment. After sitting on the back of the bus at one point, I learned my lesson never to sit in the back ever again. We arrive at another town, and the rickshaw-wallah takes us to the river. Now we are in a village, with naked little boys running around, hitting each other with sticks, avoiding their mothers screams not to step on the drying dates in the middle of road.

We arrive at the river and the first thing we notice: no noise. No motors, no yelling, no piercing radios blasting Bangla music. We only attract a small crowd, of about 15 people and we turned our backs to the land and stared into the river – so we almost felt alone. We “spoke of many things, fools and kings,” and watched a man try to catch tiny fish with a five-foot long U-shaped net.

Realizing our skin is beginning to burn (the woes of being white in a country where its people don’t sunburn), we head back to the bus stop, which is a bench. A crowd gathers, and we count: 47 people at one point. In order for us to keep our cool, we make jokes: “We’re like monkeys in a zoo: they can’t communicate with us, but they just watch how we sit and look. Go get a banana, and you can feed us! We should start charging them like a zoo: 100tk to stare. For 500tk, take a picture. For 1000tk maybe we’ll smile. Buy us some food, and maybe we’ll do a dance. Or, maybe I should just start foaming at the mouth and try to bite them, will they go away?”

One man came over to shoo everyone away. I smiled softly at him and said, “onek dhonobad (many thanks).” He smiled sympathetically. After a minute of pushing everyone away, more people surrounded us after wondering why a man was shooing everyone away. Mission quiet time: futile. At least having so many people stand over you blocks out the sun and her harmful rays…

We then, again, jump on a bus that has a lion roaring instead of an actual motor, sit on holey cushions and pick off the ants as we speed through the green landscape. And when I say green – man, I tell ya, I mean green. Because Bangladesh is such a wet country, there are always crops and plants growing, whether they are edible or not. If there isn’t a plant, there is water that reflects the green colors of the surrounding plants.

It’s now evening, almost the end of today’s fast. We stop around dusk for all the men to get off and smoke their first cigarette since the morning. Maude and I bolt off the bus to find some food and water – sweet relief! It’s hard to not eat the whole day, but it’s even worse when you are in a climate that you are not accustomed too. The weather is so hot and we become so dehydrated. In trying to be respectful, I never try to eat or drink in front of Bangladeshis who are fasting, but it’s hard to find quiet place alone when everyone follows you like celebrities (without body guards).

Around 8, we’re back in Gaibandha. The town is beautiful at night – no cars on the road, just motorbikes and rickshaws and a few buses. We pass all the stores open for the night, lit by candle. We find our way home by the torch on my cell phone, walking through the sounds of geckos and frogs, running past the growling stray dogs. Finally, as Maude digs through her bag to find the key to the NGO’s office (where we are sleeping), I stand out from under the verandah and for the first time, see the stars from the view of Bangladesh.

My Life

2009-08-27T06:50:00.000+07:00

I am taking a six hour bus for $3 to a village that I can barely pronounce that has a literacy rate of 24% to visit a friend whose last name I just discovered..

Wish me luck!

Video: My First Iftar

2009-08-26T15:30:00.000+07:00

My Video from YouTube

My First Iftar for Ramadan

2009-08-26T15:19:00.006+07:00

Iftar is the evening meal during Ramadan. From around 4-7, restaurants and food stands sell traditional Iftari food for Muslims to take home to their families. I went to help out my friends as they sell their Iftari and was invited to participate.

Quick overview: The month of Ramadan begins at the new moon, the start of the crescent moon, of the 9^th month of the Islamic calendar. Muslims fast from dawn to dusk all day as well as refrain from impure actions and thoughts (and smoking!). By doing so, they are reminded of Allah with each moment of hunger and temptation. Practicing patience, gratitude and additional prayer brings them closer to Allah. They rise at 3 or 4 to take the morning meal, then fast until the sun sets around 7 for Iftar, the evening meal. Back to my first Iftar…

[Click here for more pictures]

As my brothers prepared for the meal, the electricity went out. Candles were lit and the boys hustled around in the dark. I sat near one candle as the massive plate of muri spiced with onions, dates, garlic and chili was placed on the table. Gia mixed lemon sharbat and filled seven glasses. They sat and explained that they must wait for the second to last call to prayer, the signal from Allah that today’s fast is over. About three minutes later, I hear, “Didi, khabe – ekhon!” The muezzin’s call was clearly heard as the boys downed their lemon drink, basking in the sweetness of Allah and their first taste since dawn. Then our hands dug into the platter of spiced crisp rice. All you could hear was munching and breathing of seven hungry men finally breaking their fast for the day. All I felt was the spices under my nails and their hands reaching for the same salvation. Gia spoke, “Allah loves to see us share a plate – it brings our community together.” I felt that too.

Towards the end of the meal, the boys were practically forcing more food down my throat. It is this custom that I witnessed that when I share food with Bengalis, they feed my food back to me. So, I smiled and raised a hand of full muri to Sumor’s mouth; he laughed and took the food. Then I went around the table feeding one scoop to all the boys. Of course, like true Bangla hospitality, they feed me a mishti each!

It was so beautiful of them to share their meal and beliefs with me. Each time some Bangla man on the street asked who I was, they all responded that I was their sister. You can’t be more welcoming than that! In one month, stay tuned for Eid – the last day of the fast!

Movie Date with My Brothers: Part II

2009-08-25T16:03:00.009+07:00

The conversation was interrupted when a truck hit our CNG as we were sitting in traffic. The truck driver jolted us forward slightly when he became too eager to move forward. Our driver gets out to confront the other driver. Mind you, I was told at orientation, at my security debriefing, by veteran foreigners and locals alike: if you find yourself in a traffic accident, get away as soon as possible. It’s quite frequent that a mob will beat the driver who caused the accident. Luckily, this wasn’t a huge accident, only a dent, and we weren’t the cause. But our driver caused a scene as he shouts to the other driver.

Remember, we are in the middle of traffic, and it’s starting to move. It comes to a halt not only because we are blocking the flow of vehicles, but because now every driver, passenger, pedestrian must watch. This isn’t the rubbernecking I’m used to, where drivers slow down to crane their neck to witness an accident: this is dead stop, wide-eyed and mouth-agape at the two men grab each other’s shirt collar and flail their arms around in menial jabs. Gia steps out of the CNG along with other drivers to break apart the fight as Sumor yells at the driver to get a move on.

Finally, we enter at Bashundhara City, the eight-floor mall. It’s claimed to be the biggest in South Asia and the 12^th largest in Asia. There are 2500 retail stores and food kiosks of both traditional and Western-style alike. The movie doesn’t start for another 2 ½ hours so we wander around a bit. Gia and Sumor were uber-big brothers and didn’t let me out of their sight. We entered into a Western clothing outlet called Esctasy and there were little cocktail dresses that I have never seen a Bangladeshi woman wear. I don’t know who buys those clothes. Certainly not me because I don’t need to get anymore attention.

We sat at a table to chat and we talked about the dating scene in Bangladesh. American pre-teen dates are much more audacious than standard Bangla dating. Each of them have had a ‘lady friend,’ but ‘many communication problems’ ended it. Each question I asked, they became more red in the face, but I’m a nosey Nelly. I asked Sumor how serious it was, and he said, “I touch her.” He read the confusion on my face, and asked Gia in Bangle how to say what he meant. He meant, “I was touched by her emotionally, he really liked her.” After that was cleared up, I asked if they will choose their own wife. Gia said his father would let him choose for love, while Sumor said that his father wants to pick his wife.

After a few hours of bumming around the mall, we bought our tickets and some snacks for the movie. The seats are assigned as we sat in the middle of one of the higher rows. Soon the movie began. It was called Monpura. In short, the main character Sonai is sent to live on a deserted island, Monpura, because his uncle framed him for a murder that his mentally ill cousin committed. Sonai meets Pori, a beautiful island girl in the rivers of Bangladesh and they fall in love, which consists of holding hands, no kissing. However, Sonai’s uncle finds Pori beautiful and arranges with Pori’s father to have her married to the mentally ill cousin/murderer. The police arrest Sonai for the murder he didn’t commit, but is released. He gets to his uncle's house to rescue Pori to find that she poisioned herself because the family lied that Sonai was killed in prision. Sonai and his broken heart row to the middle of the river, drop the oar and drift to starvation...

I almost cried. Women’s rights, man! Gia and Sumor helped translate though most of the time I could understand from the acting and the few words I know. I thought the cinematography was well done, it certainly made me want to visit a river village. After the movie ended, we jumped on a bus back to Bonani. My first time on a bus. But, for 15 minutes, it was stuck in traffic – at 9:50pm. So Sumor hailed a taxi and we sped through the streets home. Gia assured me as we left the theatre, “Do not worry about your security, we will make sure you get home safely!” And they did :)

Movie Date with My Brothers: Part I

2009-08-23T04:00:00.004+07:00

I was worried last week because I thought I accidently asked out a Bangladeshi man on a date. Pure accident, I swear.

I have been growing close with these local young men working at the restaurant I eat at. I asked them about their favourite movies and mentioned how I’d love to see a Bangla movie. We all said we’d go to the movies the next Friday and I should invite my friends. The Sunday before the movie, I ask one the boys, the accountant, and he said Friday was no good because it was Ramadan – Thursday will be better. But he did not tell anyone else, and asked for my number.

"Uh oh," I thought as I refused to give out my number, "I hope this isn’t a date date." It’s not entirely appropriate for men and women to go out in public together if they aren’t married (though it happens, it’s not at all common. I stress, not at all.) So I’m sure it’s worse if he’s out with a foreigner. Did I just break a cultural rule? I show up on Thursday to find both Sumor and Gia are taking me to the movies.

Phew.

We catch a CNG (baby taxi/auto-rickshaw - see picture) and head to the Star Cineplex inside Bangaldesh’s biggest mall, Bashundhara City Mall. They said this is the nicest and biggest theatre, with cushion seats and three theatres -- I didn’t have the heart to tell them that all seats in the US are cushioned and one standard theatre has at least 20 theatres in your average suburban Cineplex. Squeezed between Sumor and Gia, they reveal that this is the first time that they are going to the movies “with a lady.” Sumor, 25, is dressed up in nice black slacks with a sand-coloured shirt that has a black-and-white imprint of an eagle perched on a tree with snakes for roots. Gia, 23, also in nice black slacks in a beige shirt with light blue trim that traces the collar, back and wide cuffs. I ask why and they said, “Oh, I feel shame if I take a lady out alone. If I take her out, a guardian must come along.” Well, now I’m embarrassed, I ask, “Do you feel shame in taking me out?” They jump, “No, no, no, you are our sister, it is no problem.”

We wind through Dhaka traffic around 5 pm. The boys point out important momuments and buildings and tell me the history of each and it’s effect on Bangladesh. I cannot echo their deep love for their country through cyberspace. As we pass a memorial for the citizens and students who were killed during the Liberation War, Gia turns to me and says, “I would fight and die for my country. Would Americans do the same?” As I think of my close friend and her fiancé in Afghanistan, I respond, “Of course, there are many soliders who are putting their lives on their line for American right now.” (In my head, I question whether the choices of war are for ‘Americas protection’ but regardless, I fully respect the soldiers – who must take orders, as sketchy and imperialist as they may be.) But Gia then said, “No not soldiers, I mean the everyday American – would they die for their country?”

I didn’t know the answer. Do you?

stay tuned for Part II: Shakespeare - Bangladeshi Style

The Greatest Acting Feat

2009-08-18T14:58:00.005+07:00

She touches me, splintering the armor

That keeps me strong.

The little ones follow me, standing by my side

As if we are friends.

He stands there, painfully staring at me

As I stare into detached space.

They say, don’t give money,

It will circle into criminal pockets.

They say, don’t give food,

Creating dependence is ineffective.

They say, look away,

Act indifferent to detach yourself.

This dogma is preached from the community,

Built into a towering effigy of casual words;

Harsh stature, made of unmoving stone.

They say, maph korun -- forgive me.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, brother, as you sit on a scooter, legless,

Rolling between cars with a sandal laced through your fingers.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, nana, in your beaten leather skin,

With a wrist that cannot rotate towards prayer or alms.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, dada, with your white beard and taqiyah,

Grasping your bamboo walking stick, and your breath in hope.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, sister, breast revealed in a holey sari,

With your exposed child listening to your heart beat faster.

Forgive me!

Forgive me, my children, as you call me ‘a beautiful madam,’

And shake your heads, placing your fingers to your mouth,

Masterfully in unison, as a row of puppets.

Forgive me, for I know not if this is right

-- it is what I’m told.

quiet satisfaction

2009-08-12T21:52:00.011+07:00

Now to get personal:

Today was a nice day -- I finally felt that I can feel a part of this country, not just on the outskirts. I've had a few tough days: insecure about my project, a tad lonely, frustrated with the new culture. My current contentment is part in due to the amazing, understanding friends and supportive family members who have talked me through it the past week. But today was all me.

Class is going well, I feel comfortable with trying and I am forming sentences in conversation (slowly, and frequently incorrect and backwards, but forming them nonetheless!) I like my teacher and my classmates, we make jokes and try to say random phrases: ekta din ami tomar dana katbo (I will cut your wings one day). My favourite Bangla word is chor, a temporary island. It made me laugh, because a temporary island can be a common occurrence. Like Eskimos have dozens of words for 'snow,' a word for a temporary island is needed because during the rainy season, a piece of land can annually be flooded into the river and disappear.

I study for two hours after class, attempting to perfect my Bangla with make-shift flash cards. At noon I eat with my teachers a simple lunch and hug my cook. On the main street to my house, I visit a dorkandar (shopkeeper) who presents a new Muslim blessing each time I visit as I purchase bottled water. The people on the street are becoming used to me: I'm not surprising anymore (and I think they've stared enough that they could perfectly sketch my image from memory.)

For dinner tonight, I took my french friends (Crystal, Leah and Maude) to my favourite restaurant where I am friends with the owners (who recently told me that they will cry when I leave Banani - 'amra kanna korbo!') I left my apartment at 8:15pm, the latest I've ever left. I've been out late but my friends' drivers take me home - it's not too safe to take a rickshaw or CNG at night. I won't lie, it took a little courage to put on my yellow and purple salwar kameez and venture out that night where there are no lampposts, only headlights and wax candles sitting on food stands. I love this dress because its color combination reminds me of my grandmother and my mother. The dress requires you wear an orna (one foreigner friend mockingly renamed it 'the boob scarf' because it's purpose is to hide your chest.) The orna is longer than the length of my arms and is drapped over my chest, over my shoulders and flows behind me.

Walking into the night at 30C, a slight breeze blew my orna back as my shadow drew my image in the shape of a superhero's cape. I laughed to myself winding through the hanging electrical wires and speeding cars to pick up the girls. As we stepped into Jagiur's Garden, one boy saw me and ran to the other boys to announce my arrival (Queen Sheba, anyone?) The owners all smiled and scolded me for not visiting the past week. The girls loved the food: saying it was better than restaurants in the bideshi (foreigner) area, Gulshan (there is apparently a Mexican restaurant that LP raves about, but I haven't heard good things. I can't imagine Bangladeshis making good guacamole, only Mexicans and CParks can make good guac.)

Tomorrow I have a meeting with a woman at the International Organization for Migration in hopes of collaborating, networking, using resources.. anything to get started on this project! My friend Darcy works there and is sitting in on the meeting too. The French girls and I might head down to the Hindu market in Old Dhaka to celebrate Krishna's Birthday (or at least, one of his ten births/rebirths.) This weekend, Darcy and I are exploring one of the many museums, one of my Bangla friends, Emy, wants to take me shopping, and I am having a girls night Saturday with Sayaka and Kyungai to watch Sex and the City with beers and some sort of Korean liquor.

It's finally becoming a home. I have a routine, friends, and my work is (slowly) progressing. Best of all -- it's almost the end of the rainy season so it'll start becoming cooler! But for now, I'm good in my quiet middle ground of satisfaction. I hope you're in a good place too :)

Chittagong Hill Tracts: Dancing Against Genocide

2009-08-12T00:30:00.006+07:00

This weekend myself and some new French friends (to the left) went to a festival honoring the indigenous people of Bangladesh. The French volunteered for a floating hospital on the city’s main river, Buriganga. There they met a dentist from the Chittagong Hill Tracts. Previous to this day, I only knew that foreigners needed permits to visit the country’s only non-plain geography due to human rights violations. Talk about being selfish: once I discovered how difficult it was to visit, I didn’t learn much more.

However, there is little information available describing the situation in the Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT). Gladly, this festival gave myself and my fellow travelers some insight.

Walking about with our new friend, we gazed over the beautifully patterned clothing. Dhaka dress is much more flowery than the traditional clothing of the hills where the patterns were more geometrically shaped. It was also interesting to see new faces at the festival. Most of the tribes are Buddhist and look more Chinese and Burmese than Bengali. Our friend said that many Bangladeshis think he is a Chinese businessman, and said he loves the look on their faces when he speaks to them in Bangla slang. He also sympathizes with us foreigners who are always charged more for fruit and rickshaw rides!

He bought us small pamphlets describing the political and social history of CHT. Briefly, because of the location, CHT is a very valuable natural resource. And what happens when governments get a hold of valuable resources? Tribes are evicted, violently, and the people have had little to no rights. The past ten years have been under a Peace Treaty but an unrecognized genocide remains in the past and constant fear of aggression for their future. Visit here for more information.

We toured around, sat under palm trees and chat. The French girls are studying microloans – really interesting things to say, a relevant topic to dive into, thinking about women after trafficking. After a bit, we headed inside into the auditorium to watch indigenous dance performances. (Visit again in a few days, a short video will appear.) I think dancing is the most immediate of human connections, and my favourite way to learn about other cultures, and exchange with locals. Dancing always breaks the embarrassment barrier in the presence of a new person. Just showing off moves, and learning new ones creates this instant connection, where you laugh at each other’s mistakes and smile when you nail a move. It was an incongruous feeling: to be at an event concerned with an unrecognized genocide, a complete dehumanizing and alienating experience -- but to be watching these magnificent dancers, feeling a deep, instinctive connection through the beats of their feet. That's life I suppose: a conflicting ride of experiences and emotions that all, somehow, balance in the end -- if you look for it.

Even though there weren’t any more seats, and I was sitting on the suspension bar of a broken seat, I was beaming at the divine humanity of these light-footed women moving in their jubilant attire under lurid lights.

traditional dancing outside

Behind the Scenes: VIP Treatment

2009-08-07T11:08:00.001+07:00

YouTube