Cat's Blog: Revisited

Fundraiser Ends on May 15th!

2011-04-18T13:55:00.002+03:00

Help us reach our goal so Ammamma can surprise her family with a home!

A huge, "Thank you" to those of our friends and family who have already donated.

Building a Home

2011-03-15T19:55:00.002+02:00

It is not often that one is given the opportunity to thank a friend for intangible kindness with something tangible in kind. But, along with delicious curry, India dished up this chance.

Ammamma and her nephew, Abishek, 2011

Ammini Phillip, or “Ammamma,” is the headmistress of the women’s dormitory where I lived while volunteering in Mavelikara, Kerala from 2006-07. We stayed up late playing ludo, we told each other about our families and she took care of me when I was sick. We became great friends.

A former volunteer visited Mavelikara in February 2011 and told me some bad news.

Ammamma’s house collapsed in July 2009. Her family has been renting a house since then, while saving money for a new home.

“Building a new house costs five lakhs ($11,100),” Ammamma said. Her family lives in a fishing village in the backwaters of Allapuzha, Kerala.

Ammamma and her family at their rented home in Allapuzha, 2011

“Could you help me find a sponsor in the U.S.?” She asked.

The cycle of poverty has a harsh grip on families like Ammamma’s. Already poor, a tragedy like this one could leave them in dire despair if, say, her 79-year-old father falls ill and the family earnings are required for health care as well as monthly rent. Ammamma realizes this danger and is problem-solving her way through a financially tumultuous situation.

When each of the Mavelikara volunteers began our time in India, we asked our friends and family for support. We come together now, years after our time in India, to ask for your financial support once again. Our donations won’t solve her problems nor will it prevent them in the future, but it may help her bridge the frightening gap between desperation and survival.

This is a difficult time to ask for money from friends and family. Some of you may be struggling to find a job, to pay for student loans or to save to buy your own home or replace your old furnace.

Ammamma at the beach in her town, 2011

Ammamma built a home for the five of us when we lived in India, a pivotal year for each of us in different ways. Please make a donation to help Ammamma build her family a house.

Sincerely,

Heather Oleson (2005-06), Cat Rabenstine (2006-07), Katherine Bryant (2007-08) and Ariel Givens (2008-09)

Donate through PayPal by clicking the button below (you do not need a PayPal account to donate, you do need a credit card).

If you prefer to send a personal check, please email me.

Thank you for your donation!

What Does India Sound Like to Me?

2011-03-03T18:27:00.001+02:00

Afraid to take the steps?

2011-03-01T13:18:00.000+02:00

Do you avoid the stairs at the Apple Store on Michigan Avenue? Do you freeze at the bottom of the atrium steps in the capitol building in Madison, WI?

If not, you just don’t get it. You aren’t part of the club. You see, I am afraid of heights. I don’t know anyone as afraid as I am. Which makes me the leader of this club.

Hiking-and-scared in Petra, Jordan

When I approach something high, my body freezes in shock. My heart beats faster as I stare at the impending doom. It’s decision time.

I ask myself a barrage questions, “How high is it, really? Can I see the top (or the bottom)? Is there a fence or a railing? Is there ever a point where the railing ends, leaving me in the lurch?”

I sweat, my knees shake, I grab for something stable, sometimes the nearest person.

If I’m at the top of something looking down, I feel as though I’m spinning, doomed to hurdle down.

In the scariest situations, I feel nauseous and consider any other option (“Can I take a different train? I’ll go anywhere else!”). If I’m with a stranger, this is when it gets awkward. If I’m with a friend, this is when they get annoyed.

Life goes on though, and I must, nearly daily, face this fear experts call “irrational.”

Recently, my boyfriend and I went to the pyramids in Giza. We paid extra to enter one of the pyramids. I read in the Lonely Planet beforehand, that entering a pyramid was not for those with claustrophobia. I felt comforted by that. The idea of going up stairs in a womb-like, tightly enclosed space seemed easy.

The first stairway was so tight that you are basically forced to crawl up. It was the second part that made me freeze. I had to climb a precarious ladder that led to a precarious stairway with a precarious railing that led to a steeper stairway with a sad excuse for a railing in the middle of the completely open atrium of the top of the pyramid. I could not see how far up it went, and only knew that it led to a hot, dark death chamber.

I looked at my boyfriend and said, “I can’t do it.”

The next few moments are now a blur. People passed us awkwardly. Tears streamed down my face as I stared up at the stairs helplessly. I asked a woman who walked by, “How far up do the stairs go?” seeking answers that would make me feel like I could do it.

At last, after who knows how long, Joe looked at me and said, “Well listen Cat, I’m not gonna go up if you aren’t.”

That’s all he had to say. I’ll skip something scary, but definitely don’t want someone else to miss out on the inside of a pyramid because of me.

So I went up.

I cried the whole way. I asked him to walk behind me (then I couldn’t turn back) and put his hand on my back, which somehow settled my spinning head.

So was it worth it?

Yeah. My tears quickly melted into my sweat. But, it was where the pharaoh laid. It was a room filled with mystery and spirits and history. And, it was a room that I had to conquer my fear to reach, which allowed me to leave with my pride intact (once I wiped off the tears).

A few months after the Egypt trip, I spent a month traveling solo in India. Without Joe to convince me it was time to conquer my fear so he could see the inside of a pyramid, I had to face my fears alone.

I had a huge backpack on my back and a daypack hanging from my front. I was standing alone on the catwalk that connects from above the many platforms at the Bangalore railway station, shaking, clutching my stomach and trying not to tear up.

My first thought was, “I’ll have to go somewhere else on a train that leaves from platform one.”

That should tell you where my logic goes when I’m frozen.

I calmed down and reminded myself that I had no option but to go down the stairs. I had to do it and I could do it. “I’ll be fine,” I told myself.

I waited for a few people to walk down the staircase and followed them closely. Lucikly Indians do not require the same space bubble that Americans do, so I abused the privilege of bodily closeness.

I focused my attention on the backs of their heads and held onto the railway that led me safely down. Halfway down I realized I was muttering to myself. I was the crazy, crying foreigner talking herself down the steep steps.

Once at the bottom, my flood of relief was interrupted by a sinking realization. My train was, in fact, at a different platform.

Defeated, I walked to a tea stall and said definitively to the chai walla, “I’m not going back up those stairs. How else can I get to that platform?”

He saw the desperation in my face. I was eyeing the train tracks, ready to hurdle myself over them to avoid the stairs.

“There’s a tunnel that way,” he said.

No longer the crazy, crying foreigner, I was now the solo-traveler ready to conquer anything in her path. A tunnel, now that I can do!

There are alleged solutions to my problem: treating physical symptoms (mantras and candles), psychotherapy (what caused this?), behavior therapy (virtual scary situations), medication (for depression) and the support of friends and family.

I’m skeptical.

As a kid one summer, I conquered the high dive at the Wynfield Club in York, Pennsylvania for one day. One day. I spent all afternoon jumping off the high dive, but the next day, I couldn’t do it again.

I am able to conquer my fear when I have to, which means I could always conquer it. The thing is, sometimes I’d really rather not be the crazy, crying foreigner talking herself down the steep staircase. I’d rather be the leader of an elite club, facing my fear only when I must and then rewarding myself with chocolate on flat, safe ground. Would you like to join?

Fashion Week in Mavelikara

2011-02-17T11:23:00.000+02:00

This fashion show was part of the Sister Rachel Joseph "Hostel Day" program.

A Walking Dollar Sign

2011-02-16T17:23:00.001+02:00

Two days ago in Goa, a young Indian man perched on his motorcycle jumped up when I walked by. “Excuse me ma’am, I have a question for you.”

Ugh. I don’t want to buy anything and I don’t want to go to your shop and I don't need a taxi ride and I don’t need a scooter or drums or marijuana, I thought.

I stopped and waited for the solicitation.

“Why don’t foreign people want to stop and talk to Indians? Why do you always think we’re trying to sell you something?”

Hah! He caught me! But seriously, because I’m a walking dollar sign in a tourist town like Goa. If cash registers still made the “chi-ching” noise and I were a cartoon person, that noise would be my personal sound effect.

“Because, typically, Indian people are trying to sell me something.” I replied.

“You come here and you stay in hotels and you never get to know Indian people!” He protested.

Awesome. I come to Goa to relax after visiting Mavelikara, where I lived for a year, and I get harassed by an oily-haired motorcycle-dude for not knowing any Indians. He is messing with the wrong foreign chick.

“I lived in Kerala for a year, I…”

“I know, I know,” He interjected nonsensically.

“Wait a minute buddy, you stop me on the street to ask me a question and then interrupt me while I’m respectfully answering you?! No way! You listen to me finish my sentence if you want to ask questions!” I berated him.

Silenced, he let me continue.

I explained that I have lived here and I do have Indian friends who I care about. But, if he were to walk down the Goan streets in my shoes, he would not feel surrounded by friends, rather people whose income is desperately dependent on my dollar bills. So yes, in Goa I don’t stop and talk to Indian people because, mainly, they just want me to buy something.

I walked away in a huff, frustrated at being blamed for something I have no control over in a place I came to seeking relaxation.

I also immediately considered immigrants to my country, a land of immigrants that often welcomes them with judgment and even fear, especially if they are Muslim.

While living in Chicago, I met many immigrants who were struggling to survive in an unfamiliar land. I will never walk in a new immigrant’s shoes, but one of the greatest gifts living in India gave me, was the ability to imagine what it might be like.

I felt like a helpless child each time I tried to go shopping for basic necessities, when I stood at the bus stand not being able to read a single sign, when I didn’t know how to flush the toilet or how to find personal medication that I’d rather not have to ask everyone and their brother how to find.

I felt torn when I people harped on American foreign policy, wanting to defend my country but knowing I probably wouldn’t defend it if I heard the same in Chicago.

When I expressed frustrations about gender relations in Mavelikara, or religious intolerance at Bishop Moore College, it was met with defensiveness and distain. Fair enough. I was here for only a short time, enough to get my feet wet. How dare I express frustration about things I was only beginning to understand?

I had a few people I consistently went to for advice and help. It was comforting to have those close friends, but I realized that they would never know who I really am. How can you imagine someone being successful and independent when that person doesn’t even know that there is more than one type of mango?

And, it took me until this return trip to realize that, when random people on the street asked me if I had bathed, they were really just saying hi.

I’m only realizing now, upon my return, many of the things I learned while living in Mavelikara.

"You Are Not a Guest, You Are Family"

2011-02-16T15:59:00.000+02:00

It was a joyous return to Mavelikara, with lots of laughter and love. People showed me that they cared by remembering stories, bringing out photographs of us together and sharing homemade meals. Many remembered my favorite food, aapam, which was a huge surprise and a repeated treat for me.

I also felt the frustrations of the year return in an unexpected way, condensed into one-week as if time were flying by and I was experiencing the year all over again.

I kept imagining the unending, spiraling embrace in Dante's Inferno. They loved each other, but they desperately needed some breathing room.

During my second night staying at the ladies’ hostel, I sat down to email my Mom and my Joe. A few of the hostel girls hovered a few feet away chattering together. Then they came up behind me, so they could see the computer screen and still be able to ask me questions.

“What is your name?”

I stretched my neck around to say, “Cate.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from Chicago.”

Then they whispered to each other and I heard one of them say, “Dear Mama,” as she read the first paragraph of my email to her friends before they scampered up the stairs.

The next morning I saw Kochamma for the first time during my visit. An ancient matriarch, at least 200-hundred-years old, she was married to a Church of South India (CSI) pastor who died years ago (“Kochamma” is a title that means pastor’s wife).

She now has a mysterious job at the hostel. No one is quite sure what she does, but she visits a few times every week to tell people what to do and scowl purposefully as she scans the hostel budget books.

When she saw me she made an “aww” noise and pinched my chin. Unsure of how to proceed with adult conversation after commencing that like, I went with, “Hi Kochamma.”

She asked the obligatory questions and then disappeared into her office to do important-looking but unnecessary things.

On my last day in Mavelikara, Ammamma asked lots of questions about where I was going and what I was doing, astonished that I was alone.

She wrote down the name and phone number of the homestay I was bunking at for the next week and I shuddered. Will she call me daily? Will she check up on me?

At 29-years-old, I felt like I had returned to high school, except this time my mother is a voyeuristic nun who is very concerned for my well-being but knows very little about the capabilities appropriate to a near 30-year-old.

If I were married and had children, very reasonable for my age, I would be treated quite differently. Adulthood in Mavelikara isn’t reached until you’re hitched.

But, now that I’m in Goa watching the sunset over the waves of the sea, I can recognize that I was given an immeasurable gift to have a bundle of Indian friends with whom I’ve shared laughs and tears, who all want the best for me and I for them.

“You are not a guest, you are family,” Ammamma said when I thanked her for making up my old room so nicely.

No Such Thing as an Uneventful Massage

2011-02-16T15:50:00.000+02:00

I fell into a relaxing routine while in Alleppey. I woke up late and ate a delicious breakfast curry, made by the woman who owns the house, and then grabbed a rickshaw to head to my 10:30 Ayurveda massage.

Sushila, my masseuse greeted me with a smile and led me through an array of loud construction to a hut out back. I took off my shoes and walked into the room.

When you sign up for a massage, you are never quite sure what you are in for until you’re lying naked on a table, a vulnerable proposition to say the least.

In Chicago, I was gifted a birthday massage by a generous friend. The masseuse was a gentle giant with soft hands and an equally soft voice. He seemed almost timid about the whole process so much so that I wondered if it was his first massage.

At one point he stood at my head massaging my shoulders so hard that he had to catch me in his arms as I fell off the table. Both of us ended up in a giggle fest that lasted the rest of the 30 minutes. He left so I could dress and returned with a glass of water, apologizing profusely but still laughing.

“This was probably your worst massage ever!” He said with embarrassment.

In Italy I visited a spa somewhere between Pisa and Florence. It was off the beaten trail and nearly empty minus staff, maybe for a reason. I chose both a massage and a scented oil (lavender) and followed my masseuse to the room.

For this massage, I was given a pair of disposable underwear that were made of the same material as the hair nets the cafeteria ladies wore at Leader Heights Elementary School.

My masseuse turned on Enya and got working. Afterwards, she left the room to give me a few moments of relaxation, during which time the Enya CD started to skip.

I wondered as I lay there, do I get up and turn of the CD or is this a test of my ability to truly meditate no matter what the distraction? The woman would inevitably return as I’m standing there in my poofy, cafeteria hair net underwear fumbling with the CD player.

With this in mind, I hesitated before entering the hut the first time, wondering what I would find.

It was a small room with thatched walls, the centerpiece of which was a huge slab of oiled wood in the shape of a person, sloping down in the center with raised sides.

Using hand gestures and broken English, she told me to undress. Then she made me a loincloth by taking a long piece of white cloth, ripping the sides down nearly the entire length of the cloth, making strings that would tie around my waist. She tucked the long centerpiece between my legs and hooked it around the strings at my back. Brilliant.

Sushila pulled out a dirty plastic stool and beckoned me to sit down for a soothing head massage. Every now and then she let out an airy belch, which only added to my own relaxation.

In a few minutes she patted the side of the wooden person, asking me to lie down. It was cold, dirty and a little slippery. It smelled like wood and medicinal oils.

It was a wonderfully uneventful massage until she stuck her thumb in my armpit. I flinched and tried to prevent smiling, which made me burst into laughter. She smiled, but continued and soon we were both giggling.

To indicate she was finished, she drummed my bum with a pa-rum-pum-pum pat and put a towel on the door to the bathroom, clearly indicating it was time to shower.

Traveler’s note:

I found the cost of staying at an Ayurveda hospital far too high for my tight budget, so I opted to bunk at Arunima Homestay, which advertised in-house Ayurveda massages.

When I arrived, I found out they no longer provide in-house massages, they now book them for guests at a place across town called Snehadara Guest House.

Though Sushila was a fabulous masseuse, Snehadara was not only a bit gruddy but also undergoing construction immediately outside the massage hut. It was loud and distracting. Also, taking a 10-minute rickshaw ride across town ruins ones post-massage zen!

I cancelled my last massage and would look for a different option next time.

Not a Walk by the Lake

2011-02-16T15:48:00.001+02:00

Rejuvenated by an ayurvedic massage and refreshing nap, I headed out for an late afternoon adventure by the lake in town.

My first hurdle was communicating to the rickshaw driver my intentions. Map in hand, I thought it would be easily sorted. I just wanted to go for a walk by the lake, so I didn’t really care where exactly he took me.

Allepey is bookended by water, the sea on one side and Pallumalla Lake on the other with canals in between. The lake is the location of a famous annual boat race.

The driver held my map in his hands and stared at it blankly. It was written in English, but I thought the bodies of water would be clear in either case. I repeated the name of the lake, probably without coming close to the correct pronunciation. We repeated this charade a few times and he finally gestured for me to jump in.

We drove through downtown Alleppey, passing jewelry shops on one side and spice carts on the other, horns honking and pedestrians hurriedly crossing the street between bikes and rickshaws and lorries. We passed the docking point for houseboats, all in a line along the shore in an array of casual to fancy. Some had two floors, the bottom with a private room for sleeping and the top a deck for lounging and eating. Others were like canoes on steroids, with plastic chairs strewn around the deck for passengers to organize to their liking.

We continued further into the neighborhood, passing rickshaws filled to the brim with small children who saw me and did double-takes (I love that) and waved maniacally as if getting my attention would save a life. As we continued, the road became rougher. I bounced along, holding on for dear life less I tumble out of the rickshaw and attract more stares than I do by existing. We turned a corner and I found myself in a gated resort by the lake, much further north than necessary for a simple glimpse at the lake.

The driver escorted me to the resort’s reception desk, desperate for some real communication. I conveyed the mishap to the concierge, who seemed to have difficulty thinking of a place I could go to enjoy a view of the lake and take a walk.

After telling me that the docking point isn’t a great location for walking, he told me that the driver would take me there.

“But I thought you said it wasn’t a good place?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe I shouldn’t go there?”

“Yes.”

He discussed some more with the driver.

“Do people walk by the lake? Maybe people don’t walk by the lake…” I interjected, wanting to sort this out sooner than later.

“Sorry ma’am, I’m translating for your driver,” he said. Annoyed at my interruption.

After he finished I asked my question again.

“Typically people go on a boat ride,” he said in explanation of how people may enjoy the lake.

This being established, I asked him to convey to my driver that I’ll just head back downtown, close to the mouth of the lake.

After a few more minutes of translating, the concierge said, “He will take you there.”

“Where?” I asked, needing confirmation that I wasn’t being dropped off in no mans land by the lake.

“Downtown.”

I asked for change for my 500 rupee bill, which he didn’t have, and hopped back in the rickshaw sorely disappointed at the failure of my expedition.

After riding through the neighborhood, startling more small children in the process, he turned onto a side road that headed towards the lake.

“Ah! Where are you going?”

“Lake.”

Heeding the concierge’s advice that walking by the lake isn’t really done, and worried that he would drop me in a place where rickshaws are hard to come by, I reminded the driver that I really would like to return downtown.

“Vendu, downtown madhi” (Very childish Malayalam for: I don’t want, downtown is enough.)

We reached a point central enough to grab a rickshaw and close enough to the lake to do some exploring. I paid him 150 rupees ($3.35) and hopped out, feeling exhausted from the unaccomplished mission and communication disaster.

A few blocks away I happened upon a tourist information center. Having learned my lesson, I paid 200 rupees to book a sunset boat ride the next day.

Eating in India

2011-02-12T10:58:00.002+02:00

Cutting down a jackfruit, chopping up a fish and cooling down your tea. Here are some food moments from Kerala!

"What a Christmas!"

2011-02-04T15:11:00.003+02:00

“What a Christmas!” Ashwathi exclaimed to all of us from the kitchen where she was fixing tea.

With a packed social schedule, it wasn't until my last day in Mavelikara that I was able to visit Ashwathi and her family.

A 2007 photo of Ashwathi, Adulia and Adira with their neighbors.

Ashwati, (above in the white puffy dress) who was in fourth standard when I left India, is the youngest of three sisters. Her father is out of the picture and her mother has a heart condition.

After school, I often tromped to her house for a rousing game of tag. Afterwards, I would sit on one of two twin beds drinking a cup of tea adorned with ants and watch an episode of Mr. Bean. Their hut had two rooms and a kitchen. A latrine was outside, shared by a few houses. The cow hut stood two feet from their house and the mooing was audible from within.

Ashwathi was tiny. It was hard for me not to pick her up and give her a good squeeze every time I saw her.

Ashwathi and her grandmother in 2007.

She’d show me her cow on a near daily basis and, though it seemed to her like a pet, I knew it was part of her family’s livelihood.

Ashwathi and I in 2007.

Four years later, I tromped down the same path noticing small differences but not many. The road leading to the dirt path to her house was now paved. Instead of the patter of shoeless feet and screams of, “Cate Miss!” as I approached, there was a lasting silence.

Do they still live here? Is everyone healthy? Are there improvements to their house? Has the father reappeared?

I turned the corner onto the dirt road and immediately saw Ashwathi’s aunt walking to the water spigot. We both stopped when we saw each other. I tilted my head and smiled, waiting to see if she recognized me.

“Oh! Hello Miss! Enda devame! Evide poyo?!”

She did.

I followed her as she nearly ran back to the house, screaming out things as she approached. I could tell she was saying things like, “Wait until Ashwathi sees you! Sister! The strange, severly-white lady has returned!”

Ashwati's Mom, Aunt and Grandmother. A matriarchal household of three generations.

Ashwathi’s grandmother looked exactly the same. She stood with a crouch, donned in a dirty saree blouse and colorful mundu wrapped around her waist. She gave me a gaping smile and pinched my chin.

When I stepped into their house, I first noticed her mother, clapping her hands together and slapping her chest. “Sandosham! Sandosham!” She yelled exuberantly. This woman was really happy. Tears welled up in my eyes, both in relief and happiness.

After settling down a bit, I looked around to find myself sitting in an entirely new room with a TV, simple sofa set, white-washed walls and a dining table. They have a living room! I glanced towards the kitchen and noticed a gleaming red refridgerator. A fridge!

“Ashwathi!!” Her mother screamed. Ashwathi came out, not sure what to expect. She saw me and smiled. We clasped hands and looked at each other for a minute.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“Yes, Miss” She smiled.

“You’re so tall!” I stood up and make a quick comparison, then sat right back down realizing that my seventh grade friend was nearly my height.

Adulia is in 9th grade and Ashwathi, on my right, is in 7th grade.

She looked beautiful. Her hair was in long pigtails down her back. She wore her green and white government-school uniform, looking much older than in the elementary school frocks she wore before. Her shoulders slumped a bit as she walked, lumbering a bit now instead of frolicking as she did four years ago.

She always stood out to me among the kids in the elementary school. Not only because she was the tiniest in her class, as I typically was, but because of her ability to exuberantly dance during recess while at the same time, her eyes spoke volumes to the depth of her life experience. This was a kid who lived in poverty and didn’t know what to expect of her future.

I noticed now the weight of responsibility that hadn’t been there in fourth grade. No more Mr. Bean and tag after school, she attended tuition classes and sold her cow’s milk around the neighborhood.

Though I had stopped by for a surprise visit, she took care of her responsibilities. She ran to her tuition center to postpone her class and she did a quick run through her neighborhood to sell milk. She returned in a flash and sat next to me, sifting through the earrings I brought for her and her sisters.

“Cow?” She asked.

“Yes!” I responded, and we trekked to the back of the house to see her cow, the same one I timidly petted four years ago.

We took a picture, just like one we had taken after tag one day back in 2007, of her standing by her cow’s head. The cow now had strangely twisted horns and seemed enormous, and Ashwathi seemed to tower over it unlike before.

Ashwathi and her enormous cow.

We returned to the house and Ashwathi’s aunt presented me with her wedding album. She was married in 2003, before I lived in India, but didn’t yet have the photo album probably because she didn’t have enough money for it. She proudly brought out the saree that Ashwathi’s Mom had given her as a wedding present, it was cream colored with rich embroidery.

I found myself staring at Ashwathi through out the presentation of tea and photos and exclamations of surprise and happiness.

I assume her life will always be hard. Her shoulders are already slumped a bit, maybe with stress and self-consciousness. Her smile a tad less exuberant and her childishness evaporated. But, she was doing well in school and selling her cow’s milk. Her smile held vestiges of her childish exuberance and her eyes were those of an adult.

I realized as I stared, that I felt proud of her.

Bleating goats and backwaters bliss

2011-02-04T14:54:00.000+02:00

The covered 15-passenger boat surged to a start and my cheeks immediately began to jiggle with the jumbling of the motor. I bit my lip to avoid making a childish whirring noise in reaction.

We puttered through the narrow backwater canal, the crew plus eight passengers. Two Indian couples, one Japanese couple, an older German woman and me. We are a frugal bunch, opting for the three-hour sunset boat ride that costs only 200 rupees (less than $5).

Backwaters bliss

As we left loud Alleppey in the dust, we passed the biggest resort in town on our right. Through the boat window, I saw white, two-story bungalows in a row with an enormous backwaters boat parked in front. Across the canal on my left, I saw the ubiquitous Indian fishing community homes hidden behind trees. One-story cement homes with two or three rooms, the outside painted in a variety of colors making them shine brightly through the green backdrop.

Fishing village homes

Resort in the distance

I listened in amusement as the younger of the two Indian couples explained the numerous languages and dialects spoken here to the Japanese couple.

“In Kerala, they speak Malayalam. In Tamil Nadu, they speak Tamil. In every state a different language!”

“Ohhh!”

Later in the trip, the Indian man who explained languages turned to humming incessantly. Convinced he was ruining my zen, I was about to move to the lower part of the boat until he started air guitaring to himself. I stayed put, recognizing a true zen moment when I saw one.

The German woman sported tan, quick-dry pants that zip-off into inappropriately short shorts. She made repeated trips into the bowels of the boat to spray herself vigorously with mosquito repellant, carefully never to rub it in with her hands, using her legs like a grasshopper to spread out the deet. Meanwhile, the older Indian woman watched in a combination of interest and skepticism as she lounged in her free-flowing cotton saree.

Large, luxurious houseboats lumbered past our significantly smaller boat. As we puttered by, I wondered how many of the families we passed benefit from the backwaters tourist trade.

Big, fancy houseboat

Tiny one-person fishing boats were parked outside neon pink homes. During the obligatory tea break at four, one fisherman pulled up to the café in his boat to sell fish to a few women. His cigarette hung precariously from his lips as he scooped about fifteen fish into each of the bowls the women brought. Afterwards, he was served tea in a glass, pouring the remainder out into the canal when he finished.

Fisherman taking a tea break

We whirred by bleating goats and cows ready to be milked. Kids scampered out of passenger boats coming home from school and women worked in paddy fields with bellowing hats on their heads. Chickens picked scraps on porch steps and women slappedlaundry on rocks. People were bathing and working and eating and washing as I clicked photos and passed quickly by, a tableau that each tourist views from a distance.

Students take a school boat to this government school.

Villagers had different reactions to being an unintended part of this tableau. Some waved and smiled, directing their children to the tourists waving at them. One woman put her hand up to her face and turned away, avoiding our cameras. How many times must she do that everyday? A few hawked fresh coconut juice or treats along the way.

It was a wonderfully relaxing evening. Repleat with beautiful village vistas, a cloudy sunset and some major-friggin-air-guitar.

Homecoming

2011-01-26T15:02:00.000+02:00

The trip from Palestine to Cochin took six taxis, five buses and two airplanes. I crossed four borders and slept in two countries along the way.

This time, I was visiting India not to experience something new as a volunteer, but to visit people that I love. I was bursting with excitement regardless of my swollen feet, aching back and twisty-cone stomach.

My first few minutes soaking it up!

Rather than stepping right onto the tarmac into the Kerala air like I did when I first arrived in August 2006, a catwalk connected the plane to the airport. Rose water and a cacophony of flowery powders wafted around me as I rushed with the crowd towards the immigration line, which progressed faster than I expected.

I was thankful to see my red backpack quickly pop out of the cavernous luggage shoot and yelled for the man in front of me to grab it. He did, smiling and wincing at its weight (six lbs of dates, five bags of mixed nuts, two bags of chocolates, scarves and earrings galore, which will thankfully be doled out during the next few days).

Before I knew what was happening, six men working at three currency exchange shops were simultaneously beckoning me, “Miss! Miss! Come here, Miss!” I laughed hysterically at the competition for my attention, which ended anti-climactically for them, as I really just needed an ATM.

The rode to Achen's house in Aluva.

It reminded me of my last day in Mavelikara, when a busload of my elementary school students drove past on their way to their first day of middle school. They seemed too tiny to be going into the sixth grade. Their voices, still high-pitched, screamed “Cate Miss!” all together and waved as the bus drove by.

At last I steered my luggage cart outside, cash in my wallet and taxi voucher in hand. The rose water, powdery smells of people were mixed with lush plant and burning trash smells, the smells of a place I adore and am lucky to have called home.

Translation, anyone?

The rolling Malayalam letters on “Welcome!” signs outside the airport seemed to compliment the voices of families welcoming the return of their loved ones. Malayalam is a language you chew on, the letters must be rolled around in your mouth before they come out like droplets, one after the other in delicious spurts. The alphabet is a series of curly q’s and rounded M shapes, demonstrating its pronunciation to the reader, how one must swish the sounds around like wine before enunciating.

When the taxi pulled up to Achen’s house at five-o’clock in the morning, I saw his figure standing outside the house waiting for me. He was waiting with open arms and his hug melted me.

“It is so good to see you, Achen,” I bawled.

A few hours later, after a fitful rest in a climate much different than the desert I’ve become accustomed to, I was dipping appam into egg curry, eating delicious, tiny bananas and sipping on “chaia.”

These guys just wanted me to take their photo.

After four years I am back in India, and it feels like a homecoming.

Four years later: My return to Kerala

2011-01-22T15:13:00.004+02:00

My time in India was as formative as everyone said it would be.

In August 2007, I returned to Chicago and spent two years working at The Cara Program, a workforce development agency that achieves the high goals that it sets. Cara was an amazing place to come home to, where I felt a small but significant sense of control over one of the greatest faults of the United States: its homeless and unemployed population.

I realized, having worked with people overcoming homelessness, that I would rather be helping them express their incredible life stories than writing their resumes and coordinating mock interviews for them. So I went to journalism school, much to the chagrin of my bank account.

After j-school I moved to the West Bank, a place where Walls are being built. Where families discuss their livelihood over delicious mahklouba meals. Where kids are playing, students are studying and teachers are teaching but everyone is thinking about the occupation.

In three days I will return to Kerala for the first time in four years. It feels like a daunting vacation, returning to a place where a walk down one street revealed mansions, paddy fields and dalit huts. Where cows rule the road and dogs are dirt. Where Hindu temples belt out melodious prayers and rickshaws wheel perilously around tight curves in the road.

Please join me as I return to Kerala, this time as a tourist, hoping to see old friends, eat the comfort food I've craved and tell some stories.

Sea and Sunsets

2007-07-13T12:44:00.000+03:00

This is the last of a series of newsletters written for Luther Memorial Church in Madison, WI.

Culture runs much deeper than solely language, art, music, and food. There are cultural intricacies beyond Raja Ravi Varma (the famous Mavelikaran painter) and the beat of a skilled tabla player that I have grown to deeply respect. Though I realize that my learning curve is soaring at this point, and in many ways I believe another year in Mavelikara would help me solidify work and understandings of which I now have only a foundation, I leave this year realizing how much I have learned simply from accompanying.

The sound of Christians and Hindus at prayer through out the day—in their homes, temples, churches—has become a comforting sound. The faithful professing their faith with a commitment to daily prayer not often so openly witnessed in my home.

I value the prevalence of small shops specifying in one product (milk products, chicken, vegetables, fruits, bakery goods, etc) rather than huge one-stop-shopping marts. This changes ones lifestyle in more ways than we realize. It supports the “average Indian” villager better than any Wal-Mart could, adds a more personal and communal touch to shopping (which builds trust in ones community) and ensures product freshness and quality free from preservatives and pesticides.

The work of Mavelikaran activists has been prevalent for decades: artists, writers, educaters, organizers, physicists and architects, etc. These are men and women who, in some cases, have quit their jobs in order to focus on fighting social injustice. I am proud to have met these activists.

I was treated to hospitality that enabled me to experience the quotidian with fisher-families, daily laborers, agricultural workers, subsistence farmers, teachers, pastors, children, star-crossed lovers, newly webs, new parents, tsunami victims, chikungunia victims, bereaved families, and a precocious 12-year-old. They taught me about happiness without electricity, TV, running water, plastic, cars, air conditioning, computers, couches, carpets, etc. They taught me about their Hindu or Christian faith practice. They gave up their bed so I could sleep. They showed me the sea and the sunset, they walked me to their temples and ashrams, the invited me to their family marriages and funerals.

I am dumbfounded by the trust that allowed me to feel part of Mavelikara. Mother’s with whom I can barely exchange a word, trusting me to walk their small children to school. I pass on the street people with whom I’ve shared countless hugs and heart-to-hearts. Prabha Miss, my supervisor, taught me by being honest about her own life. Thomas John Achen welcomed all five volunteers into his family with compassion not often found in ones own next door neighbors.

There are things, superficial at best, that I won’t miss! The little bugs that smell like old trash and leave marks when I pick them off my skin. Cold-as-ice bucket baths taken in the dark of a power outage. The formidable stray dogs, and worse, the ferocious pet/guard dogs. The buses that careen by, honking a warning just in time. And though I’ve learned to respect the unique worldview of children, I will not miss teaching!

I return to the United States after three years away, ready to use what I have learned to make new lifestyle choices, to question existing norms, to vote, vote, vote (only once) in November ’08, and to celebrate American holidays while remembering Indian ones. I was accepted to the University of Essex’s Theory and Practice of Human Rights Master’s program, but I have decided to defer. I will be looking to return to Chicago, where I studied, this time to work and eat copious amounts of very-American food!

I want to sincerely thank you for your support of my year with the people in Mavelikara. I am a changed person. Peace be with you.

A Good Poison Called Chagrin

2007-06-11T13:35:00.000+03:00

During my first day back at the Lower Primary school after a month-long hiatus, the teachers and I were excited to see each other. They invited me to a Housewarming in the afternoon so we met beforehand at the school. While waiting for everyone to arrive, Achamma Miss, the "Headmistress", and I swept up the office space. Beena Miss soon arrived with her freshly powdered boys in tow. I always want to remember her reaction upon seeing me for the first time since my trip to the north.

She winced.

Then she curled up her nose until I wondered if I stepped in something putrid. She pointed to my face, hers still scrunched, and said with disgust and sincere disappointment, “You have lost your beauty.” Achamma Miss agreed, “Your complexion is gone.” I smiled, having expected this reaction (though not to this extent!). During the trip north I had gotten a tan and, hence, I lost my painfully pearly white complexion that the teachers adore. “Beauty poyo,” they said to each other (beauty is gone), as if my hopes of a good, similarly pale husband are now just a dream ruined by Rajasthan’s desert sun. But we were soon finished mourning and returned to telling jokes, the best of which was on me.

Lunch at the Housewarming consisted of heaps of rice served on a fake banana leaf plate with vegetable curry, curd, beef fry, fish curry, thoran and avail with ice cream to finish. I ate exuberantly and said “nala pachanam!” afterwards, an attempt to say “good meal!” This is a phrase I use often (as most every meal is excellent) and have, until this moment, passed the pronunciation test. The teachers looked at me and laughed hysterically (not an unusual sight). I had said, much to my dismay, “good poison!” instead of “good meal!” This is an apt demonstration of my difficulty with Malayalam pronunciation. I would not be an asset to a peace and reconciliation team, would I?

This banter was familiar to me and it felt like a homecoming party. Amidst the laughs, Achamma Miss pulled out a roll of blue prints and much to my amazement, before me was the sketch of a new school building, complete with classroom separations, new indoor bathroom facilities, and a new office. I picked up my jaw from the dirty, cement floor of the current office only to have it drop again when she showed me the cost estimate of Rupees 1,400,000 ($35,000). I was ecstatic to know that the Church of South India Education Board recognized the school’s great need and is on its way to fixing it. It may take years to raise the funds, but the acknowledgement of need and action to change things is an enormous first step.

I must admit, though, that it puts me to shame. This may be the most important lesson I’ll learn this year and I hope that, through my extreme chagrin, you will also learn from my big-headedness.

When I arrived in Mavelikara in September 2006, I began to teach at this Lower Primary school. It is dilapidated: a 135-year-old building that has yet to be repaired, an outdoor latrine, blackboards with huge scratches making it impossible to write, only 4th standard has desks, the classrooms are not separated. I harshly judged the Church of South India’s (CSI) district Education Board and the local church associated with the school for not seeing what I saw. I tried to learn as much as I could and for some I became a broken record about the school. I wrote a letter to the CSI Eduction Board and never sent it. I brainstormed how I could resolve the problem, thinking, “If no one here will do anything, I must.” I made assumptions upon assumptions, one assumption was that I understood the problem and another assumption was that I could solve it when the community could not.

As the blue print sat in front of me and the carefully outlined estimate proved its reality, I became embarrassed at my presumptuousness. As I outsider, I came in and thought I could fix the problem I saw. I felt I knew better than the community; that they were ignoring a huge problem. It was more than presumptuous, it was orientalist.

A week earlier I asked Thomas John Achen (my country-supervisor) if I could pay for new chalkboards at the LP school (“At least!” I thought). We talked back and forth about whether it is appropriate and how it would be best executed. When I returned to the LP school yesterday, I saw that they had painted over the old chalkboards with glistening, black paint. Tail between my legs, I realized the importance of “accompaniment” over taking control. It is more meaningful that the community and the Church of South India decided what actions to take and did so. Action within the community, instigated by the community, ensures continued support from within. It is empowering and lasting.

This does not deny the continued presence of inequality in education and the prevalence of poverty in Mavelikara. But maybe I denied the existence of those same things in the United States and thought I knew best because of it. In other situations in India or the United States, my accompaniment and advocacy may have proven quite useful. In this instance, I am happy that the improvements are being handled from within.

This may be one of the most important lessons I learn this year about “accompaniment.”

UPDATE: A week after writing this article, a section of the roof of the LP School collapsed. Since then, Bishop Moore College has opened 3 rooms to house the LP School for one year so that construction of a new LP School can begin immediately!

A Revolution

2007-06-01T09:10:00.000+03:00

Not so long ago in the US, women who wore jeans were considered “Tomboys” and few questioned traditional gender roles. I try to think of this as I struggle with the stories Mavelikaran women share with me. Stories that, had I been my Grandmother, I would also tell. I feel lucky to be born in the aftermath of the 60s generation of feminists who changed American history and gave American women more options. As I listen to women in Mavelikara, I am learning about a different type of revolution.

While living in a ladies hostel, I have learned a few code words for “menstrual cycle” similar in nature to those used in the US. One is “the dog bit me,” another is, “someone is in town.” My supervisor, Prabhaa Miss, told me that she recently heard a new code word…The Bloody Revolution.

She and I shared our amazement and excitement. It is a strong phase, almost violent, but demonstrates agency in its violence unlike being “bit by the dog.” It goes beyond the already audacious mention of blood, to take ownership of ones cycle in a proud, life-changing manner as something that strengthens a woman, something for which she can be proud. One of many cycles we experiences in our lives, and one that women cannot control (on top of many of the other things that some women cannot control in their lives). Not until it is a Revolution, that is!

Prabhaa Miss feels that if mothers raise their children to understand equality, things will begin to change. Though nothing will change for her or her generation, her twelve-year-old daughter is being given a great gift. What a powerful position mothers are in, to be able to raise their children with values that are in direct disagreement with their husbands’ values, (because in Mavelikara, raising children is a woman’s duty). Mothers in Mavelikara are giving their daughters the equality they themselves are without through agency they have only because of the inequality of enforced traditional gender roles. Now THAT is a revolution!

The Life-line of Indian Culture

2007-05-15T12:42:00.000+03:00

I am no longer in the India I recognize. The four other volunteers and I have taken a month to travel around the northern parts of India, taking on a new role to us in India as tourists. We traveled over fifty hours by train from the south to the north, watching the landscape change from Kerala’s lush greenery to the tan heat of Rajasthan’s desert. Now in Goa, at the beach, I recall the place where our trip started, one of the most haunting and moving places I have ever visited. Varanasi.

When I allow myself to truly face what I'm witnessing, India puts my extraordinarily Western ideals to the test. Located in NorthEasternish India, on the banks of the Ganga River (Ganges), Varanasi is a gently sloping town filled with tiny alleyways winding through tightly packed buildings, housing ground-floor stores and upper-floor apartments. People crouch to sell chaia from tiny holes in the wall and cows block the path of oncoming scooters. The sewers that line the streets are filled to the brim with brown, scuzzy water and plastic bottles of coca-cola and mirinda. It reeks of feces and body odor and spices. When you reach the Ganges it is a breath of fresh air, mostly.

During our first night in Varnasi, we attended a pooja ceremony at one of the ghats on the river. It lasted one incense-filled hour and we watched in confused, Western awe as the Hindu celebrants chanted and prayed, rang bells and lifted ornate incense holders in circle motions around their bodies. One might consider Varnasi the most holy town for Hindus, a place of pilgrimage. Dying in Varanasi guarantees rebirth and the Ganga water heals sins. As we toured the ghats (steps) leading to the water and lining the river, we pondered the importance of water in this city. Each ghat seemed to have a unique purpose: bathing, laundry, frolicking, mediating, and the most famous: cremation. Each passage and necessity of life centered around the Ganga waters from the most basics to the most holy. We passed a wall that read in yellow paint "Ganga is the life-line of Indian culture" and it seemed to make sense at that moment.

Later that day, I accidentally walked directly to the largest of the burning ghats, a cremation site. I was immediately led to a tower overlooking the site, much to my dismay and trepidation. "Come, come! No pictures, only looking!" the Indian man said as he pointed me up the stairs. When I reached the top, I saw bodies wrapped in blankets and recoiled, afraid that I had walked into a room holding bodies waiting to be cremated. "No, no, give some money, these people wait to die" the Indian man said. I realized that it was a room of people accepting donations for their cremation wood, paid for by kilogram and priced by quality of wood. I saw another Westerner in front of me and decided to walk to the edge. As I looked down, I realized I was witnessing about six cremation ceremonies at once, all at different stages. I watched tiny bodies wrapped in cloth and bright gold ribbons being dipped in the Ganges and then lifted by two men (untouchables) to the pyre on the beach. I watched a man, most likely the next of kin to the deceased, light a bunch of sticks from a holy, eternal fire and run to the pyre, rapidly taking the ceremonious circles around the pyre as the flame in his hand grew larger, finally lighting the feet of the body and walking away as the untouchables stoked and monitored the rest of the cremation process.

It felt morbid and ghastly. How dare I watch this? It was more vivid and horrific than any Hollywood movie could portray. It was real. I continued to watch and listened to my thoughts. I quickly lost the sensations of fear at the sight and disgust at myself for watching and began to watch in respect of the mourning ceremony I was witnessing. This was a funeral. It isn't morbid, but it is very real. Just as the Ganga River is a place where children swim and women do laundry, it is also a place where everyone in the city hopes to be laid to rest. It is a holy place and a welcoming place.

India has made me come to terms with a few things that America allows me to hide from: the prevalence of waste reminds me of my constant abuse of consumerism, the abundance of animals walking in my way and crapping in my path reminds me of the work and sacrifice that goes into the meals I eat, having to drink boiled water and take cold showers reminds me (in a Westernly counter-intuitive way) of the unquestioned opulance living in the West allows me, and watching someone be cremated reminds me of the beauty and stillness of death after a life led. A recognition that death is just as real as life is something India has impressed upon me, through the tranquility of a Buddhist temple and the shock of a Hindu cremation, to the logistical problem that, from Mavelikara, the nearest good Emergency Room is kilometers away over bumpy dirt roads.

Our trip to Varanasi was short and we were soon back on the train, perspiring our way through northern India's most famous sites. We shivered in Dharamasala (a welcome change!) and moped through Rajasthan's desert on ornery camels. We met fellow travelers from around the world and ate an exciting variety of Western, Indian and other foods. We ALL got sick except for Allison. We tried to reconcile within our group how to most humanely react to the hundreds of beggars we daily meet. We are experts at piling 5 people in one rickshaw. We poured over books and enjoyed long walks through new cities. Now we are at the beach, soaking up the salt sea and the equatorial sun before we return to our respective villages. I am nervous to return, and excited as well. I have been away for one month, and I have felt very free and independant, but also very self-involved. I will return to my village for two more months of service with my Indian family and I look forward to deepening relationships, improving my classes and learning more about Mavelikara.

Love Feasts

2007-04-13T10:37:00.000+03:00

On Easter Sunday I woke up at 5AM to the voice of my supervisor, Prabhaa Miss, waking up her 12-year-old daughter, Anoopa, and I to dress for church. I spent Easter weekend with them, eating delicious food (including American Mac and Cheese that I prepared for them!), watching Mollywood (Malayalam) films and playing various games: ludo, snakes and ladders, carrom, and rummy. Easter Sunday service was at 6AM and I needed at least 45 minutes to put on my new Kerala sari, a cream colored sari with gold colored trim. Anoopa sat next to me, laughing and giving advice, “Save that part for later,” “It’s too loose there,” as I successfully, though not skilfully, wrapped, pleated, tucked and pinned. We drank a quick cup of milky, sugary coffee and slowly walked down the street to the church, a Church of South India dalit church. Though the service was in Malayalam and the church smelled different than Easter in the States, I still felt the joy of the resurrection and the celebration of the holiday in the same way I have in the US.

When we returned from church at 7:30AM, we began cooking aapam to go with the stew Prabhaa Miss had prepared the night before. Aapam is a Kerala specialty, a yeasty dough cooked so that the edges are thin and lace-like and the middle is thick and soft. As I sat down to our Easter breakfast I felt sadness to be without my family for a third Easter in a row, mixed with Eastery joy while celebrating with my Indian family in a new way. It may be the only Easter in my life spent in a sari, eating aapam and stew. It was also very nice to leave behind Hallmark and the Easter bunny, replacing commercialism with ludo, carrom and the company of an exuberant and precocious 12-year-old.

After the Easter holiday, I returned to the hostel and was welcomed into the lives of my other Indian families. I visited the church’s Vacation Bible School program and was just in time to partake in a Love Feast, or Sneha Virunnu. It’s the VBS day when everyone eats lunch together in the one-room Lower Primary School neighboring the church. Each child opened her newspaper roll to reveal a bright green banana leaf, which served as a plate for the rice and curry within. The teachers walked around monitoring each class and their Love Feasting. Salama Miss shared with me some of the aapam and chicken curry she made (with love) and then I joined Anisha, a friend my age who helps at the LP School, to go to her home for a Love Feast with her family. After eating lunch with Anisha and her abundantly welcoming family, we sat on their porch facing the local paddy fields while they pulled out a harmonium (imagine a free-standing accordian that sounds like a pipe organ) and a violin and they played a few chords. Then they helped me practice the Malayalam alphabet and we laughed hysterically as I attempted to pronounce letters in what sounded like Baby Speak.

This is how I have happily spent much of my summer vacation (April and May) in Mavelikara, enjoying the company and love of my Indian families. I leave tomorrow with my fellow volunteers for a month of travel to the north where I will see for the first time the many tourist sites for which India is famous. Whoo-hooo!

Madama Me

2007-03-29T10:54:00.000+02:00

"It's a term of respect," Kochamma said during dinner when she noticed my expression of exaggerated agony at being referred to as Madama by those who know me well enough to call me a number of more endearing nicknames ("Mr. Cate" being one of them). Kochamma, the hostel's head warden, has visited the U.S. and speaks English in a haltingly slow but effective manner. I speak honestly with her about some of my feelings.

"But it's respect given solely for my skin color. It's a racial term stemming from British colonization. I don't like it," I respond, knowing how naive I sound. No matter how many times I request, or how many exaggerated expressions of pain I display, I am still commonly called "Madama" by the hostel staff. By now I consider the hostel staff part of my Mavelikara family, but to them I am “Madama.”

To Unni, the 24-year-old hostel “servant,” I am “Teacher.” A young man who I consider my peer must call me a term of respect because of his position in society. This is exactly what I don’t want! I asked him to, at least, call me “Cheychee,” which means “big sister.” The college students call me “Miss.” I live with these young women. We sit at prayer together. We make fun of each other. We pinch each other when we pass by and laugh together. But they are required by Ammamma to call me “Miss.”

I could list historical reasons why the term Madama is purely reminiscent of a colonized past. I could say that it is really another way of saying “white person” and it reiterates an “Us and Them” mentality. But really, the bottom line is, I just feel silly. It completes an image I have of a missionary that repulses me: the proud, pale lady here to save souls. A hardback Bible as large as an encyclopedia tucked under a skinny arm. She walks down the dirt road taking careful steps to avoid anything undesirable, never really fitting into the scene.

I walk down the street and, everyday, I hear “Madama!” uttered from children and adults alike as I pass. Sometimes I think even the cows are staring, mouths gaping open in shock, which really hurts where it counts because I grew up surrounded by farms and cows (until we moved to Wisconsin, which makes me chuckle and crave squeaky cheese curds). But here, even the cows know. The stares and the surprise does make sense. I live in a rural village. It isn’t often that a foreigner waltzses through the paddy fields, wearing a obviously oft-used churidar, holding the hand of one of their children. A strange picture, I admit.

Also, as often as I’m pointed at in surprise, I’m recognized and welcomed. I pass people on the street who know my favorite fruit, who have seen my family photos, who sold me talcum powder and rose water (my two favorite toiletries), whose directions I’ve trusted, whose chaia I’ve consumed in abundance (the abundance of which now rests in my abundant belly). People pull their cars over when they pass me to say hello and ask “Evide pogunu?” (“Where are you going?” The Kerala version of “What’s Up?” A greeting that doesn’t necessarily require a response further than “There”). The rickshaw drivers smile and wave when I walk past their hang out. I saw my doctor at the internet point (He is “my” doctor, my Loose Motion Guru). The guy who sold me shoes laughs at me because I came into his store in desperation showing him my broken sandals, which he kindly disposed of. The little girl who used to shyly wave to me from her door now yells, “Hello, Aunty!” when I pass.

Today I went to the Lower Primary School because, though students are taking exams and I’m not teaching, the teachers and I can chat. I smacked my lips after finishing a chaia and two kozhukuttu, one of my favorite coconut and brown sugary treats, handmade by Salama Miss with me in mind. I cracked open my Malayalam alphabet book that has been ceremoniously closed upon realizing that for every consonant, there an entirely NEW letter for each consonant/vowel combination and the memorization of lone vowels, which I had painstakingly accomplished, is quite useless for the actual practice of writing and reading. It is time to try again. I quickly re-established my previous headway (not much) and the teachers promised summer lessons (probably with the accompaniment of some delicious treats that will land heavily in my expanding thigh/hip/tummy region--I relish the thought).

A few friends have told me that I’m becoming a “Kerala girl,” which early in the year meant my hair seemed a bit dark, but now it’s a more meaningful compliment. My hair is growing, I’m pleasantly plumpish, I have decreased the decibels of my madwoman laughter (a humanitarian service), I listen (mainly because I can’t speak) and I know some basic Mavelikara stuff that fools people into believing I know what I’m doing. But mainly it means, as much as I stick out like a Weiner Mobile on the highway (and I don’t have any nifty whistles), we’ve realized that we have enough commonalities that transcend an inability to communicate well. We see each other for who we are. This is a big step.

My Village Family

2007-03-13T13:53:00.001+02:00

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.

Simmering

2007-03-09T06:41:00.001+02:00

I don’t know what to write, or how to express what March feels like in an Indian village. Maybe it’s the books I’ve been reading, maybe it’s a growing desire for some cheese and apples, or maybe it’s just March. My feelings could probably fit into the “culture shock” chart given to us at orientation. I remember looking at that chart during orientation week and wondering: two years in Italy, now three weeks in the U.S. and I leave for India in four days, where do I fit?

Mounting frustrations over the question “What am I doing here?” brought me to the conclusion, “Simply sitting and breathing,” which happens to be the punch line of The Worst Joke in Kerala (Q: What are you doing? A: Simply sitting and breathing. That was the joke). If I were, say, working here instead of volunteering, I could haughtily respond to the question, “What are you doing here?” with a top-notch, important sounding answer. The answer would give my presence significance. A reason for being. People might be impressed. My CV would be flush. Instead, (from this day forward) I say “Simply sitting and breathing.” I am no one of significance in Mavelikara. I’m not organizing, coordinating, or even assisting. My presence is my reason. I’m not important and that is significant. Because of me not being important, I can simmer on what is:

-Diane, a student earning her Master’s in English, told me last night about a friend of hers who asked her to call him “urgently.” Diane tried to contact him from a pay phone during the day to no avail. She told me that she cannot call from the hostel because Ammamma (the warden) would ask questions. “Who are you calling?” “What is your relationship to him?” Diane said Ammamma would assume that they are “in love and going to run away together.” This is an example of the type of assumptions made by adults regarding inter-gender friendships among young people in Mavelikara. Simmering.

- Mary, a freshman studying science, and I had a long conversation about menstruation. This was not “girl talk”, this was much more. She told me about her first period. She is Hindu and, she said, unlike Christians who are embarrassed by the onset of menstruation, Hindus celebrate it as a right of passage worthy of candies and cakes. She went on to talk about everyday life in her home while she’s menstruating, an unusual topic, but I soon understood why it was relevant. She cannot enter certain rooms in her house (the kitchen, the pooja room or prayer room). She sleeps in a different bed. No one can touch her. No one can touch her. No one can touch her. No. One. Can. Touch. Her. Simmering.

-Bishop Moore College (BMC) is a co-ed Christian college. The hostel where I live is for ladies only and is run by BMC. There are a significant number of Hindus living in the hostel (maybe more than there are Christians, a close tie if not) and I recently learned that these students are forbidden from going to temples while they live in the hostel. They are required to go to a Christian prayer service every morning and every evening. It explains why, many weeks ago, I walked out of my room at midnight to see hundreds of little candles lit and twinkling under the dark sky. It was a Hindu holiday that the students had to celebrate in secret at night because they were forbidden from doing so otherwise. Simmering.

-There is a student in second grade named Ryan who is mentally handicapped. The other day he tore his notebook and threw it in the trash. Or it could have been a classmate’s notebook, the language barrier confused things. I watched as the teachers yelled at Ryan and then hit him multiple times on the legs with a bamboo stick as punishment. He didn’t cry. He itched his legs where they stung and moved back towards the wall. Soon a few other boys were questioned and punished in kind. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to muffle my cry of frustration when they began to hit Ryan and the teachers reacted by showing me the trash can filled with discarded notebook and saying “Look! Look!” Simmering.

-The other day I noticed that Ashley has a lisp. What do you do when a kid has a lisp? I don’t know. Will she always have a lisp? Why is speech pathologist so hard to say? Simmering.

Without my room in the “ladies hostel,” my daily routine with the villagers, and my “Simply sitting and breathing,” I wouldn’t have so much on which to simmer. Imagine a pot of water bubbling consistently, not close to boiling over but no where near still. The sound is relaxing and the heated water could cook any fusili to al dente perfection. This is my new metaphor for March. And for my feelings of “anger” (I’m reclaiming the word) and frustration.

My email address

2007-03-08T07:17:00.001+02:00

Click here to email me!

My apologies to those who had trouble finding my email address! I look forward to hearing from you!

Sweltering Sun and Rigorous Tag

2007-03-08T07:16:00.000+02:00

As your winter draws to a close, I begin to sizzle in Kerala’s dry season. An Indian state known for its lush landscape sits in waiting these next few months for the monsoon rains of June and July. So does that mean the sarees are ceremoniously stashed in moth balls in favor of tank tops and shorts? Not a chance. A saree is protection not only from the cool but from the sweltering hot sun too. Lands End would be smart to run a line of India’s best utilitarian digs.

My former boss began many of our weekly staff meetings by asking for our “Highs and Lows,” a great way to get all the dirt from an emotionally charged team of young “Student Life Assistants.” Now into month seven of my Indian education, I’m ready to begin to break it down. But honestly, I will never be able to truly express what this year has meant. I will begin with lows. Without a second of hesitation or chagrin at my frivolity, my coconut fiber mattress is my lowest of lows. I remember what I thought when I first hopped hopefully onto my bed in September, “OK, this is how it will be.” When I’m really tired, my mattress is just welcoming as my carebear cloud of a bed at home, but it is no cloud.

A more pervasive low is my inability to act on the injustices I witness. Something I recognize now more than ever is the value of empowerment over charity. A recent article in Frontline highlights an organization called Andolan, newly created by Muslim women in Uttar Pradesh, a northern state of India. The chairperson of Andolan said, “We seek to create an alternative voice of Muslim women with the belief that Muslim women themselves can lead the movement towards equality and social justice.” Those are pretty meaningful words and it leaves me with a deeper understanding of my “ministry of presence.”

During our recent trip to Andra Pradesh, a state in southern India, we visited villages where Dalits (members of the lowest caste) are learning their rights and gaining them. Community leaders who visit to provide educational workshops recognize that they are just a tool. Though the Lower Primary school where I teach twice a week desperately needs an expensive facelift, what it needs more is awareness and support from the community. It needs a government ready to hire one teacher per grade (as opposed to two for four grades). It needs recognition of the injustice prevalent in an education system where poor kids get a poor education. The cyclical nature of these issues is frightening.

But the “Highs” of my seventh month in India are plenty. It’s hard to think of just a few. I played a rigorous game of tag with five kids from theDalit colony close by and went to evening prayer drenched in (very unfeminine) sweat. I roasted marshmallows (Thanks Mom!) with the kitchen staff over their cooking fire after dinner when the heat of the embers was perfect. I was asked, “How do you make marshmallows?” to which I obviouslyresponded, “With a stick and a fire!” A slightly confused question followed, “But no, the marshmallow itself, do you know how to make it?” WHAT?! It was a cultural emergency. How do I explain that no one KNOWS how marshmallows are made, but I’m sure it involves the same carebears who are protecting my cloud bed right now.

I’ve started and ended every day in India with curry, I relish a refreshing glass of just boiled water, and I can easily differentiate between good and bad chapatti. My previously short bob now reaches my shoulders, I am a“regular” at the post office and bakery (well, a few bakeries), and the hostel girls know my strange habits. The kitchen staff no longer wonder whyI sit with them in the kitchen, they know I just like it. Here I am in India.

Fruit Juice and Bowling Pins

2007-03-08T07:14:00.000+02:00

I washed my face after a morning at Vidyapith, a grade school. I look different to myself in the mirror. Shirley Miss, a teacher at the college, warned me to wash my face with cold water aaaall the time. She describes the previous volunteers’ battles with dry-season zits as a horrendous affair. “They were covered head to toe,” she states with conviction. I wonder how her science fiction-esk exaggerations will describe me to future volunteers, “She was sooo short, the size of a leeetle mouse.” Her Dr.Who-ish concern is valid, however, and I follow her prescription.

My walk home from Viyapith was a short one. I passed a scampering lizard and considered the strange popularity of the idiom “to bell the cat.” I passed students who, immediately upon seeing me, began simultaneously bumping into each other like stubborn bowling pins and clutching each other like scared mice waiting for the immanent pounce. The affect I have on people in Mavelikara is a strange phenomenon.

I pass a woman in her early thirties who asks “You’re going to college here?” as she walks by. I answer “No” with a friendly smile, which she returns. Neither of us stop walking. Going to college here. A smile on my face. The college students are preparing for exams – big ones. They’re signing end-of-the-year diaries. Next year’s preficts have been elected. I walk past the college campus and the bowling pins fumble for the security of friends’ hands.

My stomach isn’t doing its 12:30 rumble. It’s too hot to eat rice. I am a ridiculous American. I just want cold water, fruit juice and an iced mocha. The cinnamon skies have become a sweltering sauna.

My afternoon is free. I decide to go into town after lunch. I haven’t bought a new churidar since before Christmas. I’ll get a cold fruit juice. Check my email. This freedom to spend an afternoon as I wish is a gift that none of the hostel girls have. I realize this as I concoct my afternoon away.

Halfway

2007-02-10T09:57:00.000+02:00

February marks the halfway point of my year in India and I have mixed feelings. I am excited to return to the U.S. to live, for the first time in three years (having spent the last two years carbing up in Italy). I’m excited to celebrate holidays in the U.S. and I might bake myself a pecan pie everyday for the rest of my life to make up for lost time. I miss my family. I’m excited to be in the U.S. for the upcoming Presidential election. I’m excited for fall colors and winter snow. I miss my bed and my music, red wine and pasta, libraries and blue jeans. But I know when I return, I will miss so much about India. It is the people who have made this experience truly profound. Here are a few tid bits about my most trusted friends and mentors.

-Anne Miss, an English professor at Bishop Moore College, invited me to her home for an early Christmas celebration, the day after which we spent five hours in the grips of Jane Austen (or was it Colin Firth?) watching Pride & Prejudice. I finished a can of Indian-brand peanut butter by the spoonful as we watched. It was a special treat for both of us!

-Beena Miss and Salama Miss, sisters and teachers at the Lower Primary school who are very open with me. Yesterday we talked for over an hour about Indian methods of child delivery, sexual harassment and sex education. We laugh together and make fun of ourselves and each other. “When you marry, bring your husband here and I’ll cook Kerala food for him,” said Salama Miss, a jab at my vehement “waiting for marriage” mantra. “Then he’ll leave me and stay with you,” I retorted, to which her head flopped back with laughter and she slapped the table with glee. “Yes!” she cried and repeated what I said to Lillyammamma, who cooks Kanyee and peas for the 110 children. Lillyammamma laughed, she wants me to marry so much it makes me uncomfortable. “I will go with you and your husband to cook for you,” she suggested with frightening sincerity. “But who will stay with my husband?” she naughtily asks. “Lillyammamma!” she cries and looks to Lillyammamma, a new grandmother, who laughs and nods.

-Prabhaa Miss, the head of the English department at the college and my on-site supervisor. She and I discuss literature and feminism, cultural norms and music, Mavelikara gossip and human rights issues. It’s a gift to watch her as a professor, woman, wife, mother and community leader.

-Binu Chetan, the son of my country supervisor, who is a Ph.D. candidate in New Delhi. Binu Chetan listens as well as his mother, challenges society as well as his father and plays to Bob Marley on his guitar as he sings under the Che Guevara poster in his room.

-Ashwati, the tiny 4th grader who has stolen my heart. The daughter of a single mother and one of the poorest families in Mavelikara. She calls me Cate Chechee (older sister), she loves her cow, she loves to dance and she hates peas. Her mother serves me tea when I visit and I worry that it’s a burden, but rules of hospitality pressure me to accept. I brought a cake for Christmas, take family photos and listen to her talk about her life. She was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, soon after which her husband left her for another woman, offering no child support for their three children.

These folks are my Indian family. They are my teachers and my friends. They are making India an experience for me much deeper than cinnamon skies and backwaters boat rides. My Jesuit education challenged me to “Set the World on Fire,” but it is these people who are sparking the flame.

Hotel Bliss

2007-02-10T09:31:00.000+02:00

"How has your faith changed?" "Do you have A/C?" "Will you feel disdain when you return Western culture?" "What are your greatest struggles?" The five volunteers joined a group of Presbyterians from Sacramento's Joining Hands Against Hunger program for a week in Andra Pradesh hosted by Chethana, an NGO in India that empowers agricultural workers, etc. The Presbyterians asked us difficult questions and we struggled to answer, a foretaste of our future re-entry to the United States!

Together we visited villages in the most rural areas of Andra Pradesh, traveling over roads most traversed by water buffalo and chickens than by black jeeps. In each of the five villages we visited, a band of drummers welcomed us and women presented us with handmade flower necklaces. It was overwhelming and ornate; I felt horrendously Western, like a celebrity receiving undue respect. We followed the drummers to the village meeting place: a church, an office, under a tree, in a hut. Then we listened. We listened to their struggles: handloom weavers who spend four days weaving one sari to make 250 rupees (about $5) while the middle man sells it for 500 rupees (the suicide rate of weavers in that particular village hit 100 weavers during one month); farmers who don’t own land, or who bought land only to find it doesn’t exist; farmers who buy hybrid seeds from corporations who genetically mutate the seeds to produce seedless crops, requiring the farmers to buy seeds each year; farmers who are so caught in a capitalist market that subsistence farming seems fruitless when in reality it is a stable venture lacking the risks of cash crops. We listened to women who finally own land and Dalits (lowest caste) who are learning about their rights for the first time.

As volunteers, the five of us reveled in these six days for a few reasons. It was heartening to learn about an NGO that empowers. Chethana means “life force” (sanskrit origins) and as an organization it truly opens doors for people to take on life with a new energy. We enjoyed spending time together; it had been a month since our last reunion and during our 26-hour train ride north we updated each other on our sites, our struggles, our joys and our toilet traumas. And finally we were treated to comforts felt for the first time in five months: A/C hotel rooms, soft mattresses, hot water to shower, room service, HBO, toast and jelly, beer and Merlot, soda and an abundance of cold, bottled water. We felt like royalty! Our last hotel was called Hotel Bliss (I’m not joking) and I will attest to the accuracy of its name. The elevator (elevator!) music was soft “Om shanties” and the floors were marble.

But I also felt a tinge of frustration as we shared a week in Andra Pradesh with a group of Americans visiting for a short twelve days. I think Cammy put it best, our new friends were witnessing India through the eyes of Chethana. We learned about the struggles of those villagers who are lucky enough to be connected to an organization focused on empowerment. Our Presbyterian friends smile as they recall the moments of joy they experienced with the villagers: the exuberant welcomes, the hearty smiles, the excited children. I’ve experienced great joy here as well; five months of great joy. But it is mingled and meshed with an overtone of anguish, frustration, futitility and anger smacking like a 9-meter sari against a rock on laundry day. In Mavelikara, after leaving Hotel Bliss, I will teach at a Lower Primary School for Dalit children that has only 2 teachers for 4 grades and desperately needs a facelift, but there is no NGO jumping to help.

My faith now stands on solid ground. I don’t have A/C. I, instead of disdain for the U.S., will re-enter my country as a proud citizen ready to continue learning and challenging. My greatest struggles in India are: my skin color, my feeling of uselessness, and my desire to be a functioning part of a community of which I can never, under these circumstances, be an equal part.

I have returned to Mavelikara, with a new friend called “Loose Motion” (the runs) and she and I are getting reacquainted with life in the village. Ruby, a hostel girl, brought me two books of transliterated hymns in Malayalam. Ammamma sat on my bed yesterday morning as I was waking up and told me her happy news, that she’s been given a week leave to visit her sister and her young nephew. She had tears in her eyes when she told me, she was so happy. Eechay in the kitchen has made me lots of black tea for my friend, Loose Motion. I leave for Sri Lanka in a few days.

I can’t believe I’m in India.

A College Class Talks about Saddam Hussein

2007-01-18T09:12:00.000+02:00

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

2007-01-18T08:26:00.000+02:00

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

2007-01-02T19:04:00.000+02:00

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.

My Christmas Gift to You

2006-12-18T12:13:00.000+02:00

Merry Christmas Friends and Family! Below is my Kerala Christmas gift to you. Thank you for your support and encouragement.

Kerala-Style Chicken Curry
Chicken 250 gms
Coconut Milk ½ Cup (thick)
Coriander powder 2 tsp, Red chilly powder 1 tsp
Pepper ½ tsp (lightly roast and grind previous 3 to a fine paste with water)
2 Onions sliced, 1 small piece ginger sliced
4 flakes garlic sliced, Curry leaves 1 sprig
Coconut oil ¼ cup, Mustard Seeds 1 tsp

-Heat oil in a deep pan
-Add mustard seeds, fry
-Add the sliced ingredients, saute
-Add the masala paste, fry until the oil separates
-Stir in the chicken pieces, stir to coat and cook a few minutes
-Cover and cook until meat is tender
-Pour the coconut milk, simmer and remove from flame

A Christmas Poem

2006-12-18T12:05:00.000+02:00

So last year the volunteer at my site performed a piano recital for the Hostel Christmas Program and it is ALL I have heard about the past few weeks. I cannot play the piano, so I wrote this poem and, amazingly enough, had the guts to recite it for the Christmas Program on the 15th. In no way do I aspire to be a poet, thank goodness!

"I will never forget this holiday,
Celebrated with new warmth in the Indian way,
A glow of red replaces the cold of snow,
Preparations and decorations brightly show.

This is a holiday spent with new friends:
ente koothookaree.
Girls who've taught me to sing and dance,
To eat with my hands and laugh at every chance.

In the end it's not so different, you see,
The Christmases of you and me,
Just like humanity,
The facade may differ but inside is only similarity.

So Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night,
A wish for the world, as is only right,
A prayer for the homeless and those in need,
And thanks for happiness and grace, indeed."

Never Thought I'd Say...

2006-12-18T11:57:00.000+02:00

-"50 Rupees for a rickshaw ride! Preposterous, I'm walking." (50 rs = just over $1)
-"Please pour in my palm some of that yellow curd with whole peppercorns so I can drink it, yummy."
-"I can't wait to take an ice-cold shower!"
-"Fresh grape juice is my favorite!"
-"Look, my fellow American volunteers, there's a white girl in a bikini on the beach, scandalous!"
-"9 girls sleeping on 3 twin beds...no problem!"
-"Mineral water or boiled water?" "Boiled please!"
-"May I wear pants outside the house?"
-"How much does 1 gram of gold cost?" (at the jewelery store)
-"Can you teach me how to starch my clothes?"
-"I don't mind sleeping on a mattress of coconut fibre."
-"I handwash all my laundry."
-"Watch out for the ants in your pastry." "Oh, I don't mind the ants."

A Hindu Pilgrimage

2006-12-18T11:48:00.000+02:00

On the train from Kottayam to Mavelikara, in my attempt to find the "Ladies Bogie," I found instead the bogie filled to the brim with excitement: two Christian politicians from the local Panchayat and a hoard of Hindu pilgrims to Sabarimala. The 90-minute ride was action-filled. The pilgrims chanted and burned incense while the politicians hounded me with questions and advice on where to travel. As the pilgrims, all men dressed in black, left the train I wished them a safe journey to Sabarimala and they smiled in surprise. Little do they know, and better that they do not, I purchased an orange lunghi for myself, one of the typical outfits of a Hindu pilgrim.

When Mary Kochamma, the head warden of the hostel, saw my orange lunghi for the first time she laughed. The lunghi is reserved for men only and is quite the scandal for me to wear even around the hostel where I live. It is a long piece of fabric (cotton) wrapped around the waist like a long skirt. Perilously loose, men comfortably re-tie and tuck their lunghi constantly. The idea of a woman wearing so "little" and the possibility of the lunghi coming loose make it inappropriate for women. I reserve my lunghi for the evenings at the hostel.

Kochamma immediately untucked my lunghi and re-wrapped it the way older, Christian women wear something similar. It involves much less freedom of movement and a cute little tail of pleats hanging from the backside. She said, "Women cannot go to Sabarimala because of our periods." She proceeded to say, "You could dress like a man...hair up."

Sabarimala is a temple dedicated to Lord Ayyappa, protector of the forest. The temple is located in the Periyar Tiger Reserve. We are in the middle of pilgrimage season, where Frontline estimates that about five million pilgrims will visit.

There are new programs in place to ensure care of the nature reserve during pilgrimage season, which is a valid concern in a country where disposal of plastics is so difficult. Among new laws and regulations is one program I found particularly reassuring on many levels during a long bout of frustration for the Dalit community (the lowest caste who often live in colonies or "slums"). Several groups of Adivasis (people indigenous to India, often very poor) who lost their ancestral land when the Mullaperiyar Dam (1895) and later the Tiger Reserve (1978) were established were alloted space for eco-friendly shops, rent-free. The expectation is that they will be "guardians of the forest", keeping the pilgrimage paths clean, being careful of waste and using rubber trees supplied by the government for fuel rather than using trees from the reserve.

Pilgrim season will come to a close soon, but I will continue to wear my orange lunghi and never again will I sit in the boring "Ladies Bogie!"

*Factual information about Sabarimala and the Nature Reserve were taken from Frontline, December 15, 2006, "The Journey is the Destination").
*The lunghi is similar to the white wrap Gandhi was known for wearing.

Encounters of the Natural Kind

2006-12-18T11:17:00.000+02:00

My Encounters of the Natural Kind may have begun on the farm in Pennsylvania where I lived as a little girl, but these daily tidbits rival any previous story I had from my childhood!

-It is common at weddings to receive a small lime with your meal as a gift to take home. I went to a Hindu wedding this past Wednesday (which means there was delicious vegetarian food!) and took home my two limes to make juice. The only ingredient I needed in order to finish making it was sugar. I went into the kitchen and asked Eeche, "Panchasara theramo?" as I proudly displayed my water and squeezed lime mixture. She led me to a steel canister. Taking off the lid and steadying the canister on the shelf of her bosom, she stuck her hand in the sugar and poured a large handful in my cup. I watched the huge grains of suger fall with a "ting" in my metal cup and wondered silently about the black specks I noticed falling with the white crystals. As I poured my sugar into the juice, I shrugged when I realized the black specks were ants. A little extra protein for my lime juice!

-Mice run around the hostel like little rats of Nymph secretly causing the daily power-outtages that we naively blame on the "low-wattage," (if only the Indian government knew it might take care of the nuclear energy issue). One day a student presented to Ammamma a tiny trapped mouse cowering at the bottom of a wooden trap. "They destroy our clothes," she said. I wanted to let her in on the secret of their success in stealing our energy and building their own little "Special Economic Zones" in the walls of the kitchen: tax-free auction of grains of rice and the occasional bit of fruit. I decided not to.

Instead I watched in stupid horror as Unni, the youngest of the hostel staff, dunked the wooden cage into the hostel lilly pond. He held the cage under water for less than one minute and the frantic ripples in the water soon dissipated. I was watching from my room and Unni noticed. He flashed his rockstar smile and held-up the dead mouse by its tail. I made a face at him and shut my window. I heard him laughing as he walked past to throw out the mouse...I'm sure they're plotting revenge.

-Today I asked Ashwati to introduce me to her cow. She scampered me to the back of her hut and pointed to the two cows in an attached room in the back. The lively 4th grader grabbed the rope running through the cow's nostrils and pulled its head to face me. She explained something I didn't understand, then took my reluctant hand and made me pet the complacent cow. She gently patted the cows protruding tummy and said, "baby." Good, I thought. A baby cow means more money for this Dalit family of five.

-A few weeks ago The Hindu reported the attack of a small herd of inebriated elephants. The elephants had imbibed an unidentified alcoholic substance (probably
"Toddy," an alcoholic drink made from fermented coconut water), and in their rowdy drunken state had wreacked havoc. I think this may beat UW-Madison's Halloween parties.

Message for Hostel Prayer

2006-12-18T11:09:00.000+02:00

This is the text of a message I gave during one of the nightly 6PM prayers at the hostel. My first "homily-ish" piece. Yikes.

ACTS 3: 1-10

I was once given the opportunity to visit a hospital for people with leprosy. I met a man there. He had lived with leprosy for over 10 years. He had been abandoned by his family, his loved ones and before this hospital opened, by society. Was it fear, I wonder, that enabled those he loved to leave him stranded? Allowing leprosy to take over his body, leaving only his mind in tact? I sat down next to him not sure where to look. His grey, empty eyes? His toothless, gumless mouth? The stubs of his legs? I took his hand in mine, no fingers, just a palm. He began to sing. I listened. He swayed and bounced a bit, he was dancing. I joined. This man was happy. This man made me feel joyful. The room stopped smelling like a hospital. It was magically transformed into a cacoon; a safe place where the toothless sing and the legless dance.

As I left, he asked me to remember him. “Remember me when you see birds flying in the sky,” he said. And I do. He couldn’t see the contours of my face, my happiness or my fear. But he looked at me and knew how to show me what is real in this world.

Outside the Beautiful Gate lies a beggar asking for rupees. For dollars. For pounds. For Euros. He was not invited in. Peter and John see him, “Look at us,” they said. The three men made eye-contact. Peter and John acknowledge the beggars personhood in a way never done before. The beggar expected to receive money. Instead, Peter took his right hand and helped him to stand. The beggar found himself “strong.”

Sometimes it is the most simple act that is most meaningful. The acknowledgement of ones humanity. Eye contact between two people. A loving touch.

Something I believe the United States lacks that India has perfected is community living. Ones water bottle is shared without question. Holding hinds while chatting forces deep connection. Homes are open to visitors without an invitation needed, “just come over.” Cousins are the equivalent of siblings. Chaia seems to always be prepared, ready in a minute for the thirsty visitor.

I feel lucky to live in this community. A place where I am free to celebrate my faith and, in some ways, more importantly, free to learn about the faith of those who are Hindu or Muslim. I am lucky to learn from you.

I have been in India now for 10 weeks. I’m slowly learning about the complexity of Indian culture, most obviously through learning Malayalam. A language with over 50 letters in the alphabet, many of which still sound the same to me: “Nga, nja, na, naa?” I still have much to learn.

I’m confused by the hierarchy that rules. Here at the hostel it is final years above first years. In society it is men above women (though in many ways a woman leads your country). India heralds Gandihi’s life, empowering the Dalit community and exemplifying ahimsa and satyagraha for the world. Yet here in Mavelikara, in the Lower Primary School, children melt on hot days without fans and a walk through the village at 5A.M awakens the homeless families sleeping under store fronts.

Do we look at these people everyday, acknowledging their humanity? Or do we quickly walk by, not stopping to speak to the families eating breakfast on the sidewalk and the children dressed and powered for school, coming from one room homes and holey-thatched roofs?

I believe God is challenging us in this passage. Yes, this passage describes a great miracle, one of many. But is also exemplifies a reality that exists now, in 2006. Both in the U.S. and in India. Forgotten people sleeping outside. God is challenging us to act. To empower others. To acknowledge their humanity. TO LOOK AT THEM. To take their hand, maybe a palm without fingers, and help them to stand, or sing, or dance.

In Matthew 6: 21-23 Jesus says very bluntly what is expected. ACTION. It is not enough to praise God.

So I place a challenge before us all. Or maybe two. Te first is to acknowledge, maybe with a nod, a smile, a wave, those around us. The second is to take your faith, whether you are Hindu, Muslim or Christian, and let it inspire you to act on the injustices you see.

In this room, we capture a piece of a generation: 18-26 year olds. When we read the newspaper, it is about what our parents’ generation is doing. We are next. What can we do better? Let’s start thinking now. What is your vision for our world?

Your Gandhiji said, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” So what is that for you? Will we walk inside the temple to pray without acknowledging the beggar outside?

Joy

2006-11-30T08:13:00.000+02:00

Usually there are moments every day where I feel exuberantly joyful. There is something newly refreshing about joy during my stay in India. Maybe it is because my joyful moments in India are always directly associated with a very simple interaction with another person. Today was filled with those moments.

It was a busy day, beginning at 7:30 and ending after dinner at 9. Here are just a few bits of my day…

I started with my favorite breakfast at 8:00. Puttu, param, and panchasara. Imagine something between grits and couscous, made of steamed rice flour and fresh coconut flakes, add some sugar and mush some banana to make a delicious concoction.

I spent the morning at the Lower Primary school, which is always equal parts exhausting and fun. Today it was my post-lunch lesson with the Lower Primary school teachers that was truly meaningful. They asked me to do two spoken English clases for them each week. I bring a short article from The Hindu newspaper and we discuss that along with some basic conversational tips. Today these teachers must have had their favorite breakfast too, because they were hilarious. I asked, “what will you do today?” One of them responded along with a list of other future tense misshaps, “I will go home with my husband.” Everyone burst into laughter. I didn't understand. “Jealous,” Salama Miss said. Apparently the husband of Achamma Miss, the headmaster, is out of town and they make fun of her being lonely and jealous of the other happy couples. “Why is he away?” I asked. “To make more money. Two months in Dubai.” They laughed at that too. In answer to the question, “What will you make for dinner?” Achamma Miss retorted, “Salama Miss makes canyee because she’s poor.” Canyee is rice boiled and served in the rice water. I'm not particularly fond of canyee. Salama Miss laughed, “I’m poor. Always canyee.” I turned to Beena Miss, “How are you?” “I’m suffering from chikungunia, pain in my joints,” she said. This is a shock for me. Chikungunia is a very serious viral infection passed by mosquitos and is a big problem in Kerala right now, especially for the poor. It is painful and there are only antibiotics that take a few weeks to work. She laughed, “I joke now. I go to bed and cry.” Their honesty and laughter was refreshing.

It was the evening spent with the kitchen staff that I most enjoyed. The kitchen is my new favorite place in the hostel. I now help to make chapatti on Monday nights. Last Monday I rolled misshapen circles with a rolling pin. “America! Australia!” They laughed that my chapatyi looked like countries instead of circles. Today I did the first step of separating the huge blob of dough into tiny balls to be rolled. This time they laughed at my overly ambitious dough-balls. “Othiri!” (too much!) they said.

I asked Ammachi, the 70-year-old, bent-backed woman with silky skin draped over strong bones, “Evide orangio?” (where do you sleep?). “Va,” she replied, motioning with her hand to follow her. She led me to the back room, behind the kitchen, where three beds without mattresses were located, seemingly unused. As I tried to ask, “Where the heck are your mattresses?” the power went off. It was completely dark. I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed. I squealed in surprise and groped for Ammachi’s perpetually shaky hand. She led me to one of the beds, hacking in laughter all the way. I sat down and she held my hand. “Yelli?” (mice?) I nervously asked. She said yes. I squealed again, in the pitch black, and raised my legs from the potentional onslaught of furry friends. Her enjoyment of my vulnerability increased and I realized that I too was enjoying this moment with her. She kept repeating “Yelli! Yelli!”and pretending to be scared. Ammamma came with a flashlight and I ran for “safety.” Ammachi slowly followed, I think she was still laughing and muttering “yelli!” Ammamma said, “You learning?” I said, “Yes!” The power returned.

After dinner they asked, “param venom?”(Do you want a banana). I accepted, I hardly ever say no. Usually they hand me a banana, this time they pulled out a white plastic bag of newly purchased bananas. Not really sure how to grab one from the dangling bag, I took one handle to peer inside. Ammamma handed me the entire bag to let me grab one and I seized the opportunity. I pretended to take the bag and make off with all the bananas. They started to squeal and I laughed. I put the bag on the table and I took one banana. They said, “Randu!” (Two!) and I said, “Madhi, onnu” (Enough, one), and smiled at them. They’re getting used to my antics and they’ll know who to blame for missing bananas.

Faith in Action and Thanksgiving

2006-11-26T13:49:00.001+02:00

Today is Thanksgiving. I am waiting at the Chengunar train station for the Kerala Express south bound to Trivandrum. I will meet the American contingent on the train where we will begin to share stories and treats from our respective villages and towns. I have a small vanilla breadcake and a bag of mysterious cylindric snacks to share. I will surprise them later with a pack of Twizzlers.

I am feeling very Thankful. My community is strong and supportive both here in India and at home in the U.S. But foremost on my mind this Thanksgiving is the image of Ashley's mother, who I met yesterday, fighting back tears while talking to the Lower Primary school teachers. Her husband left her and married another woman. He is not providing alimony to help support their three daughters. Ashley and her family live in a Dalit colony (slum) neighboring the hostel where I live. In January, Ashley will miss out on the school trip to Vigaland, a water park, because her mother cannot afford to pay. The family has larger worries than a trip to Vigaland missed. Food, safe shelter, medical payments for her mother who is a heart patient and impending dowry costs for three daughters are some of her concerns.

I am afraid for Ashley's future. She smiles and dances each time I see her but in her 10-year-old eyes I see maturity that frightens me. Resilent eyes that watch the “real world” like an enormous weight on her mother’s shoulders, a fist clenching her mother’s heart.

This Thanksgiving I will give thanks for what I have, but I will be thinking of what I can do. Faith without action seems meaningless to me. God doesn’t demand only our love, he demands action. There are many Aswathi’s in the United States too, forgotten people.

To my friends, to my family and to my home church, Luther Memorial: I challenge you to consider deeply what you can do to make positive change in your town. Here are some ideas:

-Support local farms by regularly shopping at farmer’s markets
-Commit to a type of volunteer work each week
-Limit your waste and recyle
-Don’t shy away from politics, confront realities
-Recognize an unmet need within your community and begin discussing logistical solutions
-Read a newspaper from outside the United States for a wider perspective (The Hindu is linked on my blog)
-Work with young adults; be a mentor, support and encourage their passions, most importantly LISTEN to them

Please add more to my list in the comments area below!

On Writing and Inspiration

2006-11-26T13:20:00.000+02:00

Each new book I open has provided a goose-pimply sense of inspiration. I’ve chosen, very intentionally which books to read this year, knowing they’ll help frame my journey and provide possibly much needed respite from reality.

A moment of inspiration strikes and I run to my room or search hurriedly though my bag for my lone mechanical pencil.

Inspiration is strange. Shashi Deshpande in Small Remedies writes about the awkwardness of moving into a families home for an extended stay, which is often how I feel at the hostel or while visiting a friend’s family. She says, “This is like my first few days in the hostel, when the thought of being with so many strangers was daunting, my loneliness emphasized by being in their midst.” Within the first few pages of her novel, I was hooked.

People often ask what inspired me to volunteer in India. What planted the idea? I think my mother is right; it began with our world map shower curtain. Pastel colors delineating each country, some of which were renamed and lines re-established in those years of my childhood. I remember being scared of Berlin after hearing about the wall coming down. Africa was a vast and confusing place, bigger than the United States but mysteriously powerless in my mind. India was not on my radar.

Freshman year of college I did a research project on the Indian and Pakistani population in Chicago, focusing my study on the Devon area, filled with restaurants, fabric stores and ornate jewelry shops. During one of my excursions, I bought a non-English Indian newspaper and was asked by the shop-keeper in honest, dumbfounded curiosity, “Are you Indian?” Maybe that was the moment for me. My strange moment of inspiration.

Now I’m in India and I experience strange moments daily. Waking up to the fusion of melodies that collide when the neighboring temples and churches all celebrate simultaneously. Smelling the next meal being cooked. Cinnamon colored sunsets and green, fruit-filled landscapes. The man who delivers curd by bike and the woman who cooks rice for the kids at the Lower Primary school in a tiny wooden hut over a huge pit of fire.

Inspiration comes as a mix, a masala containing beauty and harshness, pleasure and frustration.

Many of the women I live with are in the hostel because their houses and families were hurt by the Tsunami. The teachers at the LP school are from the poorest class in India, most are members of the Communist Party of India (Marxist) because they say, “that party supports the poor.” Recent rains flooded streets and homes. “Special Economic Zones” (SEZ) are being constructed on prime farmland, bought at a low price by companies from farmers deep in debt. Chikungunia hurts the poor children and senior citizens with already weak immune systems. Women can’t leave their homes after six in the evening. College students study what will afford them the best job rather than what they find interesting.

These are inspirations in a different way. These moments make me feel lucky to have a United States passport. I realize that being a citizen of a superpower affords more opportunities than I can list. But my “Western” world view is extraordinarily limited. India is teaching me about extremes: happiness and sadness, hunger and fulfillment, need and desire.

The other day as I read “The Hindu” newspaper, Ammamma said, “Hair is darker. You are becoming an Indian.” I stood up to eat lunch, spooning rice into my mouth with my fingers and slurping curd from the palm of my hand. I cannot believe that I am in India…

Searching for Social Justice

2006-11-14T11:15:00.001+02:00

October 2, 2006

Today one of my favorite Lower Primary students (4th standard), Ashley, came into the office with tears streaming down her face. She had a toothache. I had previously told Beena Miss, one of the teachers, that I wanted to visit the homes and meet the families of my students, so she invited me to join her to take Ashley home in an auto-rickshaw. We drove off the main road and onto the tiny dirt path that winds through the Dalit colony. Her home is a few yards from the dirt path. A hut made with cement walls and a holey thatched roof that leaks in the rain. Three small rooms, beds everywhere to fit the entire family; Ashley and her two sisters, her mother who is a heart patient and her grandmother who works as a cook for three families (I cannot fathom the time it must take to cook for three families). Ashley told me once, “Father illa” (No Father), so I responded, “Njaan Father illa” (Me no Father). Ashley's father left her mother for another woman, my father passed away when I a bit younger than Ashley.

Ashley dances. She calls to me, “Miss! Miss!” takes my hand in hers and leads me to an open area of the school or to the shade of the one large tree in the schoolyard. She brings me a seat or points to a spot to sit and then she dances. The children soon form a circle around her, the boys pop their heads in and show off a bit (but no one can dance better than Ashley) and the girls clap their hands and play with my hair. All of these children are Dalits. All of these children live in tiny cement homes with a roof that leaks and an outdoor latrine.

I am angry. I am angry about the bribe my friend feels obligated to pay to ensure she’ll receive future paychecks from the university burser. I am angry that some Christians feel evangelism is a necessary part of “serving” the community; a bowl of rice isn’t really free. I am angry that the elementary student with down syndrome will face years of abuse from his peers under the eyes of oblivious teachers; I am angry, more than anything else, because no one else seems to be.

I have taken people off-guard with my forcefully announced opinions, but in the past I have also sensed disappointment from others when I sat silent and unmoved. Passionate beliefs must simmer before they erupt. I am struggling with how I can teach my students about “leadership,” “vision,” and “social change,” themes throughout my high school and college learning that helped me in my path to self-actualization. I sense a lack of social duty on the part of many students with whom I speak. Their college experience is not one where they debate and discuss “burning issues,” rather they listen to lectures. They are not expected to critically analyze what they study, they are supposed to memorize it. Is it any surprise then, that that on Gandhi’s birthday, the college’s National Service Scheme (NSS) chose to clean the front lawn of the District Court instead of installing fans in the local Lower Primary school (though they did receive from the attorney’s a pretty plaque and “points” for their NSS team). When NSS ate a snack at the District Court, they left their paper plates strewn on the lawn to the left of the kitchen. Where is the thought connected to their intended service project? I was asked by one of the District Court judges if Americans have programs such as NSS, but his mind was already made up when he asked, “Americans do not do things like this, do they?”

My brother built houses in Appalacchia. My mother has the wisdom only possibly attained during a career as a social worker. My college mentor inspires young people to discover “where you true passion and the worlds deep hunger meet.” My pastor spent time working on a Southside Ministry in Madison, WI with a community forgotten by the self-heralded city of which it is a part. My previous boss teaches the first service-learning class at the John Felice Rome Center, where up to twenty-five Americans volunteer through out Rome, experiencing a Roman reality that all tourists obliviously miss. I am proud of the Americans I know who are doing service all around the globe.

My college students are pressured by their parents to study a topic that will earn them the best prospects. One student is studying a science but would much rather study Social Work; she said she must convince her parents to let her. My students define “leader,” as someone who is politically active, like Sonia Gandhi, but stared blankly when I asked in what ways they consider themselves to be leaders. They are never asked to consider that.

Ani DiFranco, the American folk singer, says it bluntly, “If you’re not angry, you’re just stupid, you don’t care.”

Anger, maybe especially in the United States, is a red-hot “no-no.” Emotions that are associated with tension are repressed. Men shouldn’t cry and women who are angry are just being “hysterical.” But what drives hunger strikes? What compels hundreds of people from all backgrounds to march across the countryside for hours in protest until they reach the guarded site of the Narmada Dam, which will submerge their farmland and homes in water? I think it was anger; anger that encourages positive, constructive action. Anger that inspired change. Untapped anger undoubtedly can be a dangerous, explosive emotion. But let us not deny the positive power of the kernel of anger that allows us to act, to sing, to read, to write, to organize—in order to make change.

I am glad that I feel anger; if I was not angry about some of the injustice I witness each day, I would be horrendously oblivious to my surroundings and my neighbors. My anger, not violent, aggressive anger but rather anger based on my compassion for the injustice my neighbors face, fires my faith into action.

“Vendu”

2006-11-11T09:45:00.000+02:00

I was bombarded with saree fabric choices and decisively picked out the muted rose colored material, silk fabric with gold-colored trim. I have no trouble saying, “vendu” (I don’t want it) to clothing (food is a different matter). Ammamma and Ambily voted for bright royal blue and teal. “Vendu!” They took me to the tailor to have my rose-colored blouse stitched. I waited a week and when it was ready, the show began! Ammamma was folding the pleats into the draped shawl while Ambily tucking the skirt. “Oh, you are veeeery short. I must tuck sooo much,” she direly announced. It took twenty minutes to tuck, pleat drape and pin. I didn’t know what to do, so I put my hands in the air and clapped whenever they did something that somehow made it look more like a saree than one huge piece of fabric. “Chirikuduka!” (Laughing girl) they called me and smiled when they saw my excitement. Previously I told Ammamma how I do not like when people call me “Madama,” the general title for any white foreigner (images of the missionary I fear or an authoritative, powdery old British woman come to mind). “Ishtamala,” I said and she laughed saying, “Chirikuduka, your nickname, is better.” I agree. They were finished and I looked in the mirror. The difference between a churidar and a saree is incredible. I felt like I should be doing something powerful with graceful confidence (like leading the Congress Party?).

After a day of walking I changed my mind. Graceful confidence turns to mush when you are stuck between a truck and a puddle in 9 feet of silk held together by pins. Churidars allow for freedom, and that wins over grace all the way. For my second shopping outing, I decided to get one less formal saree and another churidar. Sounds easy, does it not?

I visited Ambily’s home in Pala for the weekend. On Saturday we were taking a special road trip to Ernakulam for shopping. Ambily had just received her first paycheck in a year and had promised all the members of her family a special treat care of her. At the time, I did not know this was the goal of the day. We entered Saree Heaven. It was six stories of saree splendor; the world’s largest saree showroom, apparently. We quickly separated, Ambily, I could tell, had a mission to fulfill. I found the cheap saree rack and began digging, soon to find a salesperson at my elbow pulling from piles and showing me sarees. “Vendu,” I think I said it fifteen times until I looked at her and had to be honest, “I am very picky. I am a difficult customer. I am sorry.” She understood, smiled, but continued to throw sarees at me to my frustration. I knew what I wanted: Cheap price, good quality, unique pattern. She and I were not on the same wavelength. I finally found one I liked. “Venom” (I want this) and she seemed relieved. I then went to the churidar floor and things got worse. Another salesperson dragging out fabrics when I just wanted to browse in peace. I think I searched for an hour. Things were much more expensive than I had expected and I didn’t like the colors. After an hour with a salesperson, I felt awful saying, “Eh, no thanks” so I opted for a churidar that was out of my price range but very unique. Her relief could not be contained. She whisked me off to the cashier.

Two weeks later I have yet to get my new saree and churidar stitched. Maybe I am afraid of what unexpected debacle might occur. Maybe I do not want to open the bag and remember the day of shopping 9AM-5PM that got the better of me.

Fibs and Respect for Giraffes

2006-11-06T13:08:00.000+02:00

When I first arrived, I was lost in the sights, smells and sounds. I only now am beginning to notice how my senses have been constantly bombarded during the last two months. Why it took me so long to recognize this, I do not know. Each day I experience a moment of serenity in the surreal beauty of India: the sounds of neighboring temples, the smell of green chili plants or a curry being cooked, the reddish hue of dusk.

In September I was also lost in sadness and loneliness. Never before, after two years of life away from home, have I felt such desire for the familiar. I knew India would be an incomparable experience to those I have had. I was not naïve when I flew here. I re-read my journal from the days of training and I am surprised at what difficulty I knew to expect. But writing in my journal, in an air-conditioned conference room in a Chicago seminary, is much different than living the reality. My post-training journal entries almost reflect a sense of regret, of fear that I will not make it through a full year.

I did not miss hot dogs or hot showers, surprisingly. I missed being understood, both verbally and emotionally. I missed the companionship of friends. I found myself writing two or three letters daily, sending them like clockwork on Mondays and Wednesdays. I needed to express myself, to tell stories to someone who could empathize. On my first day at the hostel, I was shown to my room and given the day to relax and unpack. I did not know when the meals would be, where to get drinking water or who spoke English well enough to ask. Like the shocking first day of school after moving from York to Madison when I ate lunch standing because I had no idea where to sit, I felt physically lost.

No longer am I lonely with the same overbearing weight that I experienced in September. I know to whom I can vent. I trust my fellow volunteers, all struggling through a similar experience. We know that we need each other. I still do not miss American food or most American “comforts” (except Western toilets, oh how I miss Western toilets). I find comfort and restful sleep on my wooden-board-of-a-mattress, I can whip through a cold shower faster than a marine, and the animals I find daily in unexpected places in my room are respectfully removed (I usually only kill the ants and mosquitos). It is easy for me, knowing that I will return to Wisconsin in due time, sleeping in my plush bed, taking warm baths in the winter months and hardly every crossing the path of an animal – even in my backyard.

It is now November and I feel lost in India in a new way.

From the very first day of my arrival, like a child, I needed the help of Achen, Ammamma, Kochamma and Prabhaa Miss for rudimentary things. Because of this I immediately began to miss independence. That lack of independence did not end when I learned where to throw my trash, how to get drinking water and how to put on a saree. It continues because I am a woman, a young woman at that. I am an innocent, naïve, unmarried young woman and therefore I will not experience true independence here.

I crave the company of strong, expressive women (though Prabhaa Miss and Kochamma in particular are women of unusual self-assurance from others I have met). I daydream about laughing too loud, telling crass jokes and wearing fitted, show-off-your-curves clothing. I feel repressed by the sexism that surrounds the women in the hostel and I.

These young women, most at least twenty years old, are more protected than I was when I was in my mid-teens (and my mother is what my friends consider “protective”). A curfew of 6:00PM, mandatory prayer each evening (for those of all religious backgrounds), no freedom of movement outside of the walk to the college and the return walk to the hostel, a bell rings signaling each daily activity: a meal, study-time, free-time (2-hours each day), tea time, bedtime.

It is stifling and rigid. Most of these women have more freedom at their homes, but not much more. They go from father to husband, always under the “protection” of a male figure. I fear for the young woman raised under the protection of a loving father, who is married to an aggressive, abusive husband. To whom can she turn?

It is in this world that I am now becoming lost. The world of an Indian woman. I recognize that I am lucky to experience this. How many American women of my age truly understand sexism? I proudly profess that I am a feminist. Many of my male and female friends feel the same way. But I did not understand how lucky I was to read an essay by Bell Hooks and afterwards put on my pants and go to my internship at a law firm, winding my way through the subway with confidence and spending my own money on a coffee. I do not wear pants here. My desire for solitary walks educe confused looks from Ammamma, “Where are you going? What are you doing? How are you getting there? When will you return?” She always asks. In desperation for a false sense of autonomy, I have started to fib. “I am going to the Internet Point by auto-rickshaw,” I say, and instead I walk the long way past the train station, through Buddha Junction and Mitchell Junction, stopping at the fruit stand or the magazine store. I browse through a churidar shop or stop for a tea and pastry (outside food is definitely against Ammamma’s rules). I stop and talk to people. Sometimes I end up at the Internet Point, sometimes I do not.

Those solitary walks provide my only sense of liberty. I feel free from the overbearing sense of womanhood as a powerless, fragile existence that infests itself here. I cannot stop thinking about it; I have lost myself in this frustration. Sometimes I reluctantly put on a churidar in the morning, feeling that I am only giving in to Indian societies wish to cover up “their women.” One of the volunteers laughed at my choice in stitching (I had chosen the new “modern” style of stitching with tight pants and a mock-turtle neck), “It looks like something you could find at The Gap,” he said (he was wearing the typical Indian man’s outfit: khaki pants and a collared, button-up shirt). My Gap churidar is my favorite, as embarrassed as I am by the association of such an American brand name during my time in India. I recognize that in my Gap churidar I am free from the usual loads of fabric and a purposeful separation from tradition – a tiny sense of liberation. Sarees are out of the question for me. How could I run in 9 yards of fabric? I could never dance or jump in a saree. And forget defending myself, I can hardly avoid puddles wearing a saree, let alone give someone a good kick in the knees.

I hear George Michael belting out “freedom!” as I daydream about returning to an apartment of my own after going dancing in the city, realizing that when I return to “the city” I will be daydreaming about eating parota and chicken curry under cinnamon colored skies. As a child I once saw a giraffe in a zoo with all four legs splayed precariously as he stretched his neck to its capacity to munch on a patch of grass on the other side of the fence. Yes, “the grass is always greener,” we laughed. But I respect that giraffe. He saw a good piece of grass on the other side of the fence and though caged he managed to find a way to enjoy it. Maybe my Gap churidar is my way of remaining caged while munching on the greener grass.

A Constant Question

2006-10-30T12:49:00.000+02:00

What is a Missionary?

This week marks the end of the Ramadan fast. “The Hindu” newspaper describes in its October 24, 2006 issue the significance of the fast as bridging “the gulf between the rich and poor. As the rich experience the pangs of hunger, their thoughts go to the poor and the deprived, developing a sense of brotherhood.” To me this is significant in terms of my expanding definition of missionary for a few reasons: 1) Through the words of another religion, sometimes one views humanity in a newly accepting manner. Respect for another’s faith tradition should be a vital aspect of missionary-hood. 2) It describes faith in action. 3) It demonstrates accompaniment. 4) It leaves more to be done.

I arrived expecting to be challenged in my faith, and I am during reunions with Achen and the volunteers, but at home in Mavelikara ones faith seems to be defined by hymns memorized, prayers recited and being “best-friends” with Jesus. I do not memorize hymns. I prefer solitary, thoughtful prayer to the rapid-speed, group prayers done at 6PM each night at the hostel. Jesus is not my buddy; He is Jesus. As I struggle with this, I find myself reading Isaiah 42:3-4 (I’ve never been much of a Bible reader before, this has been a refreshing change for me), which to me is a great example of faith in ACTION--what I find most lacking. From Campus Crusades India to Mar Thomas conventions, I have praised and sang (even once appearing on PowerVision, the religious T.V. channel, yikes) but I feel disappointed by the lack of action to match their “zeal.”

When I first described the details of this program to one of my good friends, whose opinion I trust and care about, she gently expressed her reservation about calling me a missionary though I could tell inside there was much more hidden frustration. To me, it is an important part of my reason to be here. I find myself returning to my faith to help process what I am doing and opening the Bible more than I ever have in my life. It is important to acknowledge the evolution of the word “missionary” in our vocabulary. The Oxford English dictionary defines missionary as: “a person sent to teach others about Christianity.” Eeek. Maybe to me, “a Christian sent to accompany and learn from the lives of others” seems more appropriate.

In a service-learning class after reading a piece called “On Beggars” which redefines “beggars” though a non-Western cultural lens as those who make a choice to live without wasting, we were asked to make a vow about how we will react when faced with beggars. Acts 3:4 describes my vow and helps me to define “missionary.” Peter said, “Look at us,” a simple sentence that means so much. I vowed to acknowledge the humanity of those who approach me. Look a person in the eyes, with respect. Acknowledge that they are suffering. Understand that I cannot truly understand.

In India, I am doing my best to take that much deeper. To find Christ in everyone makes acknowledging ones humanity a bit more serious. To open myself to vulnerability by allowing myself to be taught by those I may consider “in need.” I find it necessary to seek out further opportunities to serve, and opportunities have arisen. I spend time at a school for kids with mental disabilities. I hope to soon join a group who provides food for those in in-patient care at a government hospital and another group to visit a local leprosy sanitorium.

Again, I’m overwhelmed by the need in comparison to the lack of action. I feel lucky to be here, learning about Christianity in this context. It inspires me to “act justly, love tenderly and walk humbly with God,” using the words of my Global Missions mentor. There is more to be done; I will probably feel that way in every chapter of my life. What a great inspiration and education to learn how to best effect change!

Thunder Storms and Sambar

2006-10-30T12:48:00.000+02:00

I am sitting in a wicker chair in my room reading, “Globalization and its Discontents” and listening to the thunder of an impending storm. The rain will arrive, the power will go out, and people will either grow quiet and studious or become goofy and rambunctious. After the storm, the climate will cool, the still wet laundry in our rooms will smell mildewy and the power will return. The unpredictability of the storms lately fits well the mood of the last two weeks: tumultuous.

It started with a Students Federation of India (SFI), the communist political group, strike on-campus on the same day I had scheduled to interview the SFI leaders. The interview was cancelled; I knew when I heard flag-bearing SFI members chanting in a protest around campus. I saw a few SFI leaders take a padlock and lock the gate of the campus (the main and sole entrance and exit). I heard rumors of a “list of demands” and a “meeting with the principal.” Lunchtime arrived and the gate remained locked. I refused to miss my rice and sambar, so I marched myself to the gate. A familiar SFI face quickly opened the gate and let the American girl leave.

The next day I got the details. SFI demanded around twenty changes from the principal, most of which were reasonable and granted on the spot (a source of fresh water for students to drink on campus, for example). The gate was locked until the meeting adjourned around 2:30. The same day a teacher attempted suicide by drinking poison from one of the labs (not at all connected to SFI actions, it was a personal matter). The campus was buzzing.

My head started to hurt and my back ached, but there was so much to do! I left college early to meet one of the members of South East Asia Missions to help with the “Manna Mission,” which provides food for the people who can’t afford food during in-patient stays at a local government hospital. I arrived at the hostel and I was “five minutes too late,” Ammamma said. I was disappointed and frustrated. If I had arrived early, I would not have missed his phone call asking if I was still planning to come. I arrived on time, but by that time he assumed I was not coming. My head really began to hurt. I checked and realized I had a low fever, so I cancelled my afternoon activities and rested. By nightfall my fever was 101 degrees. The next morning it was 102.6 degrees. Off to the doctor I went, in a bumpy rickshaw no less. “Too much sun, “ some said, “too much walking,” others reprimanded. I think I was just sick and stressed. I received some magical medicines and returned to the doctor the next day feeling much better.

The next day, however, by night fall my head was in a bucket and my headache had returned full force. It was a mind-splitting, lights off, whispers only headache. Back to the doctor. “Too much sun,” “too much walking,” Ammamma and the students said. “Migraine,” I cried. “Gastrointestinal problems due to mango juice,” said the doctor. More medicine and my first buttocks injection.

Today I felt better. My headache is present and I am watching my food. The rice and sambar I had to escape to eat a few days ago doesn’t sound so good now. All of these events fall around Deepavali, the Festival of Lights. Somehow I was able to convince Ammamma to get fire-crackers and sparklers, a special treat for us at the hostel to celebrate. And even more miraculous, I was feeling fine on the night we set them off! My tumultuous two weeks, cushioned on both ends by a headache, fire-crackers in the center, ends with a thunderstorm.

The Simple Act of a Smile

2006-10-16T11:49:00.000+02:00

I step out of the hostel’s black iron gate, the latch just within my short wing-span, and I imagine a joust beginning with a high pitched screech, “On Guard!” as I make my way cautiously. Dodging is an art form. The street may be empty when I step onto it, but within seconds two busses careening from either direction will come screaming towards me and I’m left in a ditch or a puddle. I’m an amateur. James Cameron in “An Indian Summer” describes a pro, “The solitary cyclist wobbling dreamily on the crown of the road 400 yards ahead, aroused by the horn, will falter and swerve for half a minute, undecided until the last second whether to weave wildly to the left or the right.” I remain baffled and impressed by anyone who can reach a state of “wobbling dreamily” on the roads of Mavelikara, but they do and they are the pros.

On my walk to the college I pass a neighbor’s house and wave wildly to an adorable little girl who seems to perpetually be waiting at her door for that moment, at least I like to think so. I cross the junction; the three intersecting roads are a danger zone to navigate. To the left is a bookstore, run by Vinasharam Sir, an ex-teacher of Hindi at the college. He speaks beautiful English but uses our few moments chatting to teach me Malayalam words. As I walk, gaggles of children clump together and giggle until someone says, “Hello Miss!” My response elicits shrieks of laughter and mini-tickle fests as they grope for each other’s hands. At first it was overwhelming, now it is fun. When else will I be able to so easily make people smile (even if it is at my expense)?

One afternoon I strolled past a temple on the way to the post office, pausing to listen to the women pray, and was approached by a woman who offered an explanation and walked with me for a bit. Our conversation was brief and conducted in choppy Malayalam, “What is your name?” I pronounced incorrectly. When I asked where she lives I very well may have asked how many monkeys live in Malaysia, but she understood and pointed, possibly to Malaysia. Further along I passed a small shack; puppies following their mother, a fire in the front area burning trash, two quasi-naked children chatting in Kidspeak (universal language) until they saw me and pointed in surprise. An ancient woman dressed in white smiled in response to my greeting, her only two teeth jutting out of her mouth precariously. She grabbed my arm and, gesturing emphatically, she explained the physics of flying and why the sky is blue, at least that is what I imagined. I simply pointed at the sky and said, “mazha” (rain) and she patted my arm with seeming pity. “Nadakunu” (walking) I said and she shrugged her shoulders as if to ask why. I returned the shrug, hoping to convey “why not?” and continued on my way with a smile and a “naani” (thank you). She laughed.

In the distance I heard evidence of a temple within reach. Drums and melody emanated from a speaker system, though from a distance it sounded like a lively band. I walked on and eventually passed a woman with a broom standing outside a house. She stared and I smiled, asking “Pali evide?” (Where’s the church?) She pointed, walked me to a path and waved goodbye. Another “naani” and a big smile. I followed the weaving path, surrounded on one side by smoking piles of burning trash and on the other a field of rubber trees being tapped. I never found the temple. My time ran out and I returned to the hostel before my curfew of 6:00PM, when the iron-gate with its barely reachable latch is locked.

Without these walks, I would never have discovered the small alleys that lead to beautiful rice-paddied country side. The village I call home quickly becomes flat and expansive; green palm trees and cinnamon soil glow in the heat and fade into deep orange with the suns disappearance. Dusk is glorious here. More importantly than missing a sun-drenched vista, I would have missed the conversations.

Father Chandler, the chaplain of the John Felice Rome Center where I worked the past two years said, probably while sharing with us a limoncello on the balcony, that life is made up of many meaningful conversations. At the end of the day it is not the work itself that was most important, it was the human interaction and the sense of community gained by sharing time with those around you; challenging each other and asking questions. “Look at us,” Peter says to the crippled beggar in Acts 3:4, a reminder to me of what I have in the past forgotten to do. It was easy for me to fall into a routine in Italy: study, work, eat, play, all the while forgetting to stop to talk to the man who fed the stray cats a can of tuna every day and the women who sang as they cleaned the building early every morning. I have been here only for a month and realized quickly that during my walks I return home content only if I have met new neighbors or recognized a smiling face. They acknowledged my presence and my humanity in that simple act of a smile. A powerful message and another "universal language."

This one is about my daily life...

2006-10-09T12:44:00.000+02:00

“The here and now, the quotidian, was beginning to acquire substance” (Anita Brookner, Hotel du Lac).

I’m growing accustomed to questions about food, all of which I’ve eaten without a problem (minus yesterday’s green chili incident which was easily solved with a lopping ladle of rice and lots of explanations “That! Look! That is green chili. Spicy. Green chili!”). I am frequently put on the spot in front of audiences of classrooms, teachers and meetings. “This is Cate from America. She is here for one year. Introduce yourself Cate!” I repeat my mini-mantra, smile and throw in an attempt at pronouncing a word in Malayalam, which always induces appreciative laughter.

I live with two of the best tutors there could possibly be, Ammachi and Eeche, the cooks at the hostel. They spend their day in a massive, dirt-floored room, chopping vegetables with huge knives, stirring huge black pots over an open fire, and avoiding the mice that scamper from one burlap sack to the next. I sit on the end of a bench and ask questions, “endu etah?” (What’s that?), “Chaia kudicho?” (Have you had your tea?). They laugh at me and mock my pronunciation, all the while shoving pieces of unidentifiable food under my nose or into my mouth and watching my reaction. “Ishtamano?” (Do you like it?) They are sarcastic, insensitive and rough. But they are honest. Instead of, “No, Ma’am, wear what you prefer to our day trip to Trivandrum,” they motion wildly for me to put up my hair, with demanding expressions making me feel ridiculous for not having done so previously. When I forget a word I had previously learned, they quiz me until I say it. When I say “sukhamano,” my favorite word, they make a riddle of that being the only word I know. There are no formalities and no niceties. My pride is shot to pieces the minute I walk into their domain and I usually leave with a handful of food an only a few more words in my Malayalam notepad. Mainly it is a good reminder, in between engilsh classes, that I am not the teacher here.

I have yet to teach a full week of classes. Strikes are common (twice in three weeks), sometimes resulting in cancellation of classes but always complete with a protest. At around 10:00 one morning last week I heard the loud resonating chanting of a group of students, mainly men. I could hear them approaching and was, honestly, filled with a tinge of fear as they came closer to the English department. I joined three other teachers who stepped outside the office to watch. It was only six young men with two flags and very loud voices. I could not believe that such a small group of people warranted a strike. What are they striking against? I asked the teachers and students that day. None of them knew. They could tell me that the entire political party of which the young men were a part called a strike that day, which legally requires the principal to honor it.

The other night I stayed up late playing Ludo and Snakes & Ladders with Ammamma and Ambily. Ammamma cheats. She rolls the dice until she gets the number she wants or she gets caught in the act. After which she laughs and gives into our frustrated demands. “Hey! Ammamma rolled twice! I saw it!” Ambily, only partly as a result of Ammamma’s cheating, loves to control the game. For a few minutes I realized that Ammamma and I weren’t even touching our game pieces. We would roll the dice and she would count the spaces and move our pieces. Telling us whether we could “kill” the other persons piece or not. “Ohhh, Ammamma is cheating, kill her piece. You must watch her.”

That night sums it up for me right now. I feel comfortable in my surroundings but the challenges still exist. A game of Snakes and Ladders helped me realize that I have friends here, which is a wonderful feeling.

Enormous Elephant Ears

2006-10-09T12:43:00.000+02:00

Upon my graduation from college I received many gifts. Cards, money, a party and a diploma that means more to me now than it did then. I also received a letter from my mother which, at the time, frustrated me in its formality. She congratulated me on my accomplishment and my young-womanhood and pronounced me independent financially. Today I was contemplating womanhood while shooting hoops on the hostels surprisingly impressive but sadly unused basketball court. I recalled receiving that letter and how I felt miffed at the necessity to declare me independent and the formality in which it was relayed, but I realized today that I feel lucky to have been granted that liberty. My mother never stopped supporting me emotionally, with indubitable patience considering how I scooted out of the country after graduation and have not yet officially returned. I do not feel completely independent; she offers more financial help than I expected and I am chagrined to admit that I have yet to do my own taxes. But that letter is physical evidence of the independence I have that the Indian women I have met do not.

On Saturday, September 23 the hostel hosted a special “Career-Counseling” Seminar. I sat in the front, feeling moderately self-conscious knowing that the seminar was in Malayalam and the lecturer was aware of my ignorance of the language. I soon realized that “Career-Counseling,” meant something quite different from what I expected. I will not recapitulate his entire lecture. Rather, I will tell you the responses of students when I asked later that evening after dinner, “What did you like best about the seminar today?”

Well, he explained to us that men stare at women because they have tunnel vision whereas we have peripheral vision, therefore they need to look longer at everything they see. He used sketches of the brain and the theory of an American doctor to show us that men think most about sex whereas women think about many other things, but he reiterated that sex is important in a marriage and a women should give up her body to her husband. He explained that the vast difference between men and women lies in women being relationship focused while men are achievement focused. He reminded us that women cannot be best friends with other women because women gossip and are jealous. American doctors have proven that if men shop for more than twenty minutes, they are likely to suffer a brain hemorrhage whereas women can shop for hours, this being proof of our patience. Women also talk more than men (“Consider it a positive thing,” he reassured the students). In fact, studies show that when men say 2,000 words, women say 7,000 (no specific time frame provided that of which I am aware). The young women laughed at his jokes and antics, they nodded at his theories and gulped up each graph he showed.

After reading authors like Silvia Plath, Susan Faludi and Bell Hooks, I wonder how to fit this experience into my growing understanding of womanhood in the year 2006. I struggled during that seminar, at points almost in tears of rage as he showed graphs and knowledgably quoted American doctors. All the while wondering, how dare I attempt to place my feminist beliefs in this cultural context? Yet how do I digest what I am experiencing now without comparison? How will I approach these young women, who will inevitably ask for my opinion?

I deflected.

“It was powerful. What did you think?” In asking that question I learned things that would have never come up in casual conversation with these young women. They admitted to feelings of fear about the future, fears that made me understand better why the lecturer’s words resonated for them. My opinion does not matter here (I will write them in my journal and close it at the end of the day). I allowed myself to ask two very specific and, admittedly, personal and difficult questions. “Does the idea of ‘giving your body to your husband’ upon marriage frighten you?” The young women said that they must trust their parents to find a good husband. They said that many women are married to men who treat them well and care for them. They did not necessarily feel frightened about that in particular, it is their duty. My second question was, “I heard you say you cannot go out after 6PM for fear of what men may do to you or what people will say about you walking around at night. If your safety relies on the actions of men, do you ask men to change?” The answer to this was jumbled. It reiterated what I have heard resoundingly from young women so far, “People might talk.” They seemed to feel that men cannot change, that it is better for women to stay inside for fear of their safety.

Coincidentally, a few days before this seminar, I had finished Elizabeth Bumiller’s “May You Be the Mother of a Hundred Sons,” a book published in 1990 that reflects on her interviews with hundreds of women in India during a stay of three years. In the last chapter, Bumiller writes, “I have learned that to write about women in India is to write about their problems of work, marriage, children, poverty and aging—problems that are not unique to India but are rooted in any society’s definition of womanhood…This book was my mission—to inform, to enlighten, and to prove that the women of India are more like us than they are not.”

Something I learned from performing in the The Vagina Monologues, from reading novels and the newspaper and from the OnCall program at Loyola is the importance of each person’s story. Maybe my feminist-self is best positioned with a closed yapper and elephant ears (which are enormous, I know this now!). I have the opportunity to get to know a cross-section of India’s women here in my new hostel of a home. Young women from all castes, educational backgrounds and financial situations are my neighbors. From them I can better understand the situation of India’s women, and even more importantly I will learn about their passions, visions and fears for the future.

I let my opinions rest in one statement at the end of our conversation, “I hope for each of you a loving husband who respects you.” The young women in the hostel will probably not receive from their parents the gift that I did, of independence, and my frustration for their situation will probably not cease. In the end, I think I understand better the idea of “accompaniment” now.

Reality like a Rickshaw Ride

2006-09-16T09:11:00.000+03:00

We hopped into a seven-person van and drove three hours south to the Christian Student Movement conference on Life, Faith and Education, watching the scenery change back and forth from hectic street-life to rice paddies. Thomas John “Achen” was asked to lead a day of the conference. We were looking forward to our first opportunity to engage with Indian college students. We knew Achen to be an engaging speaker and trusted it would be an invigorating, challenging day. The five of us spread out among the students at the conference, smiling as Achen was introduced, and listened patiently through the morning of Malayalam (of which we all knew about two words). Achen brought up the topic of globalization and asked us to break into small groups. We were asked to discuss globalization in our group. After much confusion and some semi-formal and awkward introductions, the discussion in my group began as all eyes fell on me and one of the students asked, in beautiful English, “What do you think about the issue of globalization?”

Two issues at the forefront of Kerala’s politics are the current and recent ban in Kerala of Cola-Cola, which includes an on-going dispute over the factory use and contamination of water as well as the health alerts against the product itself. The second issue is the number of farmers committing suicide due to excessive loans and a lack of support on many levels from the Indian government. What can I, an American who just arrived in India, say to a group of Indian students? They began to list examples in Malayalam and translated a few for me, a humbling project in many respects. I was thrown in the pot much sooner than I had anticipated.

Anticipation is a dangerous thing. My image of India was based mainly on stimulating, color photos and the India Standard Buffet on Belmont in Chicago, as well as some delicious novels and museum exhibitions. Alain de Botton in “The Art of Travel” said of anticipation, “…those eyes were intimately tied to a body and mind that would travel with me wherever I went and that might, over time, assert their presence in ways that would threaten or even negate the purpose of what the eyes had come there to see.” It was at the conference that I realized my need to set aside all images I had of India previously in order to leave some blank space to be filled. I am here to learn: from my supervisors, from the women who concoct every curried meal I eat, from Mrs Lelamma my Malayalam tutor, and from my elementary-aged and college-aged students.

Botton says, “Journeys are the midwives of thought.” I already recognize, in the short time I’ve been here, that my mind is processing the world around me in a new way. Questions arise that I would have never asked in other circumstances. I have changed my lifestyle to best engross myself in Indian culture. My interpretation of books is through a newly forming lens. I struggle with aspects of my American lifestyle, something I can never completely leave behind, as I learn what I have taken for granted (much more than I realized).

My day is scheduled around four main events: breakfast (curry), lunch (curry), tea and dinner (curry). All consumed in haste and with only quiet chatter between juicy bites. I feel ridiculous when my stomach grumbles before dinner, realizing that after the meal I will have to stand up with difficulty to wash my tasty fingers. Surplus is causing a bigger struggle for me than I anticipated. I packed too much (two carry-on sized pieces filled with three outfits and books). I eat seconds and sometimes thirds of rice-based meals. The rupee is half the worth of the dollar. I have a very expensive plane ticket home hiding in my sturdy suitcase. I am a walking symbol of abundance. How do I lead a simple life while I remain entrenched by the surplus I thought I had left? How will I lead a simple life when I return to the U.S.?

“Living simply is not enough,” Achen challenges us. One must act. Don’t allow your surplus to just “trickle-down” (that sentiment was reiterated in a political cartoon in a recent copy of The Hindu, a national English newspaper). Act. Engage in change. “Be the change,” as Andy quotes, one of the volunteers who is notably articulate and concise. The question remains for me, what can I Do here in India?

During the Global Missions training in Chicago from August 19-29, Isaiah 42:20 was mentioned by Rev. Rafael Malpica-Padilla. “He sees many things, but does no observe them; his ears are open but he does not hear.” I am no expert. In my vulnerability I am able to learn best. I may not be able to necessarily act on the frustrations that confront me; I will not change the world. I can attempt to engage the students I am learning from, helping them to learn English as I learn from what they are articulating. One of the teachers at Bishop Moore reminded me that in India it is very difficult for young people to find jobs (as it was in Italy as well). Knowing English enables mobility, allowing a person from Kerala who speaks Malayalam to move to another state in India where a different language is recognized and dialects abound. The difficult part will not be the teaching, it will be the vulnerability.

My pre-trip butterflies have been replaced with double-boiled rice and payasam, as my previously anticipated images are being replaced with reality like a rickshaw ride (speedily and haphazardly). Creating an empty space is a conscious part of every day, so that I may best “observe and hear” the people from whom I am learning.

Reading List

2006-08-13T05:33:00.000+03:00

1. Strange Accent, Rev. Thomas John, Presbyterian Distribution Center, PDS no. 74-400-96-044, (800)-524-2612
2. Kerala: Radical Reform as Development in an Indian State, Richard W. Franke and Barbara H. Chasin, A food First Book, The Institute for Food and Development Policy, Oakland, California.
3. The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver, Harper Perennial
4. Confessions of an Economic Hitman, John Perkins
5. Globalization and Its Discontents, Joseph Stiglitz
6. Snakes and Ladders: Glimpses of Modern India, Gita Mehta, Anchor Books, Doubleday
7. The Namesake, Jhumba Lahiri
8. Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumba Lahiri
9. Essays of Arundhati Roy

Traveling Without a Map

2006-08-12T21:20:00.000+03:00

I was scared to move from the second grade to the third grade. Not scared because of new teachers and harder subjects. I was scared because the third grade classrooms were located in a different hallway. A hallway I had never ventured in previously. I didn’t know what older-kid ghoulies and ghosties were lurking in the corners of the big-kid wing. My elementary school had two main hallways. Looking back on it now, it was probably the most easy transition life offers. But I wanted a map. So, my mom and my pastor sat down patiently with me and they created a 2-hallway map of my school. I made it, map-in-hand, and now I’m looking at another map and a new transition.

Folders upon notebooks of information cannot help prepare me emotionally and mentally for my move to India. I feel excited and, as each day passes, increasingly filled with tummy butterflies. The difficulty I find in answering the universal question, “How are you preparing for a year in India,” may be indicative of the growing swarm of fluttering friends in my stomach.

I think about what it will be like to return to the States.

I returned to the U.S. after two years working in Rome, Italy on the first of August. As I ate my first meal upon returning to the states, a mushroom-swiss burger at Michael’s Frozen Custard, I was still registering that the Capitolo Italia of my life was over. I’ve found myself overwhelmed with little things: the uninhibited nature noises in the backyard, the amount of clothing in my storage bins, the novelty of taking a shower in a private bathroom as opposed to a communal bathroom full of students. I realize that I will do this all over again when I return from India and it will be completely different than the adjustments I am laughing through now.

I read.

Nothing eases my mind in a time of transition like the opening up a book I’m halfway through, the comfort-zone where the end isn’t yet in sight and the beginning introductions are long behind. In Gita Mehta’s book, Snakes and Ladders, she quotes a passage Mark Twain wrote during his nineteenth century visit to India:

The land of dreams and romance, of fabulous wealth and fabulous poverty, of splendor and rags, of palaces and hovels, of famine and pestilence, of genii and giants and Aladdin lamps, of tigers and elephants, the cobra and the jungle, the country of a hundred nations and a hundred tongues, of a thousand religions and two millions gods, cradle of the human race, birthplace of human speech, mother of history, grandmother of legend, great-grandmother of tradition, whose yesterdays bear date with the moldering antiquities of the rest of the nations—the sole country under the sun that is endowed with imperishable interest for alien prince and alien peasant, for lettered and ignorant, wise and food, rich and poor, bond and free, the one land all men desire to see, and having seen once, by even a glimpse, would not give that glimpse for shows of all the rest of the globe combined.

People talk about India being a Sensory-Overload Experience: thefood thesmells thenoises thepeople themovement. It assails you when you are least prepared. Just as Mark Twain describes the juxtaposition of opposites that he found during his travels, I hope to entrench myself in the complexity of the culture and leave with a special understanding after my time in India – a gift for any traveler and global citizen. Maybe the best way to prepare myself for this year is to be ready to be unprepared, to come without expectations. A lesson in patience and willingness to be taught by those around me.

Global Missions Orientation, April 2006

2006-07-15T03:47:00.000+03:00

The word “missionary” makes me antsy. I had imagined very pale, white women wearing white linen clothes, weighted down with enormous hard cover bibles. Or grey haired men with eyes ever ready to judge and ears never ready to listen. Pushing these stereotypes to the nether regions of mind, I joined 50 young people at the Discernment Weekend for the ELCA Young Adults in Global Mission. I was ready for anything and was relieved when one of my peers asked the red-hot question, “What are missionaries in the Lutheran church today?” I felt a flood of anxiety when I heard the answer, “All of you will be missionaries.”

On the first day of the Discernment Weekend, I was already questioning my comfort and ability to be a missionary. Each volunteer found in their notebook an index card on which the name of a chapter of the bible was listed. Our task for the second Ice Breaker of the event was to put ourselves in the correct biblical order. I looked at my card and saw Habakkuk. Immediate panic…

So why did I apply? I have wanted to volunteer abroad since 10th grade, maybe then it seemed more like a pipe dream than a real possibility. Maybe an answer to the dreaded question, “so what will you do after high school/college?” During a Jesuit education at Loyola University Chicago and immediately thereafter, I began questioning my faith. I took as many “world religions” courses as I could, read about Hinduism, and even joined a Buddhist youth group. After five solid years of questioning, including a few awkward months of Buddhist group meditating, I now realize where I feel at home with my faith. I returned over Easter to Luther Memorial, and was lovingly welcomed by my church community in Madison. Wonderful memories of LMC flooded my thoughts - of Sunday nights practicing for choir and then HSYO, setting up for IHN, helping to plan and attending the National Youth Conference. Singing the hymns, hearing the prayers and the word, sharing communion as I have done all my life helped me realize why I felt at home there.

Returning to Lutheranism, and remembering so clearly how the roots of my faith have been nourished, I was able to better clarify for myself why I am ready to volunteer abroad. I want to experience life in a developing country. So that I might better advocate for those often forgotten in my own country, I want to experience life as a racial minority. I want to accompany those who are suffering; I want to learn their stories and work to never let them be forgotten. I hope to return after a year of volunteering with a deeper Christian faith, influenced by and respectful of the strong and diverse faith lives of those I meet.

The word “missionary” still makes me feel a little antsy. But, as a result of an incredible four-day ELCA Young Adults in Global Mission Discernment Weekend, what does “missionary” mean to me? Learning from the faith of my neighbors so that I can grow spiritually. Being mindful of my choices and actions. Not wasting. Journaling and reflecting. Serving others. Representing my family, my church and my country in an open and thoughtful manner. Returning to the United States, and to my Lutheran community, as a more informed and committed member of both.

The Book of Habakkuk is at the end of the Old Testament (I know this now). Habakkuk asked God, “Why do you show me iniquity and cause me to see trouble? For plundering and violence are before me; there is strife, and contention arises” (Habakkuk 1:3). I expect that I will ask questions and feel angry about the injustices I will witness in India. My anxiety about the Icebreaker Exercise of finding where Habakkuk is placed in the Bible will not compare to the anxieties I will face in my year in India with Lutheran Global Missions. During my time in India I expect I will become both globally informed, as well as, more globally formed. Being a “missionary” does not mean I’ll have answers. As a “missionary” I plan to work hard, ask lots of questions, listen with empathy, acknowledge my feelings and reflect on what I am learning. My hope is to return as a missionary strengthened with deeper Lutheran faith by the strong faith lives of those I have lived and worked with in India.