My Village Family

I hesitated in August before creating this blog for my American friends and family. I now try ineptly to express my feelings and experiences. How do I find the combination of words that succinctly and honestly express both peace and frustration, loneliness and happiness, exhilaration and disappointment? Nothing is black and white and everything, once in black and white, is up for interpretation. I can only write about Mavelikara: one village of one district of one state in one country. The impressions I describe are only my own; spoken through a Western, female lens. There are few things I can say that do not deserve refutation or skepticism. One of those things is that my life in Mavelikara is a joyous one, filled with friends, laughter, conversation and delicious food prepared with welcoming love. When I criticise India, it is because I witness the pain of those for whom I care.

When Mary told me no one can touch her when she’s menstruating, she did so with a shadow in her eyes. Her experience may not be that of the average Indian woman’s, but her story is an important one and her pain is real. When Ryan itched his legs in pain, he did so in confusion. Ryan was not alone in his physical pain that day; a complex mesh of problems explain the actions of exhausted teachers, overworked and unsupported. What they did was crime committed by LP School teachers and parents through out Mavelikara (and probably Kerala, maybe through out India), part of an authoritarian educational system. If I reported them, Kallumala LP School may lose the few teachers it actually has; teachers who are exuberant and enjoy teaching. Nothing is simple; nothing is black and white.

When Ashley hugged me today, the kind of hug where you squeeze with all your might and sway back and forth, I felt sadness at the thought of having to leave this little girl I love, not knowing if she’ll eat everyday or who will pay her dowry. I criticize India because I know Ashley and Ryan and Mary and because I care about them.

India is a beautiful country. I have been welcomed without question by people who could demand answers for the actions of my country. The food in my stomach is prepared by people who ask “evide pogunu?” (Where are you going?) daily because they care about me.

I would be belittling the situation of my village family if I did not write about their pain, but I write about their pain in empathy-filled frustration. My country is lucky to not be the subject of this blog, because I would criticize much more harshly its actions and inactions than those of India. I write about caste, sexism and physical/emotional abuses in India, not ignoring the racism, homophobia, sexism, poverty and similar abuses in the United States. I write about the importance of empowering communities rather than simply providing charity, recognizing the complexity inherent in empowerment—and I still dig soup kitchens. I complain about having to wear a churidar, but I wear it out of respect for my village family. I drink mango juice even though it gives me “loose motion,” but that’s a different issue.

Is it possible to be happy and sad, angry and empathetic, respectful and assertive all at once? Yes. My pot won’t boil over because my anger is tempered by love—but it will still cook the pasta, I wonder if "simmering" is a confusing metaphor. I feel lucky to be able to “Simply sit and breathe” so that I can learn by listening to those around me.

*This blog piece is written in response to the comment to the previous piece called "Simmering." Please read both; your honest reactions are welcomed.