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.

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.

Notes on being a Paagli Didi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epiphanies on Rickshaws

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

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

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

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

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

Empowering for you and me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epic Love from My Sister

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 : )

Love Is The Truest Health

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

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

- Rumi

Bathing Beauties in Cox's Baazar

View more photos of Cox's Baazar

Jahangirnagar University

View on YouTube here.

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

A Start to My Project: My Talent As A Human

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Power of Listening

20.9.2009 -- Aseia

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

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

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

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

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

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!

Behind the Paagli Didi

For those who are new to the World That Is Amanda – the title of this blog may seem strange. So let me put fingers to keys and share with you the meaning behind paagli didi.

I wrote this last year when I worked in a shelter in Kolkata; a shelter for young women and girls who have been abused.  Working with two other students, we became close to these girls simply by spending time with them as they got ready in the morning.  Click here for one story.

Without language comprehension, I learned more about the horrific power these young women were subject to.  I saw my own strength, then the need that surrounded me, the need for that strength. It was here where I learned my role: paagli didi. In Bangla, it translates to ‘crazy older sister,’ and was the nickname given to me by the women I loved. Originally meant as a tease for myself and my friend Emily, I did not comprehend the gravity of this phrase’s precision. Its meaning has left such an indelible impression on me that these words, in Bengali, are tattooed on my wrist. It was here, at the feet of my Bengali sisters, that I discovered my role as paagli didi. With the concern and wisdom of an older sister, I needed to share my instinctive energy and compassion, and in turn, learn from others. Big sisters learn from their siblings as much as she teaches them.  It’s the perfect role for me: I am not a saint, nor am I selfish, I am a sister and we exchange love for growth.

holding hands with one of my crazy little sisters

In short, I have so much love that I want to encompass anyone who needs it.  I don’t think of myself as particularly talented, but I give a lot of hugs, I know how to start a thrilling dance party, and I speak with a lot of conviction.  It’s a slow process, but it is not just a career goal, but a lifestyle.

Click here for additional stories of my little sisters.