Holes Carved in my Soul: The Final Word

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

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

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

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

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

Cribz Video: Dhanmondi

COMING SOON :)

What I Will Miss About the Desh...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.) Simply: the Bang's rawness.

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.

Love to Charlotte

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

Happy 23rd to Me : )

ladies: strike a pose!

gentlemen: boom boom pow

we take it low low low low low...

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

we finally found cheesecake!

i love being 23 years young!!

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

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.

Coconut Dreamers

Groovy break at the Mermaid Eco-Resort with Fahim!

happy faces : )

Jahangirnagar University

View on YouTube here.

Srimongol: A Vacant Vacation

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;

There is a rapture on the lonely shore;

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar;

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

-Lord Byron

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

Click here to view more photos of Srimongol

Too Beautiful Not to Post

Mark, Abdul, Mehedi, Samdina, myself

(Click here for large size.)

Abdul and I, looking fione!

(Click here for large size)

Happy Holi: Healing Our Skin Disease

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

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

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

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

Inarticulate Poet

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

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

Cacophony

I just want to record this sweet little moment:

I moved into a new apartment: four bedrooms, four balconies, three bathrooms, kitchen, dinning room and sitting room. We are three Bangladeshi and three Americans which we aptly named the Wonderful Six Women Nest: Choy Nari Chomotkar Basha. Right now, one of our maids singing about an eggplant tree cleaning in the kitchen. Our live-in maid, who we treat as a roommate, is chopping potatoes on the floor with a special, curved Bangladeshi knife. One of my roommates is putting coconut oil in her long, black hair to keep it soft and the smells are coming from her room into the dinning room where I'm typing away. Another roommate is tuning her guitar in her room behind her bright pink and purple curtain.

And in the back, the call-to-prayer rings from the mosque around the corner, singing his sweet melody to Allah and all who love him.

I tilt back and smile, grateful. Then cough from my sickness and blow my nose, to trumpet the cacophony of sounds.

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

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.