Cribz Video: Dhanmondi

COMING SOON :)

Christened

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.

Epiphanies on Rickshaws

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

“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.

Subho Nobo Borsho!

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.

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

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

MATADOR ABROAD: The Origin of the Ugly American

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

Dhaka Voted Second Worst City to Live In

Economic Intelligence Unit Livability Ranking

At least I know it COULD get worse..

The First Interview

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please read soon on my first analysis of her life.

STUCK Part II: Drowning in boiling water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supporting a Cause: The Case of Organ-Grinding Charities

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

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

Eid Mubarak.

Qurbani Eid (Eid al-Adha) celebrates some of the sacrifices Abraham made for God. God asked Abraham to devote his son Ismael to Allah in oblation. Out of love for God, Abraham was ready to do so. As he hacked his son's neck, he discovered a sheep died is Ismael's place. God was only testing Abraham and his sacrifice was fulfilled without the loss of his son. (There are discrepancies as to which son was sacrificed: Ismael or Issac.) All across the world, Muslims are to raise a sheep (or in some cultures, like

Bangladesh, goats, cows or camels) to offer in the name of God; mirroring the sacrifice and love of Abraham. It is tradition to donate some of the meat to the poor who cannot afford an animal.

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

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

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

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

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

A Dhaka Thanksgiving

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

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

Click here to see full photo.

.. and Northport, New York :)

Field Work

see more at: FLICKR

In Case of Fire...

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

[next to the gas station]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Names have been changed.

A Start to My Project: My Talent As A Human

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

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

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

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

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

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

With Privilege Comes Responsibility: The Case of Corrupt Governments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My New Family

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

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

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

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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

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