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..

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.

All life's a stage

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.

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.

Boksheesh: The Case of "Forward Asking"

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

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

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

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

"Can I have more for my sisters?"

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

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

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

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

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.

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 :)

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.

My New Family

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

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

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

Click here to see more photos!

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

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

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

Pieces of Old Dhaka on an Early Friday

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My First Rickshaw Accident

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

Click here to see the rest of the photos with captions

Spontaneity and Her Role

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

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)

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

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

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?

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!

How I Spent My Afternoon on 9/11

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!