A College Class Talks about Saddam Hussein

American news is often on the front page of The Hindu newspaper, and the Editorial and Op-Ed sections cover more American-Indian relations news than other topics. When Saddam Hussein was on trial and killed, it was the headlining news and the most common conversation topic in my college classes. I am the sole American in town. It is an incredible amount of pressure to know that ones words may be the only American opinion a Mavelikaran villager may hear regarding the topic.

In the college classroom, students always ask tough and often unexpected questions: "Do Jewish people control the economy? Is that why the U.S. supports Israel?" "Do you like Castro?" "Why is the U.S. in Iraq?" "Do you believe there is a relationship between Bin Laden and Hussein" The other day a young boy on the street said to me, "Saddam Hussein was killed. He was the U.S. President?" His father corrected him quickly, but regardless of the boys confusion, he demonstrated a general knowledge of current events and an awareness of its effect on me, more than I'd expect from a kid his age.

I could avoid political discussions, much of me would prefer to, but what a waste that would be. A wasted opportunity to offer an American prospective and encourage debate and discussion. When I returned from the Christmas holiday I brought 4 newspapers to class and a Frontline article covering Saddam's life as a political leader. The newspapers all had healine articles from before, the day of, and after Saddam's death. I asked the students to tell me their opinion about a range of specifics, below is a conglomeration of the thoughts of about 35 college students:

Q: Regarding the trial, what are your thoughts?
A: It should have been done better, Saddam's part wasn't heard. It was conducted to satisfy other countries, not Iraq. I don't know much about the specifics of the trial, I just know everyone here says it was unfair. Iraqis should decide whether Saddam should hang, not Bush.

Q: Regarding the verdict, what are your thoughts?
A: Of 35 students, two say that he "deserved it," but it shouldn't have been Bush's decision. The rest are against the death penalty and prefer life imprisonment. Bush should also be tried (for the death of 6 lakh Iraqi people and 3,000 U.S. troops). The death penalty is cruel, he should be given the chance to live through lifelong imprisonment.

Q: What is the result of the verdict?
A: There are many protests. No judgement can satisfy everyone. The U.S. is trying to make sovereign power all over the world. Bush's cruel nature is proven by Saddam's death. Saddam is a martyr. It's shocking news to all people, nobody believed it would really happen. Most people are against Bush and more people are angry at America than before.

Q: The U.S. Presidential election is approaching, what advice would you give Americans about the election or anything you'd like to share with Americans?
A: Consider your personal feelings, but also those of the rest of the world. You can decide whether Bush is a good leader or not. Don't believe that because we don't support Bush, we do support Saddam. Use your vote wisely. Be careful about selecting your leader. Choose someone who is NOT in it for his personal benefit [her emphasis].

Renegade Ants and a Lesson on Pride

I took a late shower in frigid water after a lazy day of resting and reading. I spent the previous night and two days at the home of Beena Miss, a teacher at the Lower Primary School where I teach twice a week. She lives in a rural area one hour from Mavelikara. She is considered a "backward caste" member, a phrase I've grown accustomed to hearing but I'm not immune to the shock of the words.

I had put off showering earlier in the day when the sun warms the water pipes, so I drew in my breath and jumped under the stream of water. After 24 hours with Beena Miss, I returned with 11 bug bites on my right calf alone, a forehead dotted with defiant zits and a tummy growling as it digested the, at least, 12 meals I had eaten in the last 24 hours. Rural home and "backward caste" though she is, I ate like a princess and even watched a few minutes of Takeshi's Castle on cable. Her mother-in-law and I snorted in laughter together at the show which pits 142 competitors against ridiculously hilarious obstacles as they try to "take over" Takeshi's Castle. Though there is no castle in the distance, and India's relatively recent independance from Britain makes me feel very conscious of what my presence means here, I can relate, in a way, to those competitors. They jump onto a rolling log and falter, the crowd laughs or cheers or cringes as they watch. I feel like a competitor trying to maintain my balance on a swiftly turning log, and attempting to smile as the crowd watches.

Sometimes things happen too fast, many times things seem to go too slowly (all except for the buses). I usually misunderstand conversations and my jokes don't translate. I shower in cold water and the water I drink is boiling hot. I eat with my hands and take my shoes off at every storefront. The Indian sun pelts my skin, but I have never felt the glow of my white skin so pervasively. I'm a "missionary" who understands hardly a word spoken in church. In the U.S., my nose piercing might be considered rebellious, here the stud is much too small and not gold, what a waste! I teach English to kids whose native tongue I hardly speak. I am a female learning to play a traditionally male instrument, tabla. The stuffed animal I sleep with is a snowman, complete with a wooly scarf and hat (sent by my Mom for Christmas!). I am an anomoly on all counts.

I am finished rinsing, the hard part is over and I can peacefully powder myself. I think about pride, something that has left me too often erroneously defensive. That plus my stubborness make a pretty find pair. Add my occasional bouts of anger over issues I cannot change and I am like a bomb ready to explode. Batman tackles me with his handy Hot-Heated Repellant and I fizzle with a smoking "Kaboom!"

Today Kochamma, the head warden of the hostel, pulled me into her office before dinner, "I must tell you..." she said. She tugged my hand and sat me down. "You must be careful about food," she warned in a seriously concerned manner, "It may be too spicy for you." My first reaction was to vehemently assure her, "I love the food! It's not too spicy!" but I held back. No need to defend my adaptable, though very much American, stomach. Kochamma knew I felt a little quesy after my night with Beena Miss. She told me I need to rest. Kochamma has spent two years in the U.S. and perceptively asked a few questions including, "Do you want juice? Americans are always carrying a water or juice." She finished her food prep talk by telling me I could use the stove to make food and reminding me that too much spice is bad for my stomach. I realized, though I truly was not having much trouble with the food lately (Really I swear! No, I mean it!), her advice was thoughtful and wise and the perk of a stove at my disposal is a gift.

I pulled on my "Pennsylvania Authentic" t-shirt that sat waiting for me on the windowsill outside my bathroom on top of a mountaineous pile of newspapers. As I pulled it just over my head I looked at the pants waiting to be put on next and saw moving lines of reddish brown covering them. I looked more closely, shirt now in limbo on my shoulders, and saw the ants. A kingdom of diligent workers crawling over and through the folds of my pants, between the newspapers and out my window. Then I felt them; little marching feet all over my shoulders and my arms. I tore off my shirt and danced desperately shaking off the ants. I filled a bucket with water and soap and dropped my clothes and a colony of distressed ants into the suds. I passed my mirror as I went to get a different pair of pants and laughed at what I saw; pimply face, glaringly white skin, a belly full of rice and a few renegade ants commited to my shoulder. Pride really has no place in my life here. I'm thankful for this lesson.

Smelly, Hairy, Glorious Mr. Hess

I reached my hands into the cool, brown soil and heaved a load into the clay bowl by my feet. It was warm, but not uncomfortable, a welcome change. I took in a deep breath of Kerala’s fresh air and my mind traveled to 1985ish.

My family lived on Dark Hollow Road, a few acres of property and a beautiful stone house and barn in Pennsylvania. The front patio was currently being built by Mr. Hess. Smelly, hairy, glorious Mr. Hess. I sat with Mr. Hess during his breaks. He showed me how to stick green pods from a tree in our yard onto the bridge of my nose. I remember his bearish body odor to this day. An odor only attained in the hot sun while doing manual labor. We all smelled like Mr. Hess while we did “karma yoga”.

We were reconstructing a path uphill from the main hut to the meditation hall, which is also a hut. Karma yoga was a rejuvenating part of everyday during our 5-day yoga retreat in Idduki. Meditation from 7:30-8:15, Chaia afterwards. Asana yoga (stretching using the yoga positions you are probably familiar with) until 10:15, followed by a delicious brunch usually including rice, a salad of cucumber and tomatoes in curd, and pumpkin curry. Karma yoga from around 10:45-11:45. Tea at 1:30 and Asana yoga from 4-6. Dinner at 6 and meditation followed by a lesson from our Guru from 7-8:30. Five great days.

After karma yoga on this particular day, I yelped through an ice cold shower and began writing as I impatiently waited for Chaia time. My body was running dangerously low on its daily dose of cardamom and sugar. Apparently cardamom is the second my expensive spice in the U.S., making my digestive system quite the prize this year.

Our week of Christmas celebrations has made me feel refreshed and ready for the long month of January, which ends with my 25th birthday (groan). Our Christmas Eve was one of the best 4th of July celebrations ever. As we grilled chicken marinated in curry over a small charcoal flame, we watched fire crackers and sparklers from the neighbor’s driveway. A group of kids came by, banging pots and pans and singing as a mini-Santa Claus danced. Kochama made The Best Potato Salad Ever along with a delicious noodle dish. We drank boxed port wine from Goa and ate plum pudding topped with ice cream and M&Ms for dessert.

After eating what felt like two Thanksgiving dinners on a Christmas Eve that was celebrated like Independence Day, we sang some Led Zepplin, Bob Marley and that Tin Soldier song. Binu, Achen’s son, may very well be the coolest Ph.D. student ever, and he was the rockstar that night. Having lived in the States somewhere around 1994-1995, he picked up great taste in American tunes.

Back to the Ashram. My fellow volunteers are sitting on the porch discussing how badly Gandhi treated his wife and reading quotes from his autobiography. I hear one of them shout, "Gandhi II! No More Mr. Nice Guy! I'll have a steak, medium rare." Things are never black or white, good or bad, everything, Gandhi included, is a ball of grey mush ready to be smooshed around by American missionaries and their visiting friends.

Mr. Hess taught me to forever associate the smell of putrid perspiration with nature, childhood peace and the most basic and necessary happiness. I felt, and smelled, this again in India over the Christmas holiday.