"Isn't that rape?"

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.

Bangladesh Surf Club

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

These images of Bangladesh that I wish I could capture.

The 'Living' Problem of Achieving Empowerment

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

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

"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.

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.

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

Learning Script

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

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.

A Little History of Bangla

Intrigued by my language classes, I did a little research and asked around to find the history and importance of Bangla.

Bangla (sometimes refered to as Bengali) is a member of the Indic group of 

Indo Iranian or Aryan branch of the Indo–European family of languages. Oddly enough, the British Raj beginning in the mid-1800s stimulated the value of Bangla.  Authors became interested in Calcutta and Dhaka, with Calcutta being

 the capital of India at the time and Dhaka a large trading port.  English writers learned Bangla and translated literature.  The poet Rabindranath Tagore was the first Asian man to win a Nobel Prize in 1913; he was Bengali.  With the invasion and cultural control of the British, using Bangla was a way to assert their cultural heritage.

With the Indian Partition and religious diaspora (Hindus to India, Muslims to Pakistan), East Bengal (East Pakistan) was being forced by the Pakistani government to speak 'Urdu and Urdu only.'  This was the last straw: East Pakistan  created the Bangla Language Movement of 1952, the first move towards independence.  People, including students, held riots fighting for their national identity that was tied their language.  After West Pakistan did little after 500,000 people died in a cyclone, Bangladesh fought for its independence in the Liberation War in 1971.

The language is strongly tied to the culture and it's nationalism.  Upper class Bangladeshis know English pretty well, and it is a requirement for university.  Lower class Bangladeshis know a few words (prices, food).  But everyone speaks Bangla perfectly. An example of how language is tied to culture is saying, 'I go now.' In Bangla, they say, 'ami ekhon ashi' which literally means, 'now I come.'  My teacher explained that Bangladeshis do not like to end encounters.  If you say, "I go now" they will insist you stay. If you say 'I come now' it is like saying "I am moving locations away from you but I am not going anywhere."  Maybe odd to you, but there is such hospitality that 'going' implied that the friendship has ended.

While I'm still struggling with the sounds, my vocabulary is growing and I hope to be comfortable soon!

Upsetting Conundrums: First Day Part III

While we head back to the school for lunch, we ran into a student of Susan’s.  Susan stops her to ask if she is taking another class.  The girl responds, sure, then says, “Oh no, I’m heading back to the UK this Saturday.”  Susan responds, “Well, you must pay for your classes.”  The girl responds she did; Susan corrects her by saying that she only paid the registration fee.  The girl promises to come tomorrow.  As we walk away, Susan vents saying, “No offense, but this happens a lot with foreigners.  They leave without paying.  It is very hard to get a hold of you because your life here is temporary.”  That pissed me off, that foreigners are giving this reputation.

Back at the school, myself, the principal and the five English teachers ate lunch – a typical Bengali lunch: bhat, dal, aloo, dim (rice, dal – a lentil soup to pour over rice, potato, egg).  It was delicious and perfect.  I listened to them all talking in Bangla, excited for when I can understand and converse with them.  I think spending this extra time with Bangladeshis will be advantageous to my language skills.

After lunch, I left and bought three new salwar kameezes: bright purple and yellow (a mix of my mother and grandmother J ), a baby blue and white that needs tailoring, and a tourquiose and navy.  There are so many colors and styles to wear!  As I walk down the muddy streets (thank God for Tevas), each rickshaw driver stops to see if I need a ride.  After I’m done, I go to a stand to buy mangoes and oranges.  About 7 beggars approach me: women with disfigured faces and bodies carrying sleeping, naked babies, old Muslim men in wheelchairs, little children either half dressed or wearing grimy clothes too big for their underfed bodies.  I give the change of my fruit to the man in the wheelchair because he was the closest then I bolted into a nearby rickshaw.

First off, if you have seen Slumdog Millionaire, they did an accurate portrayl of begging cartels.  A handful of men will take children and the destitute from off the street and send them out to beg.  Whatever they make, they hand over to the men in power.  This was told to me in India and Bangladesh by locals.  But, how do you know? “You just ignore it.”   I ignore it.  Me, who was well fed during lunch, who heads back to her nice little apartment, arms full of shopping and grocery bags.  But, there’s a line from my favourite poem: “Never feeling more greedy than when handing dollars to the needy” (“Dive” by Andrea Gibson). Giving them 10tk (14 cents) feels more greedy because I just spent 3300tk ($50) on pretty little outfits.

It’s an upsetting conundrum, that’s all I can say.

First Day of Bangla Class!

First day of class!  I woke up and Skyped with my love love: great way to start the day (girl, I can't get over how pretty your hair looks on Skype!!)  I took a rickshaw to school, it takes about 5 minutes.  My language school is called HEED,  the language centre is a small part of a larger NGO that works towards development.  It is the top two floors of a five story building.  There is a guard that unlocks the door for the students – quite secluded.

my mother requested a picture from my first day of class, like when I was in elementary school

I head upstairs and meet a man from Chicago who has been studying here for a few months.  One girl from Japan arrives, with her friend from Turkey.  Two students from Myammar arrive, then a Japanese boy arrives.  The principal, Shupti (or Susan) announces where each class will be held.  I am in the Phonetic A class with Baris from Turkey and Horoto from Japan (he is actually half Bengali, half Japanese but grew up in Japan and doesn’t know much Bangla.  Susan said there are normally more students but because it’s the summer, everyone is off on vacation traveling.  There is a wall of the passport photos of students from the past year.  I am the latest from America.  Most students seem to be from Australia or America, a lot from Korea and Scandinavia (Norway, Denmark, etc.)  About 40 countries altogether.

the HEED Language Centre building

The three of us head upstairs to this back room with AC (praise Allah!).  Our teacher is Pulak Chatterji (pronounced ‘pu-lock’).  First, as Pulak hands out our textbooks, he gives us some tips on Bangla culture.   Just as soon as I grabbed my book, he tells us that it is impolite to grab things with your left hand.  Guess which hand I grabbed my book with?  Then he says it’s impolite to cross one leg over the other.  Baris and I look down at our legs, and slowly uncross them, laughing at ourselves.  “Because you are foreigners, Bangladeshis will understand the mistake but it is still impolite,” says Pulak.  This might be the most difficult action of living here: I’m not sure I know how to sit without crossing my legs!

Our first month is dedicated solely to phonetics and learning structure.  For the first half, we practiced the sounds.  For phonetics, we are 8 of the 11 vowels and 28 of the 39 consonant sounds.  I remember most of the vowels from Kolkata but the consonants are a whole other ball game.There are essentially five sounds based on where your tongue goes: velar (tongue at back of throat), palatal (flat tongue on roof), retroflex (tip of tongue on roof), dental (tongue to teeth), labial (no tongue, all lips).

So there we were, three foreigners, shouting these new sounds, practicing the shapes of our mouth and placement of tongue.  The best way to learn a language is to never get embarrassed.  Never turn red for sounding silly – always try!

the Bangla alphabet

We take a cha (tea) break.  When I visited the school to register, Dipali must have asked the school to provide breakfast and lunch for me.  She must have been worried that I wouldn’t eat! So Susan told me that I should go eat my breakfast in the kitchen.  I'm super lucky,  I have no cook in my apartment and I don’t know how to cook anything here so it's nice to know where I'm getting food from everyday.  The cook is adorable.  I love the way older Bengali women are very affectionate.  I always outreach my arms to them and pat them on the shoulder, and they always take me by the arms, pinch my cheek.  I love old people, because I think society forgets them and they long for human touch. And as we know: “I have an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it” (Audrey Hepburn).

We return to class and practice sentence structure and begin with the root and present tense of verbs.  The little bit that I picked up in Kolkata has been helping me a lot, I’m grateful.  Hearing the sounds, more words and phrases are coming back to me so hopefully my vocab will grow quickly.

Instead of writing a novel like I normally do, I'll break up my first day into installments over the next week!!