Jordan (CRP) & India (LAFTI)

Goodbye

2010-07-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

Of all the words I learned during my time spent in South India ("hello", "how are you?", "lizard", "baby lizard", "frog"), goodbye is still not one of few I am good at actually saying. Instead of sharing with you the true sadness and distress I felt to be saying goodbye after finally feeling as though I was able to fit in, I will convey to you the overall growth and pleasure that came out of this six-week experience as a whole.

I came to India and to work with LAFTI for several reasons, the first being opportunity. Being connected with India and LAFTI from a young age, through parents, through heritage, and through my own overall commitment to learn about and work on issues related to peace and social justice, the opportunity to work with LAFTI was an opportunity I could not miss. Secondly, and much more important for me, I came to work with LAFTI to learn about Krishnammal. While I was interested in the work she does, the Dalit community she works with, and history of the country in which she works, I have always been much more curious about the way in which she conducts her work. I yearned to learn more about her as a person, as an activist, and as my adopted grandmother, abd about her journey as a leader of a formerly repressed and unrepresented people.

With regards to the overall growth that has come from this experience, it is truly indescribable. I have learned so much from everyone I have met on this trip, the baby goats, the auto drivers, the village workers, my grandma, and everyone in between. My growth has not come specifically from seeing different places, meeting new people, or from learning about peoples' sufferings, but from being in a time and place when I am able to piece together all of these places, people, and sufferings into one. It is an understanding of the country's history, the people's culture, and the Dalits' struggles that have all intertwined to create a foundation from which personal and spiritual growth is an obvious next step.

Thank you Krishnammal and Jagannathan for being the two most inspiring grandparents I could ever have. Thank you LAFTI for allowing me into your hearts and community and for giving my the opportunity to understand your past and all your sufferings. Thank you to my four guardian angels, Valayrmathi, Poongothai, Karnegei, and Mani-Muri for taking me under your care as a daughter, sister, and friend of your family. Thank you to my parents for always making me feel just a little bit uncomfortable, for instilling in me something that continues to grow. I have now filled the gaps of my own internal workings, and am on to developing more knowledge and more curiosity to start that cycle all over again.

Coffee In The Morning, Parathas At Night

2010-07-27T15:00:00.000-07:00

It was my last day at the LAFTI headquarters and I really did not feel as though anything about today was going to be different. So, after a small amount of contemplation as to how the day might become different or the same, I decided on a very simple plan. I would go off on my own during the afternoon, but would do everything exactly the same as I had all the days leading up to this one with regards to two specific things, coffee and parathas.

After I washed my face and put on of my five churidars, I made my way out to the open area where someone was already awaiting with a small cup of coffee. I guess he just knew that I wanted to keep things extra ordinary this fine Tuesday morning. After coffee and a few minutes of enjoyable scenery, I decided to go on an adventure. For maybe the last two or three weeks I had been staying at the office, I had come across the same two baby goats, water buffalo, and cow at nearly the same time every evening when walking to the store across the street. Today, I decided I would go a little early. Since I still didn't know that much about the immediate area surrounding Vinoba Ashram, I thought maybe these four furry creatures would. As I began walking in the same direction as I would to the store, there they were. To make a not-very-long story short, I ended up following these four animals to a nearby watering pond which they all seemed to gather and drink from several times a day. The two kids finished first and then made their way back to their house. Because they were obviously the cutest of the bunch and I was not at all interested in actually drinking from a dirty, smelly, mosquito-filled body of water, these two adorable baby goat siblings were the ones I continued to follow. After thanking them for leading me back to the main path and doing a short photo shoot to express my gratitude, I made my way back to the offices before anyone had an opportunity to notice I was gone.

After taking the normal Indian "afternoon rest", after eating the normal Indian "afternoon meal", my favorite part of the day was just hours away. Nearly every night that Valayrmathi has stayed with me at the office, I have given one of the "night duty" men a hundred rupees for him to go fetch my favorite evening snack, parathas for me and all other people staying at the office that night. Although I can't say that this Indian flat bread is anything next to nutritious, it is one of the only other foods (besides idlis which are normally not served at night) that has flavor and yet no spice. Anyways, parathas served not only as one of my few survival foods, but also as an ice breaker. The first time I had this meal was the first time I introduced myself to those working the night shift, and it was a easy way for us to get to know and understand one another.

So, even if I went off into the crazy land of water holes and baby goats a few hours before, coffee in the morning and parathas at night are two activities on which I place great value. I do not do so because of the smell of the coffee or the saltiness of the bread, but because both actions, over my time here working and living at LAFTI, have served as a means of non-verbal,social communication.

Coconut or Mango?

2010-07-25T14:00:00.000-07:00

When I arrived at the hostel this morning for my last day of teaching, the roles had been reversed. I was now the student and my 60 teachers (both boys and girls )had requested that I sit outside the teaching area until the room had been prepared. Nearly fifteen minutes later after enjoying the taste and aroma of an extra hot cup of coffee, they called me in for class. When I impatiently asked what was taking place inside the room I was no longer allowed inside of, they informed me that maybe it might have a little something to do with my birthday which was to take place the following day.

When I walked into the room that was formerly known as "Meera's classroom", I couldn't have been given a better surprise. The children and staff at the hostel had lit and placed about 30 small candles around the edges of the room making for a circle of light. In the middle of the room was a small table on which a cake, a mango, a bottle of mango juice, and the idlis had been placed. The cake and candles were the most obvious signs of celebration, but the mangoes and idlis were meant to touch on a very subtle joke. Although I enjoy the taste of nearly every fruit on the face of the earth, coconut seems to be the only one I am just not able to acquire a taste for. Because I told people early on in the trip that I DID liked mangoes just minutes after explaining that I was "highly allergic" to coconuts (that's the only way to avoid anything around here), they somehow decided to compensate for my allergy by showering me with lots and lots of mangoes/mango juice/mango anything from that point on. So, sitting just to the left of the cake was one very large, beautifully ripe mango and a bottle of my favorite mangoe juice to go along. The fourth item at the table was a small plate of idlis. These round, white flattened circles are more or less equivalent to small rice cakes, a common food taken in the morning with a simple sauce to be drizzled over for flavor. Because everyone thought it was extremely funny that I was not able to eat the sauce that was normally placed over top of the idlis due to its intense spice, my students at the hostel thought it would be good to prepare for me a few extra idlis just they way I like them, plain white.

After walking into the room in total surprise and taking several pictures of the beautiful arrangements, the ceremony began. Although there was no singing of "Happy Birthday" and only one candle on the actual cake to be blown out, there was something specific about this celebration that I will remember forever. As I began to cut the first piece of cake, the people standing around me informed me that I needed to cut it to be quite large. Although I was not sure of their exact reasons (besides wanting me to get really fat really fast), I just went along with it as if I knew why it needed to be sliced so big in the first place. In the end, it turns out that after the birthday girl or boy cuts the first piece of cake, that piece is then handed around to each individual in the room so that he or she can feed a small bite to the guest of honor. Sounds a bit strange I'm sure, but in reality it's greatly amusing. As people start passing around the piece of cake faster than you can swallow the previous bite, everyone around you just begins to laugh, and sometimes even slow down the cake-passing process a little.

After cake, it was time for birthday games. Although they did not understand my initial directions when explaining to these children the game of tag, after giving an example with one of the girls sitting close by all the children were able to understand. Although I haven't run so fast or so continuously for quite some time now, it was well worth the slight lack of oxygen and extremely sore legs that followed.

Since I taught them a classic game from my part of the world, it was now time for them to do the same for me. "Coconut or Mango?" was the name of this particular activity. The game did not make any sense until about five minutes in when I started to realize the running patterns of those who had originally been picked as coconuts verses those who had been chosen to be mango. More then the game itself, I will always remember the name, and how during this day of celebration these 60 or so children took the time to select a game that I could easily understand, even if it was only the title that made sense to me at the time.

Finally, after the people had recovered from the joys of eating and running around (although not a complete joy for some when placed too close together), I was suddenly snapped back into teacher mode. Before coming to India, my father had placed in a my suitcase a few small packets of sunflower seeds (to grow giant sunflowers) to be distributed to the hostel sometime during my teaching career. I sat the girls down into four different randomly selected groups, with the exception of four specifically selected older leaders to look out and report for themselves and their chosen group. To continue with the story, I spent the last few hours of my visit to the hostel giving direction on how to plant and grow the seeds I had provided. I requested that each leader of the group assign a different one of their team members to water and measure the flower each day, and another to be the team's sunflower height recorder. If there was one thing I got from my time teaching at the LAFTI Hostel, I think the children were at the point (nearly 6 weeks later) where they could benefit from a small amount of competition, but competition unrelated to the world of academic performance where children of this age can easily be brought down by competitive standards. The plan went as follows: one week from the day I left (today), each group would plant two of the team's six small seeds, care for them daily, and record their flower's progress every week. Although I have not determined a specific prize just yet, I will be sending a small gift to all participants of this sunflower seed-growing competition. It is not that I am giving a better or worse prize based on the final height of each team's sunflower, but I am giving them an incentive to believe in something they have such great power over. Although it will take some amount of time and commitment to grow each flower to its potential, I am rewarding the students for their consistent attention to and recognition of their own skills and talents, not for the actual result of those skills or talents.

Although my whole time here as the English teacher may have come across to some as a six-week long sunflower-growing preparatory school, words can not explain the true sunflower-like beauty, strength, and color that these students developed in their personal and academic lives over the past month and a half. Humbling, rewarding, frightening, and transforming all wrapped into one. The time I spent teaching and learning from these 75 girls and boys over the past six weeks can only be analogized in one very specific way. It was like being at the middle of a sunflower and watching a million little petals develop and expand around me. I could not have watched without them there to be seen, and they would never have been seen without someone there who truly desired to watch.

Pride & Safety

2010-07-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

This blog is a continuation of the situation and stories of Sikkavalam village I visited several weeks back. As I wrote in the earlier post, many of the villagers were not available to be interviewed the first time around because my friend and I had come to visit just minutes before the work and school day was about to start.

Although there are many similar stories that can now be told as a result of LAFTI and Krishnammal's work, this story was the first and somehow stuck with of me for the rest of the morning and afternoon. Although I will get into the details of their housing situation in relation to LAFTI later on, I must first give adequate background information for you to gain an understanding of them as a family. There are four individuals living in this house, although only three are shown in the picture above. Mother and father, T. Aravalli and R. Thakaraj respectively, T. Bhuvaneswari the couple's younger daughter, and finally Bhuvaneswari's older brother T. Logeswaran who is commonly called Vinoth by his friends and family. The family lives approximately 10 minutes away (walking) from a government pipe where they collect most all of their drinking water. Their daughter is 13-years-old and studies at the public school in 8th standard (which is what they call grade levels here), and Aravalli and Thakaraj's son has now been able to move on to higher education.

Although it may be obvious now that I have written so much about Krishnammal and her own past, this family along with all others who own LAFTI-built houses in this village are part of the Dalit community.

With regards to income generation, both the mother and father work in agriculture approximately three to four months out of the year (June-September) depending greatly on the drastic changes in climate. The family owns one goat and one cow. The goat is kept in the family until it is able to produce offspring at which point it is sold for a profit and the cycle then repeats. While the cow is able to produce around five liters of milk per day which can be sold for around 100 rupees (roughly $2.20), the cost to feed and care for the cow often only allows the family to break even. In addition to agricultural work, the father cuts and sells coconuts from March to May sometimes making up to 100 rupees daily as well, but he says that this job is not nearly as consistent. During the other five months of the year, the family participates in the government's 100-Day Scheme. This basically means that Aravalli and Thakaraj are nearly guaranteed some type of work 100 days out of the year. The trouble with this is that it often takes them away from other things they need to be doing (caring for the family, farming, etc.) because it is not always a continuous 100 days and it consists of random jobs such as cleaning the railroads or restoring roads.

Now to discuss the main reason for this blog = the family's house. When I asked them what it was that they valued so greatly about their new brick house as opposed to their old straw hut the list was neverending, but two words in particular serve as an overall description. Pride and safety, these were the two worlds that came up nearly every sentence when asked this question. "We feel much more financially safe because we are not spending 4,000 rupees every year to replace the straw that held together our hut." That family's safety is completely intertwined with their pride, as feeling continually safe financially allows them experience a sense of pride socially within their own community. Building the house by hand also provides the family with a sense of accomplishment and instills a certain amount of pride. They feel safe from the sun and rain, two forms of weather that frequently destroyed their previous hut. Aravalli and Thakaraj feel extremely proud that they are now able to buy their children necessities because they have just recently been able to save. When I asked their daughter directly, she said that having a quiet and comfortable place to study has helped her stay ahead in school, an area in which she was often behind because her homework would take her three times as long on a rainy night living in the hut.

With the help of Gandhi as my translator, this was the overall message I took away from this family and every other one like it. "We are so very happy that, with the help of Krishnammal and LAFTI, we were able to help ourselves. Although we continue to work the same jobs as before even if they are unorganized and inconsistent, we are no longer struggling to stay above water. We feel safe and proud that we have built our own home, a home that our children leave from in the morning and return to at night to complete their homework. We now live in peace and safety from the rain and sun that used to make our lives such a struggle."

Madurai (Meeting, and Meenakshi)

2010-07-24T09:00:00.000-07:00

Around 5 am this morning, Valayrmathi and I began our journey to the meeting in Madurai. We packed our bags with churidars and saries, respectively, and walked to the local train station. Like several others I have been on, this train compartment was for "unreserved ticketing", meaning as many people as can squeeze onto the seating bench meant to hold four. Because our tickets were booked at the same time as the village women who were to meet up with us the following morning, my grandma informed us that we were to travel as they would....unreserved! After a four-hour ride from Kuthur to Trichy, and then another three from Trichy to Dindigul (still unreserved), it was time to switch up a little and take a bus. The original plan was to take a rickshaw from the train station to the bus station and then take a bus from there to where we would be staying overnight, but Indian bus tickets are even more unreserved than all trains combined, and for that reason we decided to give in. I gave an auto driver the equivalent of four U.S. dollars and he drove us the whole 30 minutes from the train station to the LAFTI Sarvodaya Workers Home in the town of Gandhigram where we would be staying until the next morning.

Gandhigram is of great significance to me for two particular reasons. One is a bit more obvious, because it is LAFTI's original home, the place where the gigantic flower of their work today initially grew from. Specific to me, however, this is the place where I came to stay with my family for several months in 1998, the place where I remember my grandparents so clearly. I remember waking every morning twelve years ago to find my grandma toiling in the rice patties with all of the other village women, and my grandpa spinning his own shirts and dhotis from 4 am to sunrise. I remember walking to the only nearby shop to purchase a 10-cent square of peanut brittle to make up for all the spicy food I refused to eat, and I remember naming my pet water buffalo Eddie the Edumai (meaning water buffalo in Tamil) and checking in on him every morning before taking him for a short walk. Although Gandhigram was not directly related to our final destination, Madurai, Amma agreed that it was somewhere I should go back and visit along the way as it was only two hours by bus to where we needed to be for the meeting the following morning. To my surprise, I was not the only one who missed Gandhigram and all its originality. Late that evening, the few other female LAFTI staff workers and village women arrived at the Workers Home, as it was the easiest place to find uninterrupted calm and rest when in transit.

So, as the plan continued, we hopped on a bus the following morning in order to make it to the meeting. When we got off at the bus stop, we just began to walk, and walk, and walk. Because the buses were relatively expensive in comparison to the villagers' incomes and because we did not actually know what bus we would need to take to get us to where we were going, it was concluded by the majority of the group that walking was our best possible option if we actually wanted to arrive to the meeting before it ended. So we walked, and walked, and walked.

When we arrived at the meeting on foot, we were one of many. The meeting consisted of several international leaders and their followers discussing various different issues surrounding land and rural development in different area around India. Although the meeting was not being translating from Tamil to English by anyone, I was familiar enough with past speaking events that I had a strong grasp of the general foundation of the topics discussed at this gathering.

Before the second half of the meeting, my grandma suggested that the other villagers and I visit the famous Menakshi temple only a few kilometers away. Home to many beautiful colors, detailed statues, and tall painted elephants, these was plenty with which I could identify, religion and spiritualism aside. It was nearly spiritual for me, however, to see the way in which these village women and others around them so greatly worshipped this ground on which we were walking. While being there was extra special for me as a foreigner, it was even more amazing to be among those who came there regularly, religiously, and spiritually. Being there with these women gave meaning to the bright colors, brought understanding to the stories of the statues, and made a mystical creature out of every elephant standing at a corner.

If you thought spending 12 hours in transit to a five-hour meeting was a bad travel time to destination ratio, you really haven't experienced Indian travel Although I will not mention every detail that contributed to us arriving back to LAFTI around 5 am, I will share one simple example that says it all. When we where waiting to catch the last bus we needed to get back to the headquarters, there was a slight problem. There were three staff members, one intern (me), and 10 village women, all trying to get on a bus. The problem was that according to everyone else in the group, we all needed to get on the same bus and all needed to have our own seat. While this may sound like a simple task when traveling on a bus in the United States, finding a bus with 14 open seats is virtually impossible. While part of my negative attitude at that time may have been due to the 20 mosquito bites I incurred every time a full bus passed by and the fact that I am an American who had been traveling like an Indian for the past 24 hours, this highly frustrating experience turned out to be a truly transformational time for me. After waiting nearly two hours, using every last bit of mosquito repellent available, I finally began to understand. This experience, that frustration, and my immediate judgment of our group's overall inefficiency could all be summarized as just a different way of life. Because no one really had anywhere to be except for possibly back at their homes sleeping, we would all stay together, and that was just a given. I had agreed to travel with the villagers and that is just how they travel. Because few of these women often get a chance to travel to different parts of the country, this 24 hours spent on a bus, a train, or just roaming the streets looking for the location of our meeting was a time for community. This was a time for all 10 villagers to "catch up" to discuss the meeting outcomes, to reflect on the beauty of the temple, and just to be. So as I have been told time and time again when taking part in exchange programs, language classes, or academic studies of the way people live in other parts of the world, "it's not good, it's not bad, it's just different!".

Significant Details

2010-07-16T18:00:00.000-07:00

After a long drive into the city of Chennai, Gandhi, my grandma, and me sat down to our morning cup of coffee in the office of the Secretary to the Chief Minister. Although the coffee was quite enjoyable, that was not the actual reason for our long visit so early in the morning. Krishnammal had come to ask for a relatively small favor, but one that could make a significant difference in the lives of the land beneficiaries.

Even when women are able to acquire land, and thanks to Krishnammal in their own name, there is still an expensive fee required to register that land title with the state. LAFTI has been paying this fee for the women in the past because she feels that to ask the women to pay would be to lower any level of newly found pride and confidence and would put the women in a situation of debt, something LAFTI specifically makes a point not to do. After several major negotiations with the government regarding the actual purchase of the land itself, it was now time for Amma to hammer out the small but greatly meaningful details of the land-ownership situation.

Once again, the majority of the meeting was not in English, but the purpose of the meeting was explained to me in the car ride along the way, and the extraordinary outcome of the meeting shared just minutes later. Since there had been numerous photos taken at the brickmaking ceremony several weeks before, Gandhi and staff had prepared a small pamphlet to bring to the office that day which showed the house building process and what a change in the beneficiaries' lives earlier negotiations with the government had allowed for. When the meeting concluded, the most immediate outcome was that the secretary would place the proposal document on the Chief Minister's desk for official approval. Just as everything else in India, one just has to keep asking, and asking, and asking. Amma told me that a similar request had been made several months before, but that the actual document which needed to be looked over and signed never made it to any of the people who had the authority to do so.

We thanked him and left for our next event. I think we were off to a wedding. Anyway, after we got into the car, my grandma asked me "as a business major, did you think he was a nice person?" Before I could even begin to formulate any sort of answer, she informed me that yes he was, but that we would have to wait just a few days to see if that niceness would carry on to the people. As she has reiterated to me several times since I began working with LAFTI nearly a month ago, "India is free but its people are still not". About 30 hours later, Krishnammal and I arrived back to the LAFTI offices with the news that the document had been signed and the land beneficiaries would no longer have to pay any sort of fee to register their land with the government. As was said by those who honored Krishnammal with the Opus Prize two year ago this fall (a faith-based humanitarian award given for outstanding social and humanitarian change motivated by one's faith), "every part of her work big or small, is seen by those she serves as a truly monumental accomplishment".

Water & Electricity

2010-07-16T09:00:00.000-07:00

After having spent several days, weeks, and months throughout the first twenty years of my life traveling to different "developing" countries, two observations in particular remain constant across the board.

Water and Electricity - we live the way we do with more than a comfortable amount of water and electricity to accompany our everyday way of life. When we feel cold in the winter, we crank up the heater and take a nice hot bath. When we find ourselves uncomfortably hot, we go to that little digital box on the wall and type in the number we actually want to feel. I say all of this not to make one feel guilty or stupid for utilizing these luxuries found in many American homes, but to point out to you as a comfortable user of such resources that water and electricity are prioritized and utilized in a completely different manner in many other countries.

When you wake in the morning in Amman, Jordan and want to take your morning shower, so does everybody else. If too many people use the water at the same time, everyone's water shuts off, and the same goes for using fans and electricity. When one goes to take an afternoon nap at the LAFTI headquarters, it is often likely that one has chosen to do so during one of the government's "scheduled" power outages. Anywhere from 2-6 hours of the day, both schedule and unscheduled, as Indians would say, "the current is cut".

After finding myself often unable to write due to either a four-hour power outage or the heat exhaustion to follow, I discovered that the workers plan their day to be as efficient as possible. They arrive early in the morning before the "real heat" sets in, and then work until the current is cut, at which point they take an afternoon nap, eat a re-energizing meal, and then carry on with their daily work.

Although there are richer segments of every population that do have the possibility of enjoying such amenities (with generators, etc.), this very small portion is virtually non-existent when compared to the number of people in the United States who do not have to worry about when to take their morning shower or schedule their afternoon nap.

Teamwork!

2010-07-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

Although it was more than obvious during the lorry blessing and brickmaking ceremony a few weeks back, the ongoing team work and overall sense of community present amongst LAFTI, its staff, and all of its beneficiaries was clearly noticeable today.

When I went outside this morning to participate in the process of making bricks using the fly-ash machine, I was immediately taken aback by the amount of trust and expectation each person in this working line was actually placing on one another. From the first two people who drive a large truck a hundred kilometers to pick up the fly-ash powder itself, to the people who mix it together with the needed ingredients to make it brickworthy, to the people who monitor the brick-making machine to notice and service any possible malfunctions, to the people who place the mixture in the cement molds on a constant and precisely timed basis, to the people who pull each brick out of the rotating mold rack and place each brick on a rolling dolly, to those who push that dolly from the machine to the field and back, stacking each brick perfectly on top of one another. The best part is that even though the procedures mentioned are quite detailed and individually timed, this group of Dalits, those people whom were never even allowed to hammer in a nail to a board in the wall because of their non-existent social status in Indian society, make the process of building houses using this particular machine look next to automatic.

100 Acres (Land, Women, and Spirituality)

2010-07-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

I arrived back to the offices late last night and didn't expect to be doing much LAFTI-related work early in the morning, unless it involved coffee or continual sleep. Although I woke and only intended to see why the loud horn of the foundation's Jeep was being honked so early in the morning, I had five minutes to be in that Jeep that was honking so peacefully at 8am. My Uncle Bhoomikumar had come to town from Cambodia where he works as a psychiatrist and mental health counselor for local youth, and when I went outside to see what was happening, he immediately asked me if I was going along. My grandma overheard and told him that both she and I had intended for me to sleep in for a bit of the morning since I had been traveling a great deal in the last week and was more than slightly behind on the sleep cycle. He said "okay, but if you change your mind since you're already awake, we're leaving in about five minutes".

Instead of going back to sleep like a sleep-deprived person might normally do, I continued on with the conversation by asking my grandmother where we were going, after telling her that I would be ready in five minutes of course. She insisted that I get some rest because my body was not used to so much traveling, but I assured her that I was learning to be just like her, doing what needs to be done even if the work doesn't come at the most convenient of times.

A few hours and over a hundred honks later (because that's just the main form of Indian road communication), we arrived to the village of Pethavelankottakam where Krishnammal was expected to speak. The event began with a several songs and prayers "to honor Amma's presence". After all the musical and other introductions were complete, as I would say now after hearing her speak on numerous different occasion and seeing the results in the past, my grandmother then began to "work her magic". Having listen to her speak to large and small groups in Hindi, Tamil, and English with various translators along the way, I can now confidently say that I have a simple and most basic understanding of the message that she is continually trying to convey. Land, Women, and Spirituality, that's the best Krishnammal speech summary I know. Her speeches intrigue me not because they are amazing, motivational, or more sincere than all others I have ever come across, but because they combine three subjects that are quite uncommon to be combined. Dealing with such a practical and physical problem such as the ownership of land, then solving that dilemma by informing and encouraging some of the most uninformed and discouraged people in Indian society, and doing so all through the notion of finding that of God within (spirituality) is an idea well beyond even the wildest possibilities of any other speaker to be found.

After nearly a full hour of land, women, and spirituality-speaking, it was on to what would later be referred to as the "100 acres of land" village. Almost 20 minutes later and several other Jeeps all filled with various different LAFTI staff members, we arrived at a small paved road surrounded by nothing but 100 acres of "usable land" as Amma would call it. After Amma and "her people" made it clear exactly what is was they wanted with this large plot of land, the really important person parked and stepped our of his highly Americanized shiny silver vehicle. This man was the CEO of a major Indian company who had come to discuss and negotiate (in grandma's mind) the possible sale and price (in grandma's mind) of the surrounding land. Although it seemed as though this CEO would talk to "his people" and get back to LAFTI with formal documents in the next 10 days, the pressure of Amma and nearly all of her staff who had come out to this road just to support her in the endeavor seemed to motivate this business man to move the process alongat a slightly faster pace.

I am not what exactly were the details of this 45-minute movie-like stand off in the middle of this 100-acre plot of land, but the speedy results made me think that maybe Krishnammal gave this man another one of her Land, Women, and Spirituality talks.

60 Years

2010-07-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

1950. July 6th, 1950 is the day that Krishnammal and Jagannathan married. It is the day on which these two extraordinary individuals decided take each other's hand in marriage and together become a leading example for lasting change in India. Stepping far out of social norms just to be with one another (Krishnammal a Dalit and Jagannathan from a higher caste), these two married in a time of new possibilities. With India a newly independent nation and the teachings of Mohandas Gandhi well established among the country's people, Jagannathan and his wife were well on their way to becoming two of India's most motivated, dedicated, and tenacious Gandhian followers to ever live. Although I did not have the privilege of knowing either Krishnammal or Jagannathan until very recently (the last 20 years), this couple's love today after 60 years of marriage is a love stronger and more enduring than that of any other couple you will ever meet.

Last evening, I arrived back at my aunt's place in Changelpattu. When I woke around 7 am to the persistent discomforts of sunrise mosquitoes and summer heat, morning meals were served slightly differently than on most other days. After overhearing a long prayer sung by my aunt who had just finished meditating in the room upstairs, the simple celebrations began. First was just Jagannathan's normal three- or four- lap circumnavigation of the living room. Although 97, mostly blind, and partially deaf, Jagannathan still walks in circles around the common room like he's leading a march to the sea...hand-spun, white cotton clothing and a walking stick to lead the way. After settling down in his chair on the front porch of Sathya's house a few hours later, his dearest friend and wife of 60 years sat down beside him. Although Jagannathan often has to be repeatedly reminded of who is standing around him and why they are there, one word from Krishnammal and he seems to remember everything.

She smeared a small line of powder across his forehead, dotted it with a red circle nearly half way in between, and without the least bit of hesitation in her heart or voice she just began to sing. Although I did not understand the exact meaning of this prayer or its significance in the context of my grandparents' anniversary, the beauty of my grandma's voice alone left me completely speechless but with all my emotions rolling from my eyes down to my face.

After singing and sitting in silence for a few minutes, we all moved into the dining room for a especially sweet breakfast.Similar in shape and texture to a famous south Indian snack called a "vadi", this round donut-like bread was deep fried this morning with butter and sugar and turned into something like a mini=donut ball. Although not a big fan of any Indian or American sweets generally speaking, this is one sweet I could most definitely go for every now and again...maybe every 60th years or so!

Among the few people present at this morning's small celebration was a friend of my grandparents who has known and worked with them on a myriad of issues for over 60 years. He was a witness to their marriage 60 years ago and is the only person I know who has been a part of Krishnammal and Jagannathan's life from before they were married, to the birth of their their daughter and son, to today when we find ourselves celebrating over half a century of their lives as a couple.

Although there were many aspects of today that t were completely normal (as normal as my grandparents' life will every be), there was also a feeling of something along the lines of magic that would be used to distinguish this morning from any other Tuesday morning.

It is not about how long these two have been married or how many struggles they have overcome as a couple throughout those years It is about the phrase that pours out of my grandma's heart and mouth nearly every time she is away from him for more than a full day:

"I worry about Appa. Because he is all alone, not just physically but in his mind. I worry about him because when he thinks about who is around him; he thinks he is leading a meeting and people have come to gather with him to take up another struggle. Soon I must go and relay to him all the information of our work, I must go to be with him so he knows I am here".

Savings From Nothing

2010-07-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

Although I mentioned to you in a previous blog the names of the four women I met when I first arrived to LAFTI a few weeks back, one woman’s life and story will never leave my heart. Our real conversation first began when she was staying at the LAFTI office a few nights ago and I invited her to stay in my air conditioned room, since none of the other women were around to be jealous. Although I had noticed at first glance that she was not wearing the traditional red dot in the center of her forehead (a bindi) like the other women, I waited until now to ask the question directly.

She informed me that a few years back when her son was only five-years-old and her daughter just one, her husband slowly developed a fever. He was taken to the doctor several times, and then sent home because the doctor did not think that his illness was severe enough to run expensive and often unnecessary tests. After returning to the hospital with a fever much greater than ever before, test were run and the diagnosis was confirmed. Only five years into her marriage and her son’s life, her best friend and husband had been diagnosed with Jaundice. It was immediately understood by Valayrmathi and her family that they would not be able to afford the needed liver transplant offered only at a hospital in the Far north. Because her daughter was not old enough to understand what happened when she was nearly one-year-old, she is now very saddened when her mother must explained to her that she has to spend several days away from home working in order to provide for the family. Her son, although much more mature and understanding than most other 10-year-old boys one would meet, has lost his father and friend. He has lost his father not only to a curable disease, but to a disease that is treatable by so many of the Indian doctors that we now find in the U.S. The unfortunate irony in the situation is that the medical care we receive from Indian physicians working in the U.S. are often not affordable by India’s own population.

When I was speaking with my grandmother about Valayrmathi and her struggles, we agreed on one thing almost instantaneously. Valayrmathi is about as far as one can get from being a “useless parent”. With a broken heart, two young children, and only enough money for a few necessities, Valayrmathi loves and cares for her family in a priceless sort of way. She does not spoil her children to make up for their sorrows, yet she is a most comforting mother in times of need, and most importantly she provides for her children, the love, education, and encouragement that is needed to move forward from such a tragedy.

Although words cannot truly explain, Valayrmathi is one of the most active and aware mothers I have ever known. When she admitted that one of the reasons she wanted to spend time around me was to learn more English so that she could then relay that knowledge to her children, I was honored and overwhelmed. She works tirelessly and loves endlessly, and that combination has made her one of the strongest, most determined, mothers and friends I know.

While one may not need any further information to understand the complexity and struggles Valayrmathi faces on a daily basis, there is still one more story to share. When I spent some time visiting Valayrmathi’s village last weekend before teaching at the LAFTI Hostel, I was lucky enough to get the V.I.P. tour of her and her father’s house. When first stepping over the concrete ledge amongst a larger rectangle that makes for a doorway, I found myself in the “greeting room”. Not large enough to hold more than three or four people comfortably, I later learned that this is where Valayrmathi and her children sleep. There is a government-provided TV that plays only one channel, and on top of the TV a picture of the Jagannathans surrounded by a traditional string of Indian flowers. They brought me a small plastic white chair, the only one in the house, and insisted that I sit in front of the fan and drink a cup of tea. Because there was only one electrical outlet in the house from what I could see, a few wires had to be twisted and a few cables unplugged until the fan began to blow. Before going on to show me all of the other rooms in the house, she led me outside to the garden. Filled with a few flowers but mostly weeds, her beautiful garden spanned along the side of the house three meters in length but only two feet out because there was only that much space. Glancing at her after she saw me looking at the garden, I had never seen more happiness or pride in her appearance before. She said that “before they weren’t growing at all, but now they’re growing”. I guess when you look at it that way, there’s a lot to be happy about. After we acknowledged the color and beauty of the garden, we made our way back to the inside of the house. Behind the greeting and sleeping room was a small storage room, a small square room that connected to the front and side rooms. Next she showed me the puja or prayer room just off to the left. With only two pictures and a mirror on the wall, the room was nearly empty. She said that one day, after she finished the rest of the house, she hoped to fill the walls with pictures of her favorite Gods. When I asked her about when she might be able to get those pictures she so badly wanted, she started to tell me about her personal finance plan, something most of us college students and even adults seem to lack. We walked into the final room, but it was not yet a room. As I began to asked her where she cooked for her family since this unfinished room seemed to slightly resemble a kitchen, she said “since our kitchen isn’t complete, we cook on a small stove on the floor of my parent’s house just across the street because there is only the two of them living there so they have more space”. Although her explanation was slowly making me swell with sadness, her optimism and determination I mentioned earlier made it impossible to give in. “Every month, after I pay for the food, and my son and daughter’s schooling, and for any low-cost medical expenses for my mother and father, I save.” When I asked her approximately how much she saves each month, she said anywhere from 50 to 150 rupees depending on what other things come up. Just to clarify, that is a savings of approximately $1.20 to $2.60. She said it would take about another 500 rupees to finish the kitchen and maybe 150 to 200 to finish the storage/main room. Again, I just wanted to empty my wallet and help her build her kitchen, but before I could say a thing we were on to visit her parent’s home just across the way. Unlike in her house, there were two small fragile cots sitting at the front this home for her elderly mother and father, but this house was completely made of straw and sticks instead of cement like their daughter’s. Besides the beds, there was a small pot-like stove in the back right corner, and a picture of Valayrmathi’s husband hanging from the wall. Afterwards, they took me out behind the house to her parent’s “back yard”. There were a few trees, some grass, and a very weak fence that bordered the family’s small plot of land. Valayrmathi went on to tell me that although she really liked having the one lemon tree in her own back yard, “it doesn’t give much lemons so sometimes we take from here”. She said that “my children are very close to their grandparents because they were there when my husband died and they now spent a lot of time at their house because of my working.”

So, while we are busy talking about our dream renovations and our blooming gardens, Valayrmathi is busy saving. Passing up the opportunity to purchase a 25-rupee prayer picture and prioritizing her children’s health and education above all, Valayrmathi has created a small pot of savings from virtually nothing.

Squeaky Clean

2010-07-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

When I woke this morning to teach go teach in Valivalam, Valayrmathi insisted that we get started a bit earlier this time. Since it was only my third week traveling by bus to this town, I was not yet familiar with the bus times and routes and thus could not really make any argument for us to wait around a few more hours. After burning my mouth with a small cup of coffee that did not have time to cool due to our rushed departure, we ended up getting on a much earlier bus to go into the village. When we arrived to the bus stop, I was acquainted enough with a few landmarks around the area (coffee shops, pharmacies, etc.) that I began walking in the direction of the hostel. Only four or five steps into my short journey, Valayrmathi informed me that there was a surprise waiting for me, but in the opposite direction. Although a single parent providing for two children on a very low income, she had already paid for a small auto rickshaw to take her family and me to the exact location where this surprise was to be discovered. After a very bumpy and dusty 30-minute ride through a village filled with families much worse off than hers, we arrived at her family’s home.

As I have written a separate blog specifically about Valayrmathi and her family, the following paragraphs are meant to address the very specific state of the houses I came across within her village. While she began showing me around the few cement but mostly dirt roads that comprised the main village, I was completely stunned. The place was squeaky clean. The dirt roads were swept, the straw roofs dusted, and all the bicycles lined up neatly in a small covered area beside the house. As I was welcomed into all the homes, the insides of these village houses were cleaner than most any house you would see in the U.S. With sporadic rain, constant heat, strong wind, and continuous dust, the amount of upkeep that must be done in order to maintain such an extraordinary level of cleanliness for houses that are far less enduring than our own is beyond imagination.

I am writing about such a simple thing as village housekeeping because the act itself symbolizes a greater and much more powerful observation. The fact that people living in such a naturally “dirty village” filled with stray dogs and swarming mosquitoes take so much time to make their home and their village beautifully presentable says much more than is indicated by the naked eye. Besides the obvious fact that they value their straw huts and four cement roads far beyond that of the rain, wind, and heat that challenge them, they defy one key characteristic so often found among poor populations. When people find themselves in a situation where survival is much more of a priority than optimism, there is a certain culture of hopelessness that often consumes them to a point of indifference when it comes to clean houses and dust-free roads.

While there still may be a great deal of street begging and slum living, this village serves as an example of true integrity, actual hope, and real development.

Cyclones & Staircases (A Work In Progress)

2010-07-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

After having spent the morning in Sikkavalam village taking pictures and interviewing the locals, we got back into what was now “the foreigners Jeep” and made our way to a completely different area. Ottathatta was the name of this village, and we had spent the last hour and a half driving on unpaved paths and recently rained on access roads so that we could see one of LAFTI’s most recent and ongoing accomplishments. When we stepped down from the Jeep, just behind us there was a cement staircase standing alone, a true indicator of the work in progress that was taking place just a few feet away. There was a half-built straw building that several men were working to construct at the time, a building that once finished would become more living space for the Ottathatta hostel. Inside the already standing cement structure to the left was the part of the hostel where all operations were currently taking place. Upon first entrance, there was a medium-sized open space for anyone to gather around or possibly a space to store the staff’s bikes and such. To the left was the kitchen which also encompassed a small shrine in the back, right corner. Although there was nothing cooking at the time because the children were not present, there was a beautiful and well-colored arrangement of fruits sitting on the ground a few inches away from the prayer area. Coming back into the open space and then walking straight ahead from there, we were introduced to the room where the children learn and sleep, when they are not at school of course. There was a small chalk board on the wall, a few wooden shelved nailed around the room to hold children’s books and backpacks and other supplies, and other than that not much else. After looking around the first three rooms, Gandhi brought my friend and I into a vocational training room he spoke to me about several weeks before. There were only a few women there at the time, but they greeted us quite politely and then continued with their work. This small center was a training facility for women to learn about sewing, funded by some of LAFTI’s friends from Chicago. After a six-month learning phase, the women normally find their way to a different part of the state to sell and have exported those items they have been trained to make.

The reason for the title of this blog is as follows. When we were walking around the previous village earlier in the morning, a man in the village mentioned to us that one of the buildings we were looking which had an enormous crack along its side, had such damage as a result of a cyclone that the area endured nearly thirty years back. Seeing that damaged building there and a large cement staircase standing off the side of the road here, I couldn’t help but to find myself in quite a contemplative state. Although the cyclone-affected building and the lonely staircase may never be cleaned up or corrected, the people just go on. They were working on building this large straw building with a moment of attention paid to the staircase across the street. The families living in tiny huts and struggling to earn a living do so without holding on in the slightest to the possibility that someone might come along and mend the large building that could then be used for some greater community purpose. It seemed as though everything, the unfinished straw building, the stand-alone cement staircase, and the cyclone-affected brick building, was a work in progress. For a country that has overcome one of the world’s most horrific natural disasters and is home to some of the strongest rains several months out of the year, I am completely astonished at the strength, tenacity, and motivation these people have to continue their work with little to no help from the outside world.

No Money For Tea

2010-07-03T11:00:00.000-07:00

Although this small incident occurred in the same village interview mentioned one post before, I was not able to process and understand the greater meaning of the situation until several hours later.

When my friend and I were approximately half way through interviewing an elderly couple in the village about the issues mentioned earlier, some of the villagers began to disperse back to their respective places in order to continue the day’s work. As people began to go their separate way, there was somewhat of a communal agreement that it was time for a short break. Although I did not understand the conversation in its entirety due to the language barrier and the fact that this conversational incident was not part of our interview and thus did not need to be translated, I still grew curious enough to ask. While the other villagers were going back to their houses to grab a short minute of shade, a small but very important discussion broke out. The husband of the couple we had been interviewing began to put his shoes on as if he was going out for a mid-day stroll. When his wife wondered where he was going, he said he was going to get some tea. Before she could say another word, he asked his wife for a few rupees so that he could leave and return in time for the rest of our questions. A few second later, his wife informed him that they did not have any money for tea and the man immediately removed his shoes. While the possibility still exists that this man’s wife did not want two American students working with two Indian organizations to waste away her money on two small cups of tea, I am more than slightly inclined to believe otherwise.

The reason this small discussion influenced me so greatly was because it sent a strong message about the family’s real priorities. While we were busy taking up this couple’s precious time asking them a million different questions none of to which answers were going to make their family or the village’s problems magically disappear, they were somehow still focused on serving us tea, making us feel comfortable in their home. The second part of this conversation that affected me with such great intensity was that, throughout our entire interview, despite all of the difficult questions we were asking and problems we were essentially reiterating, this was the first time I encountered a sense of real sadness on their faces. The two of them never seemed so sad or bothered by the fact that they had often experienced times in which they were not able to feed their family. The very thought though, that they could not “properly host” two people who had possibly taken a genuine in their struggles, that was close to unbearable. This heightened sense of sorrow most observably demonstrated by the embarrassment and social withdrawal that took place just seconds after the peak of the conversation between this man and his wife.

While it is most obviously difficult to read, to hear about, or even to witness the many struggles of third-world poverty from afar, there are no words strong enough to explain the feelings one is flooded when interacting with poverty face-to-face. I use poverty as a noun not to displace a village from its surroundings or take a word from its people, but to convey the extreme differentiation between the two realities. One is a reality in which a word and its people exist independently, where we first-world citizens enjoy access to the life of developing-world citizens only through books, politically-biased news media, and a few pictures of famished children when are pockets are full for the “giving season”. The second of these actualities is the type in which people must confront the first reality, where they must live in those places mentioned in our books, see with their own eyes those villages shown on our news, and converse and attempt to understand the lives of those families seen in our photos. When we have consciously and honestly chosen the latter, we have only just begun down the road to understanding the meaning of poverty and all its various conjugations.

Straw Huts to Brick Buildings (Sikkavalam Village)

2010-07-03T09:00:00.000-07:00

The day began with two. A good friend of mine from American University has family in India had decided to spend a portion of her summer working with the DAAN Foundation, an organization looking at many of the same issues that LAFTI addresses. As part of her field work, she was assigned to work and stay in an area just a few kilometers away from Kuthur. After exchanging our Indian numbers via email a few weeks in to both our travels, we were able to meet up for one weekend in early July. She arrived on a Friday, and we spent the afternoon not doing much more then enjoying each other’s company, in English. I can’t even say that I remember anything specific about our conversation that night, only that it didn’t demand nearly as much of our efforts with regards to communication because both of us were speaking our first language. Although It may appear of little significance to anyone else, after spending the last 3 weeks around people who only speak Tamil and myself not understanding more than a few simple words of this South Indian language, it is safe to say that we were both more than happy to see one another for this English-speaking reason alone.

Because both LAFTI and DAAN’s work involve land, agriculture, and housing, we decided that we should find a way to make our weekend into a little more than meaningless English conversation. Around 8am on Saturday, my friend and I got into the LAFTI Jeep and were driven to Sikkavalam village several kilometers away. Although I had visited this village the previous weekend to take photos of particular LAFTI projects, both my friend and I were going with the intent of actually conversing (with Gandhi as our translator) with those who live there. Primarily a Hindu community, this village consisted of about eight or nine houses in the visible area. In terms of LAFTI’s work in this locality, there are several of the organization’s beneficiaries who have commuted the small distance from this village to Kuthur to take part in the brick-making process, and who then spent the following months actually building the houses they now live in. It seems that for most families, after transporting the approximately 11,000 bricks required to construct each home, it took two to four months to complete one house depending on the given circumstances (season, number of family members contributing, etc). I did not need an in-depth conversation with any of the villagers to understand the true transformation that has taken place in this neighborhood over the last few years. Next to every 11,000-brick house was a straw hut. Although some of the families still use their old houses, their huts, to give home to the family’s cattle, the bigger and much brighter smiles present on these villager’s faces when they are standing beside their “LAFTI houses” need no further explanation.

Because we had arrived to the Sikkavalam area just before the people in the village were beginning their day, it was suggested that go to another section of the village and get more information just a few miles away. This other part of the village although not so relevant in terms of LAFTI housing projects, holds great importance when it comes to the world of farming and agriculture. After arriving in the area, we were invited onto the porch of a middle-age couple’s house to discuss and interview them about issues related to how farming, water access/quality, and land ownership have changed in the last ten years. Although it was hard to get individual farmer responses because the rest of the village members were constantly crowded around and contributing out of their own excitement, we were able to conclude a few foundational facts that nearly every individual living and working in the area had recently experience. During the mid to late 90’s, most all farmers were using organic manure to maintain and develop their crops. Over the past four to five years however, farmers have been introduced to a combination of organic and chemical manure used both for their paid farming work, as well as for their personal use. With regards to the farmer’s personal crops, the cost of owning and maintain a cow to produce organic manure has risen steadily over the last ten years. In terms of using chemical manure in the line of work, it all comes back to profits. With the climate change India and the rest of the world has recently experienced, farming as a business has felt some serious downturns. Chemical manure, in the short run, is able to boost crop productivity per season and bring in a good portion of that recently lost income lost in previous years. As many of the farmers mentioned throughout the interview though, chemical manure is not good in the long-run, for anyone’s future. It produces more of very specific crops, but not of better quality (sometimes even worse), and those chemicals found in this specific mix of manure are slowly but surely result in severe devastation to the soil and land to which they are given. In addition to the people’s crops, some of the drinking water used by the farmers and their families comes from sources drawn upwards from the ground, adding yet another and even more direct danger when it comes to the effects of using this chemical manure. So, while these farmers may be able to grow their crops and provide for their families this year, there is nothing close to “a sure thing” when it comes to next year’s harvest.

To end the visit on a positive note, there is one danger involving food and farming that this village in particular has not yet had to overcome. While the chemical manure is thought to be problematic or dangerous for the reasons mentioned above, prawn farms possess an even greater danger to the farmer’s and their families. When multi-national companies make their way into the area and exploit any available worker’s labor in the name of American eaten “shrimp”, often unknown to those who actually it these curly little creatures, irreversible damage has been done. After a 14-year-old girl and her mother have finished a 16-hour day shelling shrimp for a wage below belief, the land on which the prawn farm was initially established is no longer usable, and the company moves on. Not only are the chemicals used in the shrimp-shelling process extremely toxic, but they destroy the once-used “farming land” to a point of no return. These already poor families who have been continuously struggling to keep their crops and families a-float, wake up to discover that their land has been bought out by some billion-dollar CEO who exploits, pollutes, and then leaves behind a previously healthy plot of land and all of its workers, only to go find the next. Although the village I have been discussing does not currently face this threat, only because there are not currently any prawn farms nearby, the possibilities for danger and displacement that so many farmers and their families live in fear of is beyond my own imagination and possibly yours.

Community Space

2010-07-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to take a moment to share a few observations that serve as a foundation for the vast cultural differences any individual is to encounter when traveling abroad.

While the following example may sound slightly strange or unusual compared to most anything that occurs in the states, it is quite normal and even a mundane sort of occurrence here in India. When I arrived to India several weeks back, I ended up having to go to a nearby shop to purchases a few necessities, one of which was soap. After placing the small bar on top of its box and setting the box on my sink, I just assumed I would leave it there for daily use, as I was the only person sleeping and living in my room. Sleeping maybe, but living most certainly not. When I woke the next morning and found that my soap was no longer sitting where it was left, I went outside and asked the manager where small, blue, bubbly bar might be. Just minutes later Bhardi, the boys hostel warden who I met last weekend when I was teaching came dancing into my room with a bar of soap. He went on to explain that because someone else was using the soap at his house when he was rushing to get ready, he thought he would use mine. Although I initially thought he was making a joke, he was actually being completely honest. Since I had a fresh bar of soap in my room, there was no sense in him purchasing a new one from the store while someone was using his just for that one morning. After overcoming a slight bit of shock and upon further reflection, it was quite obvious to me that Bhardi wasn’t doing anything more strange or unusual than that which was most efficient and utilized the smallest amount of resources.

This entire example is meant not only to convey the fact that there are millions of people out there more efficient and utilizing far less resources than you and I, but that there is an overwhelming environment of community space in India that allows for such events as the “soap situation” to occur. So, while it may not have been my natural tendency to invite a stranger into my bathroom to take and wash his hands with my soap, pronouns to which we as Americans attach such great meaning do not influence or shape Indian life in nearly the same way.

Motorcycles, Mangoes, and Chai

2010-06-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

Since the last time my family and I traveled to India in 1998, three things remain exactly the same. Motorcycles take over the streets as many people’s main form of transportation, constantly weaving their way through the overcrowded streets of Chennai and Mumbai. Mangoes are to be found in most any village, at every dinner table, regardless of the time of day. Chai and all its aroma are omnipresent at nearly every train station throughout all of India, often overpowering the ghastly smells of the nearby sewers.

I am writing about these three aspects of Indian culture for two particular reasons. With a gap of over ten years between now and my last time in India, these three things serve as an unshaken foundation of familiarity. When I find myself alone on a seven hour train ride from the LAFTI offices to my aunt’s house (a trip I have taken nearly every five days since my arrival), the smell of tongue-burning chai is actually refreshing. Watching the chai sellers cool a cup of this tea by pouring it between two different cups nearly four feet apart reminds me of why I loved the stopping part of each train ride so very much. Being a picky eater and someone who has never liked even the least bit of Indian spice, eating mangoes now reminds me of my childhood survival food when it came to the common curries and chutneys served almost every morning and night. Seeing motorcycles going in every direction at speeds not appropriate for discussion, I am constantly reminded of the thrill and risk I love so greatly when it comes to traveling.

While these three characteristics of Indian life sing a beautiful song of familiarity that is most comforting from dawn until dusk, they also possess a greater and much deeper meaning than is revealed in everyday life. While it may occur possibility only in my own imagination, motorcycles, mangoes, and chai seem to represent three of the most fundamental elements of human life. Motorcycles, as one of many modes of transport represent our ability as individuals to move from place to place. Whether it is by horse and cart, in a train or in a car, or via motorbike managing the overcrowded dirt roads of southeastern India, we move. Mangoes symbolize survival. Survival not just for me as an 8-year-old child who wouldn’t eat anything else but these scrumptious green and orange ovals, but for anyone and everyone who is living today. Hand-picking our fruits from a tree, cutting our meats with a machete, or purchasing our vegetables in pre-packaged tightly sealed supermarket bag, we are given life from these foods without which we could not exist. Chai signifies not so much a way of going or doing as much as it does a way of being, not a physical attribute of life but more a form of hospitality. While I may find myself drinking three to four cups of chai with little attention paid to its true intention, chai, coffee, tea and biscuits, and a myriad of other similar traditions around the world all seem to embody a sense of our personalities as a whole. The way we are welcomed and the way in which we are sent off are more or less indicative of who we are, and directly express the social and emotional interaction we desire and value in daily life.

So while motorcycles, mangoes, and chai may simply be just three different things with no relation to one another but all omnipresent in Indian culture, they represent and mean much more to me. They stand not only as strong signals of India and the country’s everyday way of life, but as symbols of how all of us as human beings move, survive, and interact.

Out Of Place

2010-06-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

I am writing this short blog post only to be honest, honest with you as my readers, honest with those I am meeting with and learning from here in India, honest with those I am teaching, and honest with myself. A week and a half into my travels, I feel uncomfortably out of place.

Although I was welcomed warmly by the LAFTI community upon arrival, it is not an easy community to make one’s way into, let alone fit in. When I approached my mother and father with this particular frustration, they explained the following. This is a community of people who, until very recently, were deemed a curse to the streets and villages in which they were born. They have served endlessly with no return for their services, have had their energies exploited for the demands of the landlords to which they have been bonded, and have lost their livelihoods only for the short-term financial benefit of a million multinational corporations that damage their lands in a way that is really and truly, irreversible.

Now that I am personally understanding and living with those who have experienced the social effects of a suppressed peoples’ history, it is no longer a surprise to me that I should feel out of place, and that knowledge is a relief in and of itself. No matter how brown my skin gets, regardless of how much Tamil I learn, apart from the amount of time I spend living and working at the LAFTI headquarters, I will never live as they have had to, I will never be an insider. Even after traveling back and forth for 32 years and being someone who is greatly dedicated to and educated about the Dalit community and its struggles, my own father is still seen as a guest and outsider by most all the staff and village workers. I think the realization that made the majority of my frustrations subside was that being an outsider is not necessarily a bad thing, nor were the characteristics I associated with my initial definition of an outsider completely correct. Being a so-called “outsider” is nothing more significant or meaningful than being on the outside of a history in relation to those who have lived inside it. Understanding that I am on the outside not because I am disliked or unwelcomed, but because there is really no way in. In the wider picture though, I am simply grateful that I have not had to exist in, struggle though, and recover from the history in which the Dalit community has lived for so long. Just as I am outside their house, outside of their history, they are outside mine, and for that there is no consequence of dislike or negative judgment but only a key to a door of which no copies can ever be made.

An Environment All Its Own (Valivalam Hostels)

2010-06-25T23:49:00.000-07:00

A few days into my stay, my grandma and I found fifteen minutes free to sit out front and chat about just a few of the things both of us have been doing since last we met. When she asked me about my time spent in Jordan before coming to India, children then became the main focus of the conversation. When I was busy telling her about the Children’s Art and Music Group I helped out with in Amman, slowly her eyes began to grow bigger and brighter. She was shining in this particular way not just because she was proud to hear about me doing such work, but because she had an idea of her own related to children. I don’t want anyone to assume that she doesn’t smile on a daily basis because she certainly does and has one of the most beautiful smiles I know, but there is a certain change in her presence (smile, tone, eyes, etc.) when Krishnammal Jagannathan comes up with a plan. Her idea was as follows. Being that she and I were the only two English-speaking people living and working at LAFTI this summer and she was keenly aware that her work with the various hostels she has established over the years is no longer her main focus as most of her energy is now directed towards issues revolving around land, she decided to make me the extra hands she no longer had the energy to utilize. She would make me the Valivalam LAFTI Hostels English Teacher. Although I was a bit intimidated by the idea when it was first presented, my grandma is a woman of her word and when she says she has a plan she has already envisioned the results of that plan. So, even if I was slightly hesitant in my response because I am someone whose only teaching experience consists of showing children how to play Happy Birthday and the ABC’s on an electric keyboard, I knew that whatever her plan was, she would utilize these “extra hands” and make it happen.

When I first arrived to the LAFTI Girls Hostel in Valivalam about an hour away by bus, I was greeted with coffee and introductions. Although you will find that most people here in India prefer to drink tea rather than coffee in the morning, the children already knew so much about me via Poongodai and Valayrmathi (current and previous “hostel warden”, respectively) that they purchased a small bag of milk and prepared a large cup of coffee for me just to fill my American addiction.

“My name is Sathya and I study 6th standard”. Although different for every child with regards to her name and level of study, this was the foundation as well as the limit to the majority of these students’ English. As I have learned both from academic and practical experience, it is very common for two issues regarding education in a developing nation to come about, one of which I would be facing with much more regularity teaching at the hostel. The first is that children who have only attended school intermittently for whatever reasons (farm work, caring for their families, financial problems, etc.), and then find themselves in a position to return to their studies later on, often end up the victims of severe embarrassment and humiliation. There is a very strong and discouraging stigma that accompanies an 11-year-old girl who goes to school and finds herself sitting and learning beside five and six –year-old students who are at the “normal” age for their grade.

Although I was very aware of this first issue coming into the hostel as I was assigned to teach students ranging in age from three to eighteen, I was a bit surprised to find that the exact opposite environment had been created. This was a very unique group of students to say the least. A good number of these girls were without one of their parents, and most of those parents physically existent in their children’s lives would be referred to by Amma as “useless parents”. When we think of our parents’ insistence that we get up and go to school, whether our education is to be found in our home, at the public high school, or at a private university in the nation’s capital, we are more than privileged. After asking a few questions, Amma went on to explain that “useless parents” are those mothers and fathers who, after facing the reality of being illiterate and uneducated themselves, lack any sort of support for their children’s education when their children need it most. She summarized her feeling on the issue towards the end of our conversation.

“When illiteracy and ignorance are all around you, you must rise above. You must give and support your children in the opportunity for education, to empower them with the possibility for a decent and different way of life”.

The annoyance of our morning alarms that wake us students to walk to class with our hair soaking wet wearing sweat pants and the only clean t-shirt on the floor, is a million times more than most all these students will ever wake up to. This group of girls did not have an issue when it came to the age stigma I mentioned before, but were so unaware of their own educational identities relative to one another that they almost appeared unmotivated. Spanning in age from preschool to college, these students did everything as a family, far different from the type of academic environment and encouragement you and I are acquainted with in the United States. And that which I initially mistook to be a lack of motivation was actually very strong but quite unfocused motivation.

With regards to my actual first teaching experience here at the LAFTI Girls Hostel in Valivalam, I found my way into this 44-student family, and that is enough for one day. Today wasn’t about teaching as much as it was about learning. Learning about my students, enough to understand but not too much to pry, but more importantly allowing them the time and space to learn about me. As the only foreign teacher to have ever entered into their home, trust was key. Although I am not yet a woman of school books and lesson plans, these girls (my new students!) have provided me with the warmest, most loving learning environment a first-time teacher could ever have.

An Indian Princess

2010-06-25T17:45:00.000-07:00

Although I have not yet kissed one of the four frogs who find safety in my room for the two or three days between my showering, I somehow still ended up a princess. For someone who enjoys complete anonymity, who likes being one of a hundred to cross an overcrowded crosswalk in down town DC all with people I will never see again, being an Indian princess bodes quite a drastic lifestyle change when it comes to my five-year plan.

In all seriousness though, I have never been treated in quite this manner, and even if I have been spoiled by a grandmother or aunt from time to time, it was never a lasting environment. I don’t want to spend too much time discussing the fact, but I am most definitely getting a different perspective on Indian life this time around. From blessing lorries in the morning to people bowing down to me on the street at night, there are several different contributors to this royalty treatment I am experiencing. First and foremost, I am a guest and Indian culture treats guests in a manner much more hospitable than one could ever find in the U.S. (probably considered insistent or rude in many other places around the world). Although I am my grandma’s adopted granddaughter and on some level considered family, I am still speaking a foreign language and coming from a far away nation which makes me a guest in LAFTI’s book. Secondly, I am American citizen and that alone brings about some amount of attention greater than any to be found when I am living in the states. Not only am I an American, but I am daughter to two of the most loved and respected Americans my grandmother and the LAFTI community has ever known….according to them, of course. To quote her exact words, “Ellen and David are great souls…I have never encountered anyone as loving and patient as these two”. Lastly, I am a native northern Indian originally born in Mumbai (Bombay), and with a skin tone lighter than all the rest, it is not something to be easily hidden. I am a “wealthy” northern Indian who has come to live and work in a village of poor Dalit men and women, a village where the population spends most of its time, thanks to my grandmother and the establishment of LAFTI, making bricks and building houses, something they were not even thought to do only 20 years before now. Lastly, and most importantly, I am considered a girl not a woman in India (not yet married, still a student, etc.) and the grandmother I have come to stay with is the founder and director of a revolutionary land reform organization that has changed the lives of thousands from the land up, literally. If I am related to her, whether it is through my American mother and father who Amma adopted and then they adopted me, I am her granddaughter and apparently that counts for a lot.

On a drastically different side of the equation, I am just like any other Indian when I’m not an American, a guest, or a granddaughter. When I go to get on a bus, although my skin color is still lighter than most because I am in the siren heat of south eastern India and I spend most of my time in the states locked inside a classroom missing out on the sun that would give me my “natural Indian tone”, I really don’t stand out. I am wearing Indian clothes, one of the four women places a stick-on bindi on my forehead every morning before braiding my hair like all other Indians, and I sound Indian enough in my pronunciation of the town I want a ticket to get to that no one seems to sense my being a foreigner. When I step out of the bus station, I am crammed in between most everyone else fighting to get on and off at that time, something that most Americans, guests, or member of some royal family couldn’t get away with.

The reason I mention all of the above circumstances is to share with you the truly unique lens through which I am viewing India and Indian people, and I thought it necessary to explain that specific lens before I go on to make any observations or analysis. While I am slightly uncomfortable with the idea of being an Indian Princess, it seems only to be a part-time job. Look like I can have my Indian cake and eat it too!

"All Day Staff Meeting"

2010-06-23T23:40:00.000-07:00

While you learn about the different business cultures that exist around the world, no one ever tells you about this one. Let me just say before I go on to tell of this strange “all day staff meeting” as my grandmother called, it was an experience. I have never seen so much organization and social cohesion come out of such chaos and disorganization, but I guess that’s just the Indian way. It’s not that I wasn’t aware of some of the different festivities or prayers that might take place throughout the day, based on the uniqueness of the morning’s ceremony, but my grandma redefines the word “meeting” for a business environment all its own.

Although I could not understand much of what was taking place during this “all staff meeting”, I was able to understand a few simple things. I am sure that the meeting consisted of much more conversation than discussion, introductions took place at the end instead of before, there was a prayer every 30 minutes or so, a very flexible break was given for chai and “mid-day meals” part way through, and overall a lot got done. Unique is an understatement, but as a business student who hopes to find herself traveling the world for work, unique is just one of many business environments I will have to adjust to If I have any hope of communicating with those around me, understanding and strongly believing that communication is the foundation of business. Although it may not be the way you or I might conduct business in the United States or Slovakia or South Africa, it is the time spent in those environments dissimilar from our own that allow us to observe, understand, and apply our own cultural learnings in order to better the foundation of international interaction as a whole.

Brick Making & Lorry Blessing

2010-06-23T22:45:00.000-07:00

Indians wake up early, and this morning I was enthusiastically reminded of my heritage. This reminder was not brought to me in the form of a gentle tap on the door or morning coffee (although I found my way to a cup of that shortly thereafter), but with a very lively ceremony just outside my window. This was not a ceremony for me, nor was it anything resembling that of a ceremony one might find anywhere else in the world. Only at the LAFTI headquarters in Kuthur, India at 8am would one be awakened to come outside and bless a truck. The thing is, this was not just any truck, it was a LAFTI lorry. A combination between several different donors, all LAFTI workers and staff were gathered around two small but highly decorated lorries that were sitting side by side on the dirt foundation between the main office and the kitchen. These two donated lorries are to be used for carrying bricks between LAFTI where the bricks are being made using a fly-ash brick-making machine (also donated), and the villages of the beneficiaries where the actual houses are being built. The lorries could not be used, however, until they had been blessed, and that’s where I come in. As an American, a guest, and as my Indian grandmother’s especially blessed and adopted granddaughter, together with Amma put our hands to a small bowl of fire, then immediately after to our face, dotted our foreheads with white and red powder, stood for a prayer, and then posed with the community and its newest lorries for a few photos. After this, I was informed that I should go back to my room and rest while those who had awaited my blessing would now go off and load bricks into these two newly blessed lorries.

From giving a speech on water filters to blessing a lorry, I went from feeling highly useful to completely useless. Although I enjoyed the honor of being such an important part of the brick making/lorry blessing ceremony, I must be honest and say that I was a bit frustrated with the possibility that I had come all the way to South India and to the LAFTI headquarters only to “bless things”. After some conversation with my parents in America who have spent much time in India and working with LAFTI throughout their years, I was informed that I was very lucky that I had figured out that this would be one of my main duties so early on in my stay. As my dad said during the conversation, “it took me 12 years to discover that blessing things was one of the best things I could do”. Talk about an internship description being changed, I decided to dive into the idea of being a “blesser” with an honest amount of hesitation, but with a big enough smile to make up for it.

Friendly Water For The World

2010-06-23T22:40:00.000-07:00

As I was unpacking and packing between returning from Jordan and leaving for India, my father sent a small package of which two items were to be delivered to two specific men working at the LAFTI headquarters. The second morning I was in Kuthur, I opened the package that David so insisted I pack which contained, along with a few other things such as sunflower seeds and the strongest bug repellant known to exist (I shall explain later), two white t-shirts with some blue picture and slogan on the front. “Friendly Water For The World” is what was written on the shirt be exact, with a drawing of the globe and a person using a water filter, the picture in its entirety designed by a nine-year-old homeschooled girl in the states.

To move along with the story, these two shirts were intended for the two men managing the biosand water filter project at LAFTI. Originally designed by an inventor at the Univeristy of Calgary in Canada, and brought to India by our Quaker friends Del and Sue Livingston out of Tacoma, WA, these filters that can remove up to 99% of bacteria and viruses from water are virtual genius. Using as mentioned in the title, a biosand layer that sits at the top of sand and gravel inside a cement molded three-foot rectangle with a small white tube coming out of the front, these filters are now being distributed in several different countries around the globe. Dell and his wife are part of a new non-profit organization Friendly Water For The World chaired by my father, and travel several times a year to Kenya and Burundi in Central Africa to distribute and train people to make and use these filters. They are made originally in a blue metal mold that can be taken and used to make a million more (one per day) using a little cement and water. I hate to make the whole thing sound so simple, but it really is just that simple. With dysentery as a common cause of death (especially among children) in the area where LAFTI is located, and occasional cholera outbreaks and epidemics in the state of Tamil Nadu where LAFTI does the majority of its work, these low cost, minimal resource-using biosand water filters ultimately act as life savers.

These two men I later presented the t-shirts to are in charge of making sure the numerous water filters sitting at the LAFTI head quarters are being distributed as needed. It is not that they are being given to every woman in every village, although that would be nice, but that every project location (every office, every hostel, and every gathering space) is equipped with at least one of these filters for that particular community’s use. And when the new homes LAFTI is building are completed, each will have a biosand filter. After presenting the two men with their t-shirts and asking them to pour a few cups of water using the filter, we all opened the filter to find a large population of ants and other insects that were keeping it from running smoothly. Although I understood that not all the people at the office where using this particular filter on a regular basis, the people who do use it every now and again were unaware of the filter’s needed upkeep. Even if one is not using the filter regularly, the filter must be fed a bucket of water every day or two in order to keep the biosand layer strong. When I asked why the workers were not using the filter more often, they said that during the rainy season or when there are a few rainy evenings in a row, they collect that water in buckets and then scoop it using a tin cup out of there. What they seem not to understand is that the buckets they are collecting in are filled with the same water-borne diseases that one would find in a nearby stream or river. After translation help from Gandhi, the workers seemed to understand that if they weren’t going to use the filter on a daily basis they at least needed to dump few buckets of water through the filter in the morning or evening. Anyways, although I have not yet convinced them to fill their glasses from the filter with every meal, we have compromised that they will at least maintain the filter in order to use it when they are so inspired. As I was a newcomer to the LAFTI community, it was not in my interest to alienate myself by forcing them to complete a task about which they were not truly understanding of the reasons behind. So, we poured a few jugs of water into the filter to get it running again and called it a day. This was the beginning of my real work, of my journey down the path of real development, learning and understanding the very detailed line between helping, imposing, and offending. Even if using the filter is in my view and others, scientifically the best thing to do, all transitions take time and a feeling of ownership over each transition is often the most crucial motivator for any changes to be made. I think today, we agreed on the establishment of mutual education and understanding, and that is no simple task on either end. They were able to understand why the filter is important in my view, and I was able to recognize that most all of the men and their families who I was speaking with have been perfectly fine (well, relative speaking, until they get sick) without it until this point and thus using this filter would be a change not only for them as individuals but for their community as a whole.

12 Years Later

2010-06-21T23:44:00.001-07:00

Now the summer of 2010, it has been 12 years since I last traveled with my family to India, making this my second time back to the country and my first time traveling to India on my own. From a little girl wearing a sparkly churidar and pig-tails running around the Gandhigram Workers Home in 1998, to a young woman who now spends a great deal of time sitting in a classroom having people in suits profess to her the “astonishing development India has undergone”, everything has changed. Things have changed not just with respect to India’s overall growth as a nation, a fact which can be known by anyone who picks up the morning newspaper and reads the section on international business, but by me. I was always a curious little girl waiting to ride elephants and have my hands painted with the beautiful designs of Indian Henna, but I have forever been a student of the world and my own education has completely consumed me. Being educated by my friends and family, by all who actively and passively participated in my childhood, and by those learning and teaching at the university level has far exceeded my personal hopes and expectations. From homeschooling with my mother and father, to attending a local public high school with some of the best teachers I know, to studying at a private university with professors from around the globe, I am more fortunate than most. I am fortunate not only because I truly believe I have received a diverse and holistic education, but because I have continually been given and encouraged to take all opportunities to complete my education. Knowledge of many different subjects learned from a myriad of different people is nearly worthless and most definitely incomplete if the receiver of that knowledge is not able to confront the curiosity that this education has brought about in the first place.

I have come to India not to assuage my curiosity with facts, but to fill the holes in own internal workings. I have come to work with LAFTI not only to understand the real development that is taking place in India, those changes not fast or popular enough to make the morning paper, but to understand what it is that makes me see, think, and live the way I do.

Amma

2010-06-20T23:42:00.000-07:00

As we as humans go about our daily lives living in 195 different countries and speaking in over 40,000 languages, we are alike in more ways than we know. You and I witnessed very particular events, lived through very specific experiences, and are greatly affected both positively and negatively by the people we encounter throughout our lives. The commonality surrounding most all of these events, experiences, and relationships is that we all have the same choice. It is our choice to change internally the way we see ourselves, others, and the world around us based on that which we have experienced, witnessed, and been affected by. Some choose to see their lives with greater understanding of the relative privileges they possess, some choose to be more religiously, politically, or racially tolerant of those around them, some choose to go into the world of academia in order to gain a greater understanding of a conflict they recently discovered, and some just go on. Some just go on with the viewpoint that whatever they may have experienced, witnessed, or struggled through in the past is not of great importance and should not have any such effect on the which they go about their future. The main point to be made is that no matter what we choose, we have always chosen.

The reason I am bringing about such discussion of living one’s life and making choices is to illustrate a very particular relationship between the two. When we witness an event, live through an experiences, or encounter a person and then continue down our own individual paths carrying the results of these occurrences in one of the ways mentioned above, we have made a decision with regards to way in which we have chosen to change, to be affected by the past.

While the title of this posting may not have seemed relevant until now, the given information was most necessary in order to convey to you the absolute way in which Krishnammal Jagannathan affects those around her. She is a very small woman standing maybe only four feet ten inches, but her presence can sometimes make you feel as though you are sharing the room with benevolent giant. She is a woman who, when she speaks, is able to command the respect of those who hate her, open the eyes of those who cannot see, and wake all who are sleeping. When around her, whether for 30 seconds or 30 days, she does not allow you the choice mentioned earlier. When you experience her presence, witness her work, or begin to understand her struggles, you instantly change but without a moment to make a decision as to why or how. It is truly magic, to find yourself more aware of your privileges, more tolerant of others, and more interested in the world around you, all without any real explanation as to why you suddenly feel the way you do. When I was busy trying to come up with even the slightest rationalization as to why I changed internally and emotionally more in one week’s time then I have throughout my entire life, I had a small epiphany. Everything Krishnammal embodies, her struggles her relationships and her actions, constitute a new and more real definition of service. Not to wait for the problems to come knocking at your door, not to see poverty on the streets and suddenly feel such strong guilt or sadness that you decide to help, and not to read in some book at a library of the political or religious reasons behind mass suffering half way around the globe, but just to move forward as if all these struggles were her own. Krishnammal does not take the time to humble herself; she just walks her own path as if she is carrying the world’s problems on her shoulders and has no other option but to work until they are lifted.

LAFTI & Family

2010-06-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

Seven bus and car hours after leaving my aunt’s house in Chengelpattu, I arrived to the LAFTI office headquarters in Kuthur. Although I had never spent time in this area before, I immediately felt at home. As we got out of the jeep, my grandma and I were welcomed most warmly by all the staff and workers. Sitting on the cement staircase just to the right of the large group of men drinking coffee, two women saying “Meera, Meera, Meera!” caught my eye and brought a smile to my face. These two women, Poongodai and Valayrmathi, happened to be the two women who braided my hair every morning and made me French fries every night when my family and I last traveled to India in 1998. I remembered them, they remembered me, and thus my time spent here in Kuthur no matter what the future held, was off to the best possible start.

As for being greeting with smiles and remembrance, the two women sitting on the staircase weren’t the only ones. On her way to walking into the office to begin organizing the week’s work, Amma introduced me to these “men drinking coffee” who had kindly greeted us when we stepped out of the Jeep, but who had almost immediately found their way back to the table and chairs in the front garden area to discuss the LAFTI tasks that were to be carried out over the next several days while “the boss” was in town. For all the people who were not able to stop by the office that day, Amma gave me a brief summary with their name and position and assured me I would be meeting them all at the staff meeting in just a few days. I will tell it just as she did, with a little help and clarification from my father after the fact. Trying to learn, remember, and pronounce so many Indian names all at once can get slightly confusing for someone who has one of the simplest Indian names known to man.

Although she introduced them individually, it is blatantly obvious how much of a pair these two are, in my grandmother’s eyes anyway. Vengopu and Veerachami are Amma’s two true trusted assistants. Krishnammal respects and trusts all members of the LAFTI community, but these two men are to be found by her side at every meeting, gathering, or prayer. A short and fairly stout man, Vengopu can appear cold and uninterested as has a relatively neutral expression on his face at all times and is not one to make small talk. After speaking with my father about his lack of expression and as I would later find out for myself, Vengopu smiles much more after you begin to smile at him. And as for his lack of casual conversation, he is the manager of all LAFTI projects and instead spends his energy coordinating and directing people to their respective jobs. As my father says, “he makes things happen!”, and that is no small thing. Despite their names both beginning with the letter V, Veerachami could not a more polar opposite from that of his close colleague. Smiling at all occasions, this man has one of the most engaging, humorous, and truly kind ways with people that is not comparable to anyone I have ever met. Despite the language barrier, when I met Veerachami for the first time I felt as though we spoke exactly the same language. In every word that flows out of his mouth, whether it is “hello” or some similar phrase in Tamil, he speaks in a very particular way. His speech is calm yet enthusiastic, strong but gentle, and there is a certain resilience in his voice that makes one want to know everything about his life from then until now. Although I knew my work with LAFTI would be serious for the most part, it was refreshing to know that Veerachami would be there to make me smile with is silly Indian face-making and Tamil joke-cracking all along the way.

As I was beginning to shake hands and say hello to more people than I can remember, Amma continued with introductions like each person was the first I met. Next was Gandhi, without the all-white cotton attire or a walking stick. Gandhi is a sort of the bridge between the people in the LAFTI community and for anyone who enters into it. Although his native language is Tamil like most all others I have met so far, he also speaks enough English to convey the basic environment in most any situation. Even though I was not aware of his relative importance to me and my travels just yet, Gandhi would serve as both a friend and tour guide, helping my navigate my way around South India linguistically and otherwise. After Gandhi came the cashier, Muniyan. As a former university student and accounting major, this man’s focus and continual hard work was easily admirable. Doing most everything by hand, Muniyan spends a good portion of his day recording and analyzing the different inflows and outflows of all the activities taking place at LAFTI. After Amma was awarded two different international prizes for her work totaling over $160,000, I can’t imagine that keeping track of it all can be an easy task. Muniyan’s pride in his work is a part of his personality I immediately understood after observing for only a few short hours. Although his office is inside another larger office filled with many people at all hours of the day, the way Muniyan conducts his work at his little brown desk makes one feel as though they are in a completely separate building. He is distracted by nothing. Although I met a few other people along the way, my final stop before settling into my room for some rest was the kitchen. Only fifteen feet away from the main building, I walked the sand path to where the real magic was taking place. There I sat with four women, unbeknown to me at the time, but who would soon become my four guardian angels. Karnegi and Mani-Mori were the other two women in the group in addition to Poongodai and Valayrmathi who I met on the steps just a few minutes before. Although all in the kitchen preparing food for Amma and I at the time, Karnegi and Mani-Mori dedicate most of their time and efforts to “the goat project”, one of LAFTI’s many successful efforts to empower women and give them the opportunity to provide for their family through the breeding and selling of domesticated animals. Anyways, although I was not completely sure of these numerous women’s exact job titles and descriptions, I was sure that I had four newly adopted family members. Valayrmathi was my newest sister, Poongodai my aunt, Karnegi my mother, and Mani-Mori all of the above.

While the introduction described above probably took place in approximately 15 minutes or less in real time, I felt as though all of the people I met today had taken the time to welcome me into their home and community, and thus I should do the same with regards to their introductions to you. But in reality, in a quarter of an hour I had met 8 people who together along with a few others, make the cotton wheel spin. In the most mutual and motivated effort I have ever come across, Amma, and her LAFTI family are slowly changing the world.

King of Snakes (Nagaraj)

2010-06-19T23:41:00.000-07:00

I have made this a separate post although the events of the coming paragraphs still took place within the first few hours of my arrival to Sathya's house.

The name Nagaraj translates in Hindi to "king of serpents", and the this king of serpents deserves a few paragraphs all for himself. Although my father had told me about Nagaraj before I left, he had met him the last time he stayed with my aunt, he is really someone you have to meet for yourself. 10 year old, Nagaraj came bouncing into Sathya's house to say hello. After he spoke a little English saying "hello, my name is Nagarj. What is your name?", my grandma began to tell me his story. She said "he has no parents, and is a bit behind in the learning, but he will manage". I translated this to mean that he was more or less an orphan and had missed a lot of school because of it, but with a home and two people looking after him he would be just fine. My grandma and aunt have taken him in and he now sleeps upstairs next to Sathya.

When he and I got to know each other a little better, I gave him the gift I had brought from America. I gave him two packets of sunflower seeds, one yellow and one red. His eyes got big and he just smiled. He said "thank you, thank you, thank you", and that was the beginning of very long story about me and my Indian little brother.

Sathya's House

2010-06-19T23:40:00.000-07:00

After finding our way to Mutukumar's little white car, he through my suitcases in the trunk and we began driving. I was instantly thrown off, however, when he reminded me to get in on the left side of the car as I was walking around to the right, the driver's side.

I'm not exactly sure how many hours later, I was asleep a great deal of the time, but we eventually arrived at the end of a long driveway to my Aunt Sathya's house. Her house is in a town in the northeastern part of Tamil Nadu which is a state within the southeastern part of India. Sathya is a pediatrician. Even now, I still remember her taking me with her to the hospital where she worked one day and getting to see and watch her care for all the newborns that were there at the time. That was the day I decided that Indian babies were the cutest! Maybe I am a bit biased?

Anyways, Sathya's house consists of two floors, and then a roof-top space which is soon to be expanded into a meditation area. The house lies within an area that has a few other houses off the sides of this one, long, twisty driveway, but mostly there is just a lot of nature. Although I have never been greatly in touch with the beauty of Washington State where I lived the first 18 years of my life, after spending two years in the city of Washington DC as a college student this drastic change of environment made me feel a sudden sense of nostalgia and appreciation for my salmon state. There is a certain calmness to be found when looking out at a mountain of green and nothing else, a calmness I seem to stumble upon when I expect it the least.

We flew into the area around 3am that morning which meant that once I said hello and spent a little bit of time with my grandmother (84-years-old) and grandfather (96-years-old)it was time to sleep. I put together my mosquito net, and although there was no air conditioning the heat was far beyond a summer in Washington DC, I was exhausted enough that I some how slept away the entire day. After waking up around 6pm, I was surprisingly greeted downstairs by Meera and her family, mother, father, cousins, grandmother and all. After eating an entire Indian meal with only my right hand, something I had to remember exactly how to do, it was time to say see you later. Since it had only been 12 hours since the last time Meera and I were sitting together eating a meal, I figured it couldn't be long until I would see her and her family again.

I should mention that in between waking up and eating with Meera's family, my grandmother insisted that I pack away all of the clothing I brought and only wear Indian attire. Although I had some Indian outfits back at my apartment in DC, most of them were for much more formal occasions. Anyways, before dinner that night, my grandma put me in the car with Mutukumar and another woman and took me to town. My grandmother had informed me that we would be leaving for Kuthur where her organization's main office was located, and for that reason I just needed to purchase something to get me through the next couple days and then I could buy more later in the week when I had settled in to this other place we were headed to in the morning. She (the woman I was with) selected and then bought me three Churidars, a set that includes pants, a loose fitting knee length top, and a scarf to match both. Upon returning to Sathya's house, it was discovered that although the body and pants of the churidar fit quite well, the sleeves that are stitched on afterwards were stitched on much to small making it nearly impossible for me to move my arms once I put the shirt part all the way on. When my grandmother found this out, she was actually quite happy to see that I would be returning the items because the three outfits that the woman had picked out for me that night were full of jewels and sequins, something a minimalist such as my grandma does not take to. My grandma and I settled on the plan that I would travel on the train to this new town in my American clothing and then once I arrived I would be sent out again with two women who seemed to understand her taste much better and we would purchase three churidars, all with a much simpler style this time around. She insisted that I stand up for myself and my own taste when purchasing my next few churidars, since I am not one for the jewels and sequins either."The women just think people in America and girls like you might like these shiny chruidars, but if you don't want them you just say no". That's my grandma for you!

This simplicity mentioned above is very much indicative of the type of person my grandmother truly is. Although I will talk more about her in a later post, arriving to Sathya's house and seeing the simple smile on her very simple but beautiful face was extraordinarily refreshing. She wears the same few cotton saris again and again and does not purchase anything for herself unless she finds it to be a necessity, and even then she makes sure everyone else has what they need first. Although I am a member of the Friends meetings (Quakers) and we place a great deal of emphasis on this notion of simplicity, it was obvious upon my arrival how relatively non-simplistic of a life I lead in comparison to her.

Even more simple than my grandmother Krishnnamal is her husband and my 96-year-old grandfather Jagannathan. He has spent his entire life spinning every morning and only wearing those clothes which he had spun. When my grandmother and I were sitting in the living room and she was busy worrying about my swollen feet from the plane, she was also intermittently telling me stories about my grandpa who was sleeping in the room behind us. A prominent activist and leader of change in India, Jaganathan has got to the point in his life due to his age where he can no longer leave my Aunt Sathya's house, and has to have someone care for him all hours of the day. He spends most of his time sleeping on a cot in the downstairs room and has lost most of his sight and hearing, but wakes one or twice a day to take a short walk and eat a small meal. Although he is not nearly as lively as I remember him during my last visit, I am more than grateful than ever to be see him now, to be sitting by his side now, and to be able to bring him one of his favorite foods in the whole entire world, chocolate. I brought four large bars of milk chocolate candy bars of which he had already begun to eat within my first day of being there. Dorky and cliche as it may be, it is the little and most simple things in life that truly matter...even if it's just a bar of chocolate.

Meera and Family

2010-06-19T23:39:00.000-07:00

The perfect transition into Indian life. After 16 hours of travel to arrive back at my apartment in Washington, DC, it was only two short days before I would be on a plane headed to South India, and flying again was not my idea of a good time.

The 20 some hours spent on an airplane this time, however, were some of my favorite times in flight. Although it took a bit of back and forth between AirIndia (the airline) and our parents, Meera and I had the pleasure of spending the entire flight getting to know each other, in person. Meera Mohan is someone I have written to, exchanged photos with, and spoken on the phone for a few minutes here and there, on and off for the last 12 years. We are obviously both named Meera, but that is just the beginning. I was born in India and adopted to an American family in the United States, and she was born in America to an Indian family living in the U.S. We were born only two days apart (I'm the older one, finally) and we both spent a portion of our childhoods playing the piano and doing gymnastics. I had the opportunity to meet her mother when at an event in Seattle in 2008, but Meera and Meera had never spoken a single sentence face to face. Much of the rest of the Mohan family, cousins, brothers, etc, live in South India. As Meera Mohan travels to India with her family every few years and I happened to be going to South India for two months this summer, her and her mother and father flew from their home in South Carolina where I could meet up with them in Washington, DC and we could all go from there.

Minus the fact that I don't think Meera's parents would have actually ended up with two daughters two days apart both named Meera, I seemed to fit in just fine. It was quite an experience to travel with an Indian family, talk to Meera in English while her mother and father spoke to each other in Tamil, and sit next to one another on a plane where we were both served vegetarian, Indian food. It felt like we were all taking one big Indian family vacation!

When we arrived to Chennai after flying from Washington, DC to New York, to Mumbai to there, we were all hot, sticky, and exhausted to say the least. Although I had spent the last month and a half living in a climate much hotter than this, India's humidity compared to Jordan's lack there of made for a bit of an adjustment. Anyway, according to Murphy's Law, everything went just as planned. After making our way to baggage claim on a very delayed flight, only my luggage was to be found. Spending some time speaking with the people at the information desk, Meera's parents were assured that their luggage was not "lost" and only misdirected, although the people giving them this information hadn't the slightest idea as to where their luggage might have been "misdirected".

Meera and I were told to go outside and look for the two people who were transporting me and her family to our respective destinations. Meera instantly recognized her Indian cousin, and only a few seconds later I was flagged down by the same driver who picked me and my family up from the airport 12 years ago, Mutukumar. After waiting for about 15 minutes for Meera's parents to express adequate frustration towards the people at the baggage claim information center, they met up with us outside, Meera and I hugged and said goodbye, and we went our separate ways. And so the journey begins...

Traveling and Self Education

2010-06-14T04:17:00.000-07:00

One of the most amazing parts of traveling is that it exposes you not just to new scenery and different languages, but to world conditions. Once exposed, it is virtually impossible for your heart not to skip a beat and for you to want to do something, to make change, to want to see more and do more in the world. Traveling also has the unique ability to wipe away everything you think you know or the way you think everything might be on a different continent, in a different country, or in a different town. We spend so much of our time theorizing about how things could or should be that we are completely thrown off when reality unveils itself, even if we are correct in some of initial our assumptions. Sometimes I think we have grown ignorant to the uniqueness of our own reality in the United States, and then seem overwhelmingly surprised to find that most of the rest of the world does not live as we do.

What I have learned from my parents, from those around me, from previous travels, and from my time spent in Amman, is what characteristics make a good traveler. A good traveler is not just that person who is able to travel to a new place with as little expectations as possible, but one who is able to view travel as a form of self education. To educate one's self to the fullest extent, he or she must strive for an understanding of the world as it is, regardless of whether that is the world that appears in textbooks, in photos, or anywhere else. Secondly, it is in our nature as Westerners and specifically in my nature as a student in the Western world to, instantly after entering a new country or culture, to try and make sense of it all and then if possible, fix it. It is that instant rationalization that often limits us from seeing the situation in its entirety and for a long enough period of time in order to see what changes have or have not taken place.

It was my intention, within this blog and upon my return to the States to share with those around me all of my experiences, good, bad, and otherwise. I encourage those reading, however, to travel whenever and wherever you can so that you have your own stories to share. It is seeing and living in the other 194 countries around the globe that places us on the path to developing a truly holistic view of the world, and is the only way to wipe away everything we think might be true in order to have it be replaced by that which is.

Goodbye Dinner

2010-06-13T22:24:00.002-07:00

Although only mentioned every few posts, Ghazwan is a very integral and crucial part of CRP and all of its functions. Not only a translator but a fellow Iraqi, Ghazwan is able to communicate with other Iraqis on a much deeper and more personal level than would just any Arabic speaker.

The last nigh I stayed at CRP, after returning form visiting Sameh's school, Lucy, another friend Farhana, Sasha, and I all went to Ghazwan's family's house for dinner. His four-year-old daughter Safah and her twin Abdullah greeted us at the door. Ghazwan's wife then lead us to the kitchen where we sat down to what would be the most amazing feast of our lives.

The dinner was as shown above: tabbouleh, a creamy potato dish with spices, two fish (one with spices the other without), soup, Biryani (rice with meat, spices, and vegetables), and soda to wash it all down. After dinner, given adequate time to recuperate and re-energize, it was time for tea and dessert. My favorite Jordanian dessert I tasted during my entire stay in Amman is something called Kanafa. Although it may sound a bit strange at first, once you try it you won't ever want anything else. The base of the dessert is a warm mixture of melted cheese and milk, covered all the way around with shredded wheat. It's amazing! I wouldn't have ate so much Kanafa if I had known there was going to be watermelon. Fresh watermelon from Amman is better than any fruit I have ever had in the U.S.

Anyways, now that you have practically ate the meal with me as I have described it in such great detail, I will continue on with the rest of the evening. As Ghazwan said to me the next day right before getting in a taxi to go to the airport, "I hate, hate, hate this moment!", and I couldn't agree more. During my time working at CRP, Ghazwan quickly became like family. I could call him if I was lost in a taxi and he would give the driver directions, he would teach me little Iraqi phrases and help me with all of my mispronunciations, and was there for me during my time in Amman no matter what it was I may have needed. He looked out for me like I was his niece, and I looked up to him like he was my uncle. His family treated me like part of their family and welcomed me with open arms the day I arrived. It is people like Ghazwan and his family that I will remember forever. It is people like Ghazwan and his family that make me want to travel the world.

Thank you Ghazwan, Huda, Safa, Abdullah, and Heba for inviting me into your home and making my travels to Amman enjoyable beyond words.

Plastic Bags

2010-06-13T22:24:00.001-07:00

Although this project is not under my specific management as I am leaving the country in less than 24 hours, I thought I should at least share with you what has begun to develop over the past few weeks.

Lucy, an American student studying at the University of Jordan for one year and now volunteering with CRP this summer has taken on CRP's second, Women's Craft Cooperative. Although had been another similar group several years back, that one focused on making and selling numerous products whereas this group will focus on a single product, purses made out of plastic bags. When Sasha came across a purse in the U.S. that was crocheted out of plastic bags, she first decided to try making one on her own but then thought it would be a great idea to see if some of the Iraqi women living in Jordan could make, market, and sell these bags in the U.S. as a means of earning income.

Last Monday, Lucy and Sasha supervised the first Women's Craft Cooperative crochet meeting. One of the women who attended the English Language Social several weeks ago saw Sasha's crocheted bag on a shelve and asked how it was made. After Sasha showed her the basic stitches and such, she came back the next week with one she had made all by herself. Because she seems to be such a quick learner, she was asked and agreed to teach the group that will meet every week from here on forward.

Although I do not know all the details of the first meeting, it seems as though the group decided on the specific measurements and possible prices of the bags in order for them to be most marketable to consumers in the U.S. They are hoping to send several samples off to a fair trade store in the U.S., and if the store accepts, the women would begin filling orders at the store and its customers' requests. This is a good project not only because it has the ability to give the women and their families some extra cash, but because it is teaching them about what is necessary regarding communication, pricing, banking, measurements, and standards in order to sell their product over seas. Although we often hear the word, "literacy" or lack thereof when talking about the developing world, financial literacy is a skill that many in the developed world still lack, and something that as the Womens Craft Cooperative continues to develop, may become necessary in order for the Iraqi women to understand and facilitate business on a larger scale.

Final Session

2010-06-11T03:21:00.001-07:00

Because I have now described a full month's worth of the Children's Art and Music Group sessions, I find it is much more important to share what it meant to me to be a teacher, participant, and fellow student of this group throughout its entire development.

In my own life, music has served as emotional outlet for the good, the bad, and everything in between. Happy, sad, angry, or stressed, music has a way of turning my world on its side and freeing me from my own reality. Nearly 20 years later, I cannot imagine my life without music, without this emotional outlet.

To lead the music segment of CRP's Art and Music Group gave me the opportunity to witness young children access this same outlet. For so many of the children that partake in this group, this is the one day and the one hour they can just be. Even if they're not reading music or playing any particular song, they are able to get away from everything negative they have experienced in their pasts and possibly transform that energy into something new. Having overcome so many struggles and having experienced so much trauma so early in their lives, I cannot even begin to imagine the level of internal stress these children come with every week. As a performing musician who often gets frustrated with the little tiny notes written on a page, these children who arrive every Saturday at 2pm to pound on a keyboard have reminded why exactly I love music as much as I do.

As for the art portion of the Art and Music Group, I have to tell a short story in order to convey the true gratefulness I feel for having had the opportunity to work with these children. Approximately two and a half weeks into working at CRP, I considered the possibility of going to visit Damascus, Syria for five or six days. Doing this would have meant that I had to miss one week of the Children's Art and Music Group. After talking with a friend and reflecting on all the possible options, I soon came to a crystal clear conclusion. During my high school years, I was lucky enough to have some of the best teachers in the world. Academia aside, they were the best teachers in the world because they were some of the kindest, nurturing, patient, and most consistent influences in my life at the time and that is exactly the type of teacher I aspire to be. When I took the day to remember how much I looked forward to going to school every day because of these particular people that fully embodied the characteristics mentioned above, there was no way I could go to Syria if it meant not being there for these children. Thinking about all these children have been through, trust is not a simple task, and one that takes a great deal of time. With that in mind, to have the same type of positive influence on these children that so many of my own teachers had on me, I chose to stay. After making this decision I realized that while being a helper for this group may have began as 24 children and a few volunteers, it soon became obvious to me the role I played in every child's life. This role came with the responsibility of being kind, being nurturing, being patient, and being consistent, and for the lesson that came from this responsibility I am most grateful.

CRP's Art and Music Group was about much more then painting a mural or playing a kazoo, it was about taking two hours every week to learn from these children, and being the type of teacher and person that allowed them to learn from me.

Sameh Matar

2010-06-07T13:30:00.001-07:00

From his childhood in Gaza, Palestine, to his study abroad high school program in Olympia, WA, to a full scholarship to study at the King's Academy in Amman, Jordan, Sameh Matar is beyond deserving.

I first met Sameh when I was home from school on Christmas break in 2008. Sameh had come to Olympia to spend a year studying at a local high school as part of an international exchange program. That particular winter, Israel had launched its nearly month long attack, Operation Cast Lead, on the Gazan people. In Olympia, this horrible event brought together three panelists to speak about their own understanding of the situation. The last of the three speakers that evening was Sameh. Only 16-years-old at the time, I remember clearly the fear and panic on his face as he spent the evening talking to an audience about his life in Gaza, his experience as a student in America, and all recent contact with his family in Palestine.

Now, nearly two years later, I was informed by his American host mother of his graduation from one of the most prestigious high schools in all of the Middle East. Upon completion of his one year exchange, Sameh proceeded to earn a full scholarship to study at the King's Academy in Jordan for his final year of high school, and then studied diligently to be awarded another complete scholarship to a university in the U.S. with the intention of becoming a surgeon. This boy amazes me not just because he is a smart, driven, and compassionate person, but because he has never doubted his own dreams.

After I was informed that he was about to graduate from the King's Academy in Jordan where I was working with CRP, I immediately called him up and arranged to meet him and his family for coffee a few days later. During our short get together at a coffee shop in West Amman, I learned that Sameh was one of ten siblings and that his parents have worked and sacrificed everything possible in order to support all of their children's futures. When I wrote in another blog that it is not in our ability to judge a family for having many children even if they live in Gaza, or Burundi, or some other impoverished or over populated part of the world, Sameh's story is living proof. Each and every one of Sameh's brothers and sisters, using far less resources than most people in the U.S. have in their childhood, has become a hard-working productive member of society, regardless of the circumstances they or their family has had to overcome. Furthermore, if one is worried about the issue of overpopulation (families having to many children, etc.), which someone commented on in one of my previous blogs, there is no need. That is an issue we have enabled Israel to take care of (killing hundreds of thousands of Palestinians) with U.S. tax dollars, so no worries there. To get back to the story I was telling, when I asked Sameh about being a surgeon he said,"after I get my degree and work for a few years, I would like to go back and work in Gaza", something that most all other people would not be willing to do.

After coffee, his parents invited me and another volunteer who was with me at the time over to his apartment for dinner the following evening. He had rented an apartment for his parents, who although they did not get out of Gaza in time to see their son graduate, were at least able to come and visit for a week. With a tiny kitchen and a few chairs around a table, his parents cooked us one of the best meals I have ever had. Juice, then the main course, then tea, then fresh fruit to finish the night off. I can see where Sameh got his kindness and generosity from!

The following weekend, Sameh took my friend and I out to visit his high school in Jordan. His father had never seen the school, and wanted to come along to thank all of his teachers and headmaster for making his dreams possible. Sameh has gone from living in Gaza, to living with a family in the U.S., to living in a tiny apartment in Jordan, to attending this boarding school that looks similar to a very wealthy private university in the United States. Unlike most students I know, Sameh remains most grateful and aware of all of the opportunities he has been given, regardless of whether he is in Palestine with his family, or living "the good life" going to school in at the King's Academy.

Although he may see himself as just another boy studying and working to get to where he wants to be, meeting him has changed the way I see my own education, family, and future.

Since 1967

2010-06-06T16:16:00.000-07:00

I struggle greatly to describe this experience, as it is one upon further reflection that I find to have been somewhere between sorrow, disgust, and complete frustration. About 20 kilometers north of the Amman lies Al Baqa’a refugee camp, an area now inhabited by around 120,000 Palestinians displaced during the 1967 Arab-Israeli war.

The day began around 10am when Sasha another volunteer and I took a taxi to the local bus station. We had much difficulty trying to identify where the bus to Al Baqa’a was located among the many buses lined up at the station. It was probably most challenging because when we would ask people where to find this particular bus, people looked at us with either total confusion or surprise wondering why two white Americans and myself would want to go to such an area. After asking five or six people and being pointed in the general direction, we found and then boarded the bus to Al Baqa'a. Unlike bus schedules in America, Jordanian buses leave when the bus is filled up not at a specific time, so it was another 20 minutes or so before the bus departed for our destination. When aboard the bus, an older woman behind us tapped my friend Lucy (the other volunteer) on the shoulder and began going off in Arabic. Not understanding much until about 10 seconds into her lecture, the phrase “haraam!” or “forbidden!” in English made it completely clear what exactly she was intending to communicate. Although I was already wearing very modest clothing, the area to which we were traveling was a severely impoverished community, thus assuming it to be much more religiously conservative than most other places I had been. After buttoning my long-sleeve shirt up all the way to my neck, she seemed to bring her speech to a close. Although some may have been offended by this elderly woman’s words, I took them only to convey her best intentions. Maybe assuming I was a fellow Muslim from a less impoverished and less conservative area, or maybe just a tourist, I chose to think that she was only asking me to do what would be the most safe and save me the most harassment when arriving to Al Baqa’a.

When we stepped out of the bus, we were probably the only three tourists or Americans within a five mile radius. We stopped for a meal first, as we had been riding the bus most of the morning and did not eat breakfast beforehand. After lunch, we began walking through the alleys that made up the camp. Street vendors selling everything from mangos and bananas, to sink drains and curtain rods, to remote control toy helicopters and light up bracelets. With little to no sanitation, I found myself stepping over little streams of dirty brown and yellow water. While some of the details mentioned may not be most pleasant to read, they are a necessity. The streams of dirty water, the clothes people were wearing, and the items vendors were selling. All of these seemingly insignificant details are indicative of the specific reality that I experienced, and it is that specific reality that I intend to share.

When people think of “camps”, many think of small children laying in their mother’s arms with protruding stomachs and malaria carrying mosquitoes swarming around. It is this image that we see on television adds, and it is this image that we are then encouraged to respond to with “a small donation”. I am making clear that it is not at all in my interest to persuade you to think that this particular image described above is not worth responding to, as notion of starving children and disease ridden villages is a problem that should always be given adequate attention. The problem I face however, after a seeing a place like Al Baqa’a refugee camp, is that I now understand the in between. I understand how easy it is to forget those whose stomachs are not protruding but whose livelihoods have been stunted and whose dreams have been paralyzed as a result of a war over which they had no control. When we began walking through the housing or neighborhood area of the camp, the following prospect took over my mind. I will turn 20 this summer, and have spent my entire life working for and dreaming of things that I always believed could and would become reality. My work and dreams expanded beyond that of my own home, my own town, and even my own country, and even within the first 20 years of my life I have traveled to and visited more places and people than most all Palestinian children and families will ever have the opportunity to see. The point I want to make is that while not all of my goals and dreams may have manifested themselves exactly as I may have hoped, my future has almost always been within my own control, and that is a blessing that so many of us seem to forget. For the average 20-year-old born into Al Baqa’a refugee camp, control over his or her hopes and dreams and any hope or dream that expands beyond living in this camp, (what college to attend, what country to travel to, etc.) is part of a reality far beyond reach. It is not so much the direct situation (scenery, sanitation, etc.) that bothered me with such great intensity. What frustrates and disgusts me beyond explanation is the thought that the 120,000 Palestinians living in this camp have had to settle into this area. They have had to call these "non-permanent" housing structures their homes, to accept that these dirty, fly-ridden alleys now make up their neighborhood, and have done so with the understanding that one woman, her children, and possibly her children's children may live this way in this "non-permanent" camp, permanently.

The idea of a “camp” is meant to signify non-permanent housing. Because of international requirements associated with the definition of non-permanent housing, you will find many houses with scraps of metal, sticks, and whatever else can be found to be used as roofing. Permanent roofs indicate permanent housing, and that was not the purpose of these camps when they were set up in 1967. Only five years ago did organizations such as the UN recognize the impossibility associated with living through the coldest and warmest of seasons with only sticks and stones to keep a family safe from these conditions.

In 1967, hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were forced from their homes and now live here. One in every three refugees is Palestinian, and even more terrifying is the fact that this statistic seems to have had no influence on the reality of the situation. While this situation is one for us that may be distant and irrelevant to our daily lives, it is one that has left the majority of an entire people without a home, without hope, and without a future.

ABC's or Happy Birthday?

2010-06-05T04:16:00.000-07:00

Although the exchange rate here in Amman in approximately one Dollar and forty cents to the Jordanian Dinar (JD), there are bargains to be found on almost every corner. During the first week of my stay, Sasha and I and a friend of ours were walking around the down town area. When we arrived at the corner, there were about 25 people all going after a huge pile of stuff. Diving in to get one item or two and then handing their money off to the man standing outside the pile on a stool. When Sasha and I took a closer look, we discovered that that one of the five or six items in the pile was an electric keyboard, and after asking "gidesh?", or "how much?" I could see why everyone was going a bit crazy on this particular corner. Only 2 JD for a medium sized electric keyboard! It didn't take more than a minute before Sasha and I selected the one we wanted and sent our friend into the pile to claim it. Although it didn't turn on immediately upon arriving back to CRP, Ghazwan worked his magic (tape, batteries, etc.) and within a few hours the keyboard was as good as new....and still only 2JD.

I am telling the story of this purchase not only because it was an amazing Jordanian bargain, but more importantly because it is the center of this week's art and music group. Before I get to the middle half hour of the day, the one filled with music, I want to run through the other activities that took place before and after this period. The younger group of children, ages four to seven, took part in activity I like to call, “googly eyes”. The children were given one piece of white paper on which two sticky plastic eyeballs had been placed before hand. The children then spent the following half hour drawing whatever they wanted to go along with these eyes. While some children chose to go the more traditional route and draw a head and other facial features to accompany the two eyes, others decided to go for rabbits, stars, and birds. It was creativity at its best!

After the half hour with the keyboard, which I will get to in a minute, the older children took a great deal of time perfecting “the potato & leaf project”. Ahmed, the art and music group’s newest teacher, had pre-cut several potatoes in half and then into different shapes (hearts, stars, etc.) in order to form a stamp-like utensil. The children were given a piece of paper which had a slightly faded outline of a vase, with a few stems coming out just above the top. The children, who were scheduled to have time at the end of this project to work on their mural, ended up spending the entire hour working on this project instead. Another volunteer, Lucy, and I were so inspired by the children’s enthusiasm that we decided to create something for together. Lucy and I chose to turn our flower vase into a fish bowl, an idea that a few of the children then tried to replicate. It was really quite a fun and silly final hour to finish off the day’s event…fish, flowers, and all.

To get back to the middle half hour of the day, this may have been the best half hour of my life. One of the mothers at the event suggested that I play a song on the keyboard for the children, so I did. I played something simple and upbeat, The Entertainer, and the smiles on the kids’ faces made it impossible for me not to do the same. After a big round of applause from both the children and their parents, the kids took the lead by explaining to their parents and their parents explaining to me that they wanted to play the piano. One by one, each of the children came up to the keyboard. He or she would play freely for about 30 seconds, (some already knew a song or two) and then look at me with great interest. I looked at the first child and put my hand on top of hers to help guide her fingers through a simple song. The first song that came to mind, because I remembered my host family singing it to me in Cairo was Happy Birthday. From that point on, everything just seemed to work itself out. After trying three or four different songs with the first few children who played, the ABC’s became the second big hit. So, after every boy or girl finished playing his or her own made up song, I would ask “ABC’s or Happy Birthday?". Before I could even finish the question each child would respond and place their hand on the piano awaiting my instruction. At the end of every child's performance came a big round of applause, not because I asked but because they wanted. Only four weeks into the Children's Art and Music Group, there was already a strong sense of community that seemed to have developed among this room of little music maestros.

I was overwhelmed with the amount of patience each of the children had to wait calmly until it was his or her chance to play, and even more astonished at the focus and attention paid to such a new and complicated activity. While it may have been boring for an outsider to hear these two songs played over and over with several mistakes along the way, the obvious enthusiasm and joy this opportunity brought to all of the children involved made me think I could listen their music forever.

Dominoes & Justice

2010-05-31T01:11:00.000-07:00

Dominoes and Justice, not directly related when it comes to this post. While I am sure that many of the men playing Dominoes Sunday night were highly enthusiastic about winning a game or two, that is not the type of justice I am referring to today. After setting out the coffee and tea and the cookies we had bought for the evening's event, the men began to arrive. As mentioned in a previous post, Dominoes night was instituted at CRP to give the Iraqi men in the community a night of bonding and socializing over a simple game, reminiscent of their time spent with their male friends in Iraq.

The man I discussed in the story "Only Photos" is the topic of this post. As Sasha and I were running around between different rooms making sure everything was set up properly for the men when they arrived, we were stunned when Ghazwan came in to tell us who the first man was to arrive. The man we knew from before, the man who had been weeping while showing us photos of his family, the man who was barely able to make it through a sentence because of the damage he suffered from his stroke, and the man who overall seemed to embody a story with little or no hope at all had arrived at CRP ready to play some dominoes. Although not without struggles, his smile said it all. He entered the house using a cane, had come wearing suit pants and a blue bottom up, and greeted us with what seemed like much less physical effort than before. Without the slightest bit of hesitance, he informed us that he was going to be resettled with his family. Sasha and I were close to tears, but for completely different reasons this time.

As we sat down in the living room for some coffee and tea, this man told us in English that he was scheduled to receive his travel documents the following morning, and had gone through two interviews offered to him just shortly after our visit last week. While Sasha and I did not do anything to make this happen as there were less than 24 hours between when we saw him the first time and when he was given the opportunity to reinterview, he thanked Sasha and I as if we were his angels.

Although a bit obvious and cliche, it is these rare but truly heartwarming success stories that make it all worth while. If I were to get on a plane and leave Amman tomorrow, I could leave with this man's smile in my mind making my entire time working with Sasha and CRP seem complete.

A Small Transition

2010-05-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

A former recipient of one of CRP's micro loans, Ahmed has become the Art & Music Activity Group's newest teacher. As Ghazwan spends nearly seven days a week working with CRP doing translation etc., we all decided that it was best to find a new instructor for the children's art and music group that meets once a week.

Despite thinking that maybe the children would have a difficult time adjusting to to this new environment and a different leader, Ahmed's lack of hesitation towards the children seem to make the children even more comfortable and enthusiastic than before.

This transition, however, was a bit staged and incremental. This Friday both Ghazwan and Ahmed were here at CRP to lead the activities together. To Provide Ahmed with a sense of how the day works as well as to allow for him to see what materials are available to work with in the coming weeks, Sasha and I first planned the day out with Ghazwan in English so that he could clearly translate everything into Arabic for Ahmed.

The youngest children first participated in a blow-painting activity which constituted pouring a few different colored paints on a sheet of paper, and then blowing the paint around using a straw in order to create different abstract shapes. The uniqueness present in each child's painting was very representative of each child's individual story. Some children blew all the colors together, while others blew each color in different directions, clearly separating the colors from one another. It was quite interesting to see the children express their personalities through a straw. After taking a short break and making sure none of the children were near hyperventilation from all of the blowing, we moved on to some real fun...PLAY DOUGH! The children were each given white ball of play dough we had hand-made the day before. After every child had a round little ball in front of them, the fun was just around the corner. The children's eyes began to light up when they discovered that inside their plain white ball of play dough there was a blob full of color. From pink, to yellow, to aqua, the children used the color in the middle of their play dough ball to create one big blob of squishy color. After the children had a chance to discover and mold their own colors, we suggested to them that they politely ask and share their colors with those people sitting across from them. A boy with a yellow play dough ball would give half of his dough to the girl sitting on the other side of the table who had a purple ball. The children's enthusiasm grew even greater when they started to mix the colors together, creating a swirly, colorful, squishy blob. Before making their final shapes with their play dough, the children took about 5 minutes to identify the colors that made up each of their blobs. While we had considered doing this activity before the kid's had exchanged colors, it was even more interesting and challenging to see the children work a bit harder in identifying the individual colors seeing them combined. While it took several failures on our part to successfully create these blobs that the children would use, it was well worth our struggles to be able to witness the mess and smiles these green and yellow, and fuchsia blobs of joy created.

The music session this week did not go exactly as anticipated, but with music as with any other activity we include, there is always room for changes and improvement. Much more comfortable with the idea of playing and playing loudly, it is probably in our and all of the parents' best interest to eliminate the flutes and recorders until further notice. It is our plan to purchase more drums for next week's session, and then use only drums and harmonicas in the coming week to better the children's sense of volume control. The flutes will hopefully be integrated back into the program as soon as the children are capable to play them at a volume not so damaging to everyone else's ears.

For the older groups, the main activity was Pointillism. While I had no previous understanding of this specific art form, Sasha and Ahmed led the way. As the children had chosen to use just a white sheet of paper, an outline of a face, or a coloring book picture of say a pony or spider-man, Ahmed translated as Sasha demonstrated. The children used Q-tips to make dots to create or fill in the outline on their paper. The kids dotted everything from rainbows and sunshines to sad faces and olive trees. I was in awe! Although many children were at first naturally inclined to drag the Q-tip across their paper to draw the picture, Ahmed was very good at explaining exactly what it was that Sasha was doing. Just watching Sasha, with his more than competent art background and skills, Ahmed was able to understand her using other forms of communication, body language and such. I have really started to see, specifically by watching Sasha and Ahmed interact, that the language barrier between many of the volunteers and the native Arabic speakers poses no real threat when it comes to the kids' creativity. Just by watching, the children are able to do, and just by doing the children are able to discover and express a sense of peace and happiness in their lives even if it's only one day a week.

For the final 30 minutes of the day, we laid out the brown sheet of paper nearly half filled by now, and just watched them go at it. Although there will still be possibly one or two more weeks needed for the children to complete this mural, it is really quite amazing to let these young individual's tell their stories with a paint brush. As the group seems to have filtered in several new kids each week, the mural only gets more creative and unique. "We Love Iraq", the phrase filling the center of the paper has begun to express itself like never before. From self-portraits to Iraqi flags to depictions of their previous homes and friends in Iraq, this mural tells a story more personal and inspiring then any other I have seen.

Light Sabers and Spider-Man

2010-05-26T23:42:00.000-07:00

When we first stopped by this family's house the day before yesterday to drop off some a mattress and some other simple furniture, it was obvious that Hussein, his nearly nine-month pregnant wife, and their four other children ranging from ages 2-10 had next to nothing. Among the various items we delivered to this man's home was a hospital bed that Sasha had offered to the family the day before. The hospital bed was for the father Hussein, who for more then ten years has been suffering from a cancerous tumor in his larynx. When Sasha had asked this man about his medical situation the first time she met the family, he said that since trying for a long time to get funding from NGOs and a private Iraqi donor, he was only five thousand dollars away from being able to have the surgery to remove his tumor. With four children and one more on the way, and insufficient financial means to afford basic food and meet the monthly rent, five thousand dollars seems like a world away. I want to mention, however, that while many may question this family's ability to care for four children let alone a fifth child, family and children are highly valued in this culture as part of one's identity, as the average family has approximately five children. While it may be most logical in our minds not to create a larger family when we are not sufficiently able to care for that we already have, our inexperience living in a situation where most all other aspects of our life our filled with pain and sorrow leaves us without the ability to judge those who possibly find their only bit of happiness in the life of their children. It is not our right to tell someone that because they are poor that they should be allowed to have a family.

When we arrived to Hussein's home the next evening in order to do a more formal assessment, besides the furniture that had already been donated and delivered the night before, there was only a few cushions on the ground and a small TV. Because satellite is free, many homes will come "furnished" with a television when it is rented. The children were all sitting together on one cushion watching television when we were greeted and asked to sit down on another cushion in the room. As Sasha does on most all of her home visits to families, she brought a few gifts. In this family, there are four children: Abdullah, (age 10), Abdullah (age 8), Roqaya (age 6) and Abdullah (age 2). She gave them paint sets with art pads, games, action figures (spider-man), a cheap transistor radio, dolls with "dress up" jewelry, and four colorful light up sticks similar to Star Wars light sabers. The kids were ecstatic! The parents were given some household items such as cups, plates, and cleaning supplies, all brought to CRP by local donors.

As the kids calmed down a bit from all of their excitement, Hussein began to tell his family's story. While it may appear to many of us that the violence in Iraq is beginning to dissipate as America's focus may has strayed from the issue, this is far from the truth. There is a great deal of violence still present in the country, not so directly tied to the U.S. military but highly influenced by it. In late 2009, after having his life threatened because of his work as as a security guard for the UN, he and his family fled the country. While it may be difficult for us to understand or determine the severity of these threats that so many Iraqis receive, it was obvious to Hussein and his wife that they must leave when Hussein's supervisor was threatened by the same militia, as well as discovering that his wife's uncle had been killed by this militia. Nearly five years ago, the family suffered sever physical and psychological trauma when a hand grenade was thrown into and exploded in their home. The eldest boy, who was only five years old at the time, underwent lasting acoustic trauma and suffered the symptoms of epilepsy for several years following. Although these symptoms have faded, the trauma is continuous. On a regular basis, this boy wakes in the middle of the night screaming in fear and throwing his bedding around, despite recalling nothing of the event when he is woken by his father.

When searching for the silver lining in this horrific situation, Hussein informed us just before we had come to visit, that an anonymous donor had given the additional five thousand dollars for him to have his surgery. When we expressed our enthusiasm for this enormous change in circumstances, he said as many Iraqis do even in the worse of times, "Alhamdulillah" or thanks to God. It is astounding to see the honest gratefulness that so many people convey in their presence and when telling their stories, regardless of whether their circumstances are ever to change.

Although Hussein's surgery now seems to be taken care of, he will see his doctor this Thursday to set an official date, there are still many problems that this family must face. As I mentioned earlier, his wife is due to give birth any day. It is highly unlikely that Hussein's surgery and 15-day hospital stay won't conflict with his wife's delivery. While another man living in the same housing complex has agreed to care of this couple's children while they are both in the hospital, Hussein and his wife cannot even afford diapers or a bed for the little baby girl they will bringing home in just a few weeks.

Like many families who have fled to Jordan or the surrounding countries, Hussein and his wife have no income. The nine hundred dollars they brought with them, frugal as they were, has now run out. Although they were interviewed for minimal cash assistance by UNHCR, they have yet to receive these funds.

As CRP's funding is running extremely low as well, it was only in Sasha's ability to lend her efforts in contacting UNHCR in order to expedited the process that would allow them to receive at least some small amount of financial support. Despite having been able to pay rent until now, it has only been because of the kindness shared by various NGOs and some friendly neighbors. Although it would only take two hundred and fifty dollars to pay this month's rent, purchase a few stable foods for their survival, and provide a simple baby crib and diapers for their newest daughter, for this family it is two hundred and fifty dollars too much.

It takes not only a large amount of courage but also greatly effects a person's pride when he or she finds them self in such a situation where they must ask for assistance. I will leave you with a phrase that Hussein spoke during our visit, and has stayed with me ever since. "In Iraq we were helping others, now they are helping us".

4 Hours of Fun!

2010-05-22T05:00:00.000-07:00

Although the Children's Art and Music Activity Group will remain relatively similar week to week in terms of who participates, the individual activities taken on by the children are ever changing. Kids get bored, and that's just the way it is. It is then our responsibility as planners, teachers, and as fellow participants to come up with new and exciting activities for the students to engage in each week.

This Friday's session went as follows. There was again the same two age groups participating, ages 4-7 and 8-12, although this time there were a few more people in each group making the day a bit more lively. Just as happened last week, the younger group of children went first. Ghazwan, Sasha's colleague and translator I have mentioned before, first read the children a story and asked them questions as he went along. Next on the list was an activity that was slightly more messy than book reading. The children each were given one of many different colored balloon hats that had been made earlier in the day. The balloon hats were then lined with white glue on one side, most obviously not the side that would be touching the kids' heads. This is were the messy part began. Glitter, sequins, feathers, and most every other shiny or fluffy decoration one can think of....the children loved it! They spent the next half hour sticking these different decorations to their balloon hats and even before they had finished, their smiles got brighter and their eyes grew bigger. Although I am sure there was still glue and glitter on the floor, on the table, and in the children's hair, this did not keep them from fully enjoying their afternoon snack. As the children hurried to gulp down their juice boxes and crunch their last chip, there was a slight change to the day's schedule. Instead of having the younger kids wait for the older group to finish their session, everyone would spend the middle half hour, after the young group's snack time, playing music.

This was by far my favorite part! I did not need to speak Arabic to communicate to these mini Mozarts and soon to be Beethovens. I spent the following 20 minutes, after everyone had a chance to pick and choose the specific instrument they wanted to play (harmonica, drums, flute, etc.) demonstrating just a few simple things. After taking the first ten minutes teaching each instrumental group how to pay soft, then loud, then slow, then fast, it was time to hear the beauty that had been created. Using a common Arabic beat in the background, I would change the volume on the beat in order to signal to the kids to play in one of the numerous different ways they had learned at the beginning. wahid, itnen, thaletha.....and the children would come to a complete stop. The one, two, three, STOP! was probably the winner of the day. After everyone silenced, it was only a few short seconds before they all began laughing.

Although these little proteges may not yet have made it to Benaroya Hall or Blues Alley, there enthusiasm has put them half way there. It is my hope and dream that every child should be so lucky as to play, learn about, and hear some form of music in his or her life. It is most evident in my own life that sounds serve as an expression for all, and it is that unifying quality found in music that I had the privilege of watching each child embrace.

As for the older group of children, their task was a new and challenging one. Following Sasha and Ghazwan's short lesson on how to paint someone's face, where to place the eyes, nose, ears, etc., the children were then asked to paint the face of that person to which they were sitting across. Dark skinned, light skinned, blue eyes, brown eyes, boy, girl, hijab, no hijab, these students' drawings and paintings spoke for themselves. The smiles and surprises began when every person had their picture taken holding their portrait but standing next to that person whom they had depicted in their art. It was a fun yet challenging experience for all. After the portraits came the group activity. As we laid out a large brown sheet of paper spanning nearly an entire three tables' length, Ghazwan wrote on the center of the paper We Love Iraq, using a heart instead of the word love. Within 20 minutes, this was one of the most beautiful murals ever. Some kids painted flags of Iraq, while others drew palm trees and sunshine. One figure in particular that has stayed with me since the event was a painting that a young man did right below the center phrase. He painted a brownish male stick figure, nothing too unique, but in the center was a very detailed depiction of this boy's heart. It had a flag inside with the country's honorable Arabic script painted in the center, symbolizing that the man's heart would always be in Iraq.

While the mural is far from completed, there are also many more Fridays to come. As the children will spend a portion of next week and the following completing the work of art they have just begun, I am anxiously awaiting the time when this beautiful masterpiece can hang from the wall of CRP to be seen by all.

Please & Thank You

2010-05-22T04:59:00.000-07:00

Please and thank you is a phrase you learn in nearly every language, in almost every culture, in virtually all countries around the world . You hear it at the very beginning of a conversation, then again towards the end and often several times in between.

Please...

After working with Sasha for only two short weeks, it is a continual inspiration that someone with a relatively comfortable life in the U.S. should decide to leave behind that life in order to live here in Amman and dedicate her efforts to a never ending cause. Humbled and challenged by the opportunity to work with CRP, I am personally experiencing the intense emotional roller coaster that comes with doing such work, still insignificant to the trauma and pain faced by those communities we are serving. While some of the work Sash does is intangible, listening and making sure people know that their stories are being heard, a great deal of CRP's work (emergency assistance, etc.) is contingent upon the financial support received from outside donors. I am writing this blog in particular to request that you donate whatever you are able, small as it may be, towards CRP. While I understand that there are an infinite number of causes and people to support in this world, I hope that the sharing of Iraqi stories through my own writing has built a bridge allowing for a personal link between America and Iraq.

As many of you reading this have probably known me for several years, you may be familiar with the fact that I have given several solo piano recitals to benefit numerous causes around the world. When deciding which specific organization I want to benefit at each recital, I always take the time to identify those with which I have or feel a personal connection. That said, if you feel you have gained any connection with the Iraqis about whom I am writing, I highly encourage you to donate. http://collateralrepairproject.org/Donate.html

...Thank you

Whether you have decided to donate or not, thank you for taking the time to consider your own means as well as those of CRP and the Iraqis whom we assist. I understand that is often much easier not to allow a world full of problems take over your life as is, so I thank and commend you for looking inwards to yourself to consider whether or not it is in your ability or heart to assist.

English Language Social - Take Two!

2010-05-19T16:50:00.001-07:00

Because it in not my intention to bore you by telling nearly the same story that was last week's social, I am writing only to make two distinctions between the two events.

While there was enough American cuisine for approximately 60 people last week, this Tuesday was slightly different. A woman who normally attends the social as a fellow English learner and socializer gifted us with the amazing taste of an Arabic meal. This unusual delight consisted of two Biryani dishes with two different meats (thinly sliced meat, rice, and vegetables), Dolma (grape leaves filled with rice and vegetables), and fresh Tabbouleh (finely chopped parsley, tomato, onion, lemon juice, olive oil and seasoning). In Iraq, the Tabbouleh dish is considered native to the city of Mosul whose cuisine is closely tied to that of Syria. Oh, and there was some really really sweet dessert!

Maybe in part because of the amazing meal, an overwhelming number of guests showed up to this week's social. While I would love to say, "the more the merrier", a living room and activity room meant to hold around 50 people does not do so well with 75. Even as people began to filter in and out which made the room seem a bit less crowded from time to time, there was not nearly enough food. As people talked and ate in nearly every room in the house, people began to flood into the streets. At the end of the night, after food and conversation and a few rounds of dominoes, it was CRP's decision to hold off on next week's social until a new structure could be established. It is our latest plan to have the social split into two groups, A and B. This way, everyone will still have the opportunity to attend, but the number of people participating each week will be much more manageable and less expensive in terms of preparing the food. It is also a possibility that we will alternate between American and Arabic cuisine, or possibly split each week's meal between the two cultures.

While I have had previous experiencing planning, facilitating, and managing similar events, every week brings something new. It is truly exciting and exhilarating to know that no matter how hour many hours of thought and planning and work goes into hosting such an event, there will always be a need to make it different. How cool is that!

Continuous Pain

2010-05-17T12:32:00.001-07:00

Continuous and excruciating pain, that was just the way this man lived. Because he was working with American troops in Iraq, this man was kidnapped and horribly tortured leading to a life of constant and almost unbearable pain today. In addition to his own suffering, numerous other members in his family were kidnapped and or killed as a response to his work with U.S. military.

While visiting with this man and his family at their home on the opposite side of the city, it was evident that his past suffering and traumas were the least of his worries. Within the first few months of arrive to Jordan, his family's entire savings was stolen. As it can take an immense amount of time after registering with UNHCR for families to begin receiving cash assistance, this often puts families in a very uncomfortable financial situation in addition to the already mentioned physical and psychological struggles so many of these families must overcome.

With no savings, only recent cash assistance, and rent and medical expenses stacked against him, this man was under a great amount of physical and emotional stress as well as recently being informed of his family's threatened eviction from their home. This is where CRP comes in. While there are an infinite number of needs each family would like us to fill, it is Sasha's ad CRP's job to come to these families' homes and perform the general assessment I mentioned in my first home visit in order to prioritize all of these necessities. After spending several hours with the family and learning about their situation both past and present, CRP decided to give this man enough money to pay his past due rent. While this financial assistance served more as a band-aid rather than an actual treatment, it was a problem that required solving before any of this family's other issues could be addressed.

As I spent most of my life testing and learning that giving people money to solve their problems tends never to reach the actual cause but only to aid in solving a person's most short-term needs, I now understand the other side of the coin. As one of my teachers has said to me several times, "money doesn't make you happy, but it will buy you all the things that do". Not only am I beginning to see that this saying holds true in many situations, but that it is actually refreshing and helpful to think and assist those around you when viewing a problem or set of circumstances from this perspective. While many of us would like to think that money is not what solves our discomforts and lessens our struggles, there is no way around it. Happiness, however, is a very indirect and relative concept. It is indirect in the sense that it money does not immediately lead to happiness but that it makes possible a stable situation in which one often finds happiness. It is a relative concept suggesting that while happiness for you and I may be having the financial capability to buy the newest iPod or a two story house, happiness for others is often merely the security that comes with having a roof over your family's head and enough food and water to keep that family alive.

Understanding that happiness is both indirect and relative, it is the simple quote mentioned earlier that put my mind at ease when CRP decided to hand over a large amount of money only to solve one man's immediate needs.

A Biased Story

2010-05-17T12:13:00.000-07:00

I want to interject in my own blog/electronic journal to make a few, but in my view very necessary points. I have no doubt that there are people of all political, religious, and ethnic backgrounds reading the stories I share. As there may be many of you who may disagree with much of my writing and have taken it upon yourself to assume a certain bias in my voice in order to rationalize this disagreement, your assumptions are most likely correct .

My upbringing was one of the best I know, one that taught me to truly appreciate and understand all sides to story, no matter how many existed. It is a result of this holistic upbringing that I feel it necessary to make clear the position from which I am writing during my time in Amman.

I fully understand that there is a much greater context into which my writing could be placed, a context containing much more military, political, and religious information to explain and accompany each individuals' journey from Iraq to Amman. This premise understood, I came to work for CRP with the intention of understanding and conveying the notion of human suffering, a notion that is inexcusable regardless of the circumstances upon which it followed. Sunni or Shia, male or female, child or adult, educated or uneducated, it is not these such characteristics that should control an individuals' possibility for danger and suffering in the world.

Most of you reading this blog most likely live a relatively comfortable and stable life. Comfortable in the sense that you are free to see a a doctor if you or your children should find yourselves ill. Stable with regards to the fact that you are able to work for wages, legally, not worried with such great intensity that your children will not receive adequate nourishment to survive until tomorrow. These descriptions of instability and discomfort are unfortunately experienced by a daunting number of people existing in most all parts of the world. It is our responsibility, if not to actively alleviate these sufferings, to understand that we will never experience or live to tell such horrific stories, and it is therefore not in our ability to judge based on this inexperience.

I am writing to tell the stories of those who have never been told. If these individuals' narratives do not include any military, political, or religious context as mentioned above, then so be it. No matter what preconceived notions we as Americans may have about those living in or fleeing Iraq, our preconceive notions will never be comparable to trauma and violence that these families have experienced. The simple fact that there are so many stories I am not able to disclose due to the danger they might possess, needs no further explanation. The possibility that those from Iraq should be so brave as to speak and share with those who are partially responsibly for or representative of their past traumas is yet another testament to their bravery. I understand and want to clearly express that the U.S. military or America's war in Iraq is not the sole or even the most common causation of every individuals' stress, illness, trauma, or danger. Our presence in these peoples' country however, regardless of its intentions, still serves as a contributor to the suffering and displacement of many, and I am writing for them.

Only Photos

2010-05-16T08:01:00.000-07:00

I say only photos, because that is all this man had. Although it is not possible to consider one person's story more devastating than any other, I could not even begin write about this man's experience until several days later because of the intense emotion it carried. Before attempting to share this man's dreadful reality, as Sasha said to me today, "how dare I make [his] suffering my own". While I am overwhelmed by the personal sadness and discomfort brought about by hearing each and every one of these stories , I am also fully aware that my own feelings and emotions are incredibly insignificant when compared to those of the Iraqis who's stories are being told.

Last year, a middle aged Iraqi man found another Iraqi man passed out on the floor of a shop where he had been sleeping for who knows how long. When the man was taken to the hospital it was discovered that he had suffered a stroke, and had lost all movement on one side of his body. After spending four days in the hospital, he was then brought to the home of the man who found him, and has been staying there ever since. The home where he was taken in is already inhabited by 11 other children along with their mother and father. It is beyond commendable that a family with such insufficient space and resources for themselves should be so kind and loving as to take in another man with such great needs. Although this man has recovered a small portion of his speech and and can now move short distances using a cane, it still takes a great amount of effort and concentration for him to produce a simple word or sentence. Able to understand both Arabic and English, I cannot imagine the frustration that this man now faces not being able to speak comfortably in either language. While he could have easily chosen to use only writing to communicate his story to those listening, his bravery and courage were more present than ever when he instead decided to use the majority of his energy (both emotional and physical) to speak about his experiences.

While his physical situation may seem devastating by itself, there is much more involved in the story of this man's intense pain and suffering. The family he was staying with when we visited, the one with 13 family members, has been approved for resettlement to the U.S. and will most likely be moving in the next few months. Not only is this man not able to work legally because of his status as an Iraqi in Jordan, but because his physical condition after his stroke has made this possibility nearly obsolete. The savings he had brought to Jordan was stolen shortly after he arrived, adding immense financial stress to his already tragic circumstances.

The information above is only that of his most recent trauma and how that trauma has brought him to where and how he is living now. His real sadness lies in his photos. Once we had introduced ourselves and established a general foundation regarding his current medical and living situation, he began to show us his photos. Two beautiful daughters, one handsome some, and the love of his life, his wife, brought tears to both his and my eyes. After his wife and kids were offered resettlement in the U.S. last year, this family's father and husband was left behind. Although he was told his file was to be included with that of his wife and kids, this was not the case. After his family had resettled, his wife suffered from a stroke as well, only a few days apart from her husband who was still stuck in Amman. Later in the month when this man went to a scheduled interview in hope of being reunited with the rest of his family in the states, he was asked to leave the interview because he was not able to speak, read, or write clearly as it was only two weeks after having his stroke. Several days later, for reasons never fully specified to him or his family, his case was closed.

While it is not completely clear to me the numerous different places this man worked and lived while with his family in Iraq, it was clear that for two years time this man was a subcontractor working with the U.S. military. For many Iraqis, the notion of working with or helping the U.S. often results in death threats. After having his son kidnapped twice while working with U.S. forces in Iraq, he and his family made their way to Amman where they were then able to register with UNHCR and move into the stage of protection. Although his wife and children's case was obviously moved along as is evident by the fact that they are now living in the United States, this man was never clearly told what stage his case was in. When he was told via telephone that his case had been closed, no such paper record existed of his rejection for resettlement, making it impossible for him to make an appeal. While one may wonder why the majority of his family left to the U.S. instead of staying with him in Amman, the opportunities for resettlement are limited, and it was most important to him that his family go if their case was approved.

As I recently found out that the man who's story I am telling has been offered another interview with IOM (International Office of Migration) holding the possibility of resettlement, I can now think and breath without sadness of this man's tears taking over my mind. As him, his wife, and all of his children have undergone sever physical and psychological trauma for several years now, what this man needs and most obviously deserves, is to be with his family.

My New Brother

2010-05-16T03:23:00.000-07:00

Several nights ago when Sasha and I arrived back to CRP, there was a skinny young boy sitting outside in the garden area in front of the house curled up with his backpack. As Sasha informed me that many people would come to the door asking for food and money, and most obviously we cannot help them all, I was hesitant to let the boy in the house as I did not recognize him as being someone we or CRP was familiar with. Seconds later, the doorbell rang. When Sasha recognized the boy through the window, she immediately let me know it was okay for us to bring him into the house, and the boy began to weep. This young man who had been waiting for nearly three hours in front of the house that night, Iraqi and a victim of domestic violence, is now part of my family. He is my new brother, and cares and looks out for me as I am his sister.

While not necessarily in the general description of CRP's work, CRP attempts to help Iraqis living in Jordan in any way possible. Although the situation will not be fixed overnight, Sasha and I were able to talk with the boy and his family and put into place both a short and long-term plan to resolve the issues as agreed upon by all. Meeting this young man, more amazing and brave then most people I know, has truly deepened my understanding of what Sasha is here to do. This experience helped me to better understand why it is so crucial that every individual be given as much time as needed to address his or her unique situation, and why the work of CRP in general is so important to all Iraqis young and old. The CRP center has become a safe haven for many Iraqis, and it is a great privilege and honor to be working with such an amazing community and for such an extraordinary organization.

From Fallujah to Olympia

2010-05-15T12:21:00.001-07:00

When Gandhi said "[b]e the change you want to see in the world", I almost immediately think of my parents. I think of them because they found a way to do just that, to instill in their children a sense of personal responsibility to the world in which we they live. For my parents specifically, this meant that when I called around 5pm to let them know to cook dinner for one more person because I had taken in a young woman from Australia who was looking for a place to stay, they accepted with no hesitation. This meant that my mother and father placed me into countless uncomfortable situations (culturally, linguistically, religiously, etc.), and I was then asked to learn how to be a fish, and swim. I make the distinction that they never once insisted that I learn how to swim, that I convert to a certain religion or learn a particular language in order to fit in. They only requested that I spend enough time around fish (people of different linguistic, cultural, and religious backgrounds ), that swimming or getting along those who were different from me became a natural way of navigating through the sea.

It was important to me that I share the above metaphor as a means of expressing the truly unique childhood I had. This experience as it has manifested itself today, has networked me into a world of meeting a million new people a day, and I can't imagine a better way to live. As my parents recently decided to sponsor an Iraqi mother and son who will be coming to live in Washington state in the coming months, they have gone above and beyond the requirements of sponsorship and invited these two people into their home. Because my sister and I have both established lives on the opposite side of the country, Bushra and her son Furat will be staying in our rooms when they arrive, hopefully giving them a sense of what it means to have a home and a bit of privacy as they will both have a room to them self. Although I will not have many opportunities to visit them in Olympia, WA because I am only there one month out of the year, this did not keep me from getting to know our guests as soon as possible.

After the art an music session with the children last Friday, I had the pleasure of meeting the newest two members of my family. I don't know what exactly to say other than that they are both absolutely wonderful people to be around. Bushra, with her skillful sense of humor and enthusiastic presence, there's nothing not to love. While much quieter than his mother at first introduction, Furat's calm yet engaging presence has never made we want a little brother more in my life. Sad that I will not get to be there when the two of them arrive, I have no doubt that Bushra and Furat will be one of many new family members to come, as my parents' commitment to taking care of the people and world in which they live in is far from complete.

Art + Music + Kids = FUN!!!

2010-05-15T05:04:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I had the privilege of helping to organize and participating in the first ever Children's Art and Music Day, week one of many to come. While not quite as organized as we may have planned, lack of organization is in no way connected to lack of fun.

The day went as follows. In the morning around 9am, Sasha and I began putting together art bags and boxes for the two different age groups that would be participating in the event, the first group four to seven and afterwards ages eight to twelve. These bags for the younger children and boxes for the older consisted of glue, scissors, crayons, and a small packet of watercolor paint. Each participant would write his or her name on the bag or box, in English or Arabic, that it would be easily identifiable at next week's session. To continue with the story, after putting together the art supplies for each child, organizing the musical instruments (recorders, drums harmonicas, etc.) so that each child could easily pick out one, and setting aside juice boxes and chips all 20 children attending, all our organization would be for nothing. What were we thinking? As soon as the children began arriving with their parents, they could barely sit still for more than 30 seconds let alone stay away from art and musical instruments.

The younger group of children went first. Sash, four other volunteers, Ghazwan, and I myself managed to keep an eye on kids, enough so that no one was stabbing someone else with a paintbrush or throwing crayons at each other. Although the children's hour was supposed to be split evenly into a half hour of art and the other half music, they seemed as if they could draw and paint and color forever. After we finally persuaded them with orange juice and chips, it was a bit to late to play any music because the older group had been waiting an entire our outside (playing with toys and reading books of course) just so they could have their turn. We decided about half way through the second group, that we would make the music time all inclusive, at least for this week. Who knows what will happen next week! While the older group decorated their boxes and draw some absolutely stunning pictures of people, places, etc., they also spent the last half of their art time painting small wooden fans. It was a nice opportunity for them to talk about some of their favorite colors, why they painted the drew with such colors, and just in general a chance to learn more about their lives. Although it was intended that the older group would have around 8 children, there ended up being only three, as some were not able to attend, and others accidentally made their way into the first group. Someone just couldn't wait to paint!

After the older group put their fans out to dry, there was about 15 minutes in the schedule left for music, and music it was. Approximately 15 minutes of children ages 4-12 playing every instrument available to them, at every pitch possible, and at every volume imaginable. Music at it's best. Maybe next week we'll be a bit more organized...maybe not!

It was quite interesting to see, although there was plenty of bickering over who got which instruments and who could hit the drum harder, an environment with no hesitation. With all the trauma that so many of these children and families have been through, it is truly inspiring to see them take on new activities. Playing an instrument, drawing a picture, or painting a fan without fear of judgement, that is something that I know myself and many others wouldn't dare to pick up and try.

Children put a non erasable smile on your face. The combination of art, and music, and little crazy 5-year-old creatures running and playing like there's no walls or doors to run into is just plain FUN. And maybe it's just cause they're funny silly little happy children, but it's those few funny silly little happy moments that help to transform the world's suffering. To make darkness into a bright sparkling room filled with balloons, and pictures of spider man, and hand-painted fans that guide the world towards peace.

English Language Social

2010-05-13T04:35:00.000-07:00

While all work done between CRP and individual families is done so with Iraqis only, most events held at the CRP center are open to a wide variety of community members within the area. Just as many students from the United States travel to Jordan to study Arabic and Arab culture, people all over Amman have just as strong of a desire to learn English and socialize with those from other cultures. With this desire in mind, Sasha and CRP have established an event now known as the English Language Social, which takes place very Tuesday evening from approximately 6-10pm here at CRP. While I had seen several advertisements and invitations regarding this event via email and facebook before coming to work with Sasha, I now have a better understanding of what the event actually is, what is required to prepare, and why it is so important for this diverse group of people to come together once a week to socialize while simultaneously working towards a common goal.

Starting around 10am Monday morning, Sasha and I began cooking, cleaning, and setting up for the event up until about 15 minutes before people began to arrive. While it varies from week to week, this social in particular involved cooking American cuisine such as coleslaw, pasta salad, and other similar foods. Not great at cooking anything besides those dishes that don't require cooking in the first place (salads, fruit salads, etc.), Sasha showed me the way and put me to work. As people began to filter in around 6:30 which is equivalent to 6:00 Arab time, each participant would pick up (if he or she had come in previous weeks) or make a name tag for them self written in both English and Arabic.

The social itself consists of Muslims, Christians, Assyrians, and Sabean-Mendai. All of these individuals sent approximately two hours eating, speaking, and learning about each others' languages and cultures. As some are more hesitant to begin speaking in a new language than are others, this social serves not only as short language lesson but simply as an outlet for socialization. Although both men and women attended, there was a separation of the two as the night progressed and the men moved into another room.

Once the social started coming to a close, the activity room was then taken over by the men in order to play several rounds of the game Dominoes. One may ask, why Dominoes? While in Iraq, this game was often a social bonding point for many of the men. When Sasha picked this up, she instantly decided that Dominoes should be added to the evening's schedule. The idea is roughly equivalent to "guys poker night" in the U.S. This English Language Social is important for many reasons, the first being people's general desire to learn to speak, understand, and make socialize in English. Secondly, it is a way to build bridges of peace between several different communities in the area. The social is open most all religions, and ultimately anyone who enjoys socializing or learning more English. As there are often past tensions build up between Iraqis, Jordanians, and Palestinians, the social serves as an opportunity for people to lessen their tensions and build their friendships with one another. Lastly, the social it is truly a chance to get away from that of one's everyday life. Children come and play with other children, women catch up on each others' lives, men spend time bonding over Dominoes, and it is a learning experience for all!

What is a Refugee?

2010-05-12T12:03:00.000-07:00

Before you read anymore more of my blog, most importantly the stories being told be Iraqi men and women here in Amman, please take a moment try and understand the full reality of what it means to be a refugee. As respect to all these individuals brave enough to share their stories to me and you, it is the least we can do to understand what it is that follows the beginnings and ends of any violent conflict. Whether it is our war or not, a refugee will still be a refugee. He or she will still go on to experience many of the same tragedies and struggles regardless of whether the war eventually ends, regardless of whether we apologize, and regardless of whether or not these people displaced by war and conflict find it in their hearts to forgive for all they have lost.

" One who flees in search of refuge, as in times of war, political oppressions, or religious prosecution"

Although countless definitions of the word refugee exist today (geographical, political, etc.), I believe the definition given above serves as the most simplistic description of the terrifying reality that so many of the Iraqis I am meeting have had to face.

My First Home Visit - A Voice for Many

2010-05-12T08:09:00.000-07:00

When I mentioned earlier that CRP takes on a range of different issues in order to help Iraqi refugees, home visits to Iraqi families was one of the first I had the privilege of participating in. In order to understand this experience as a whole, I must first share what a home visit actually is, what it requires, and why it is such a crucial part of Sasha's work and of CRP. Initially, I should introduce the United Nations High Commissioner on Refugees or UNHCR, an organization which will be mentioned regularly throughout my stories regarding Iraqi refugees and CRP. What one really needs to know about UNHCR in relation to Iraqi refugees is as follows.UNHCR first receives millions of dollars from international donor countries in order to provide assistance to refugees. UNHCR then has what are called Implementing Partners or IPs, who impliment and futher propose projects directed towards these refugee communities using the money collected by the international community. Once an Iraqi family registers with UNHCR, that family is then considered to be in protection. This refers to a phase in which that family cannot be asked to leave Jordan in the case of an expired Visa, but only in the event that someone in the family commits a crime or another equivalent issue arises. While the rules and policies are not exactly clear to me just yet as I have just arrived and am still learning, the stage following protection is called resettlement. While both stages can last for an unlimited amount of time, the ultimate objective when in resettlement is to be resettled to one of several countries that have previously agreed to accept a specific number of refugees from specific countries, something that can unfortunately change at any given point in time. Major countries that have accepted Iraqi refugees in the past include the US, the UK, Canada France, Germany, and Australia.

Now that I have established a foundation for what UNHCR actually does, I can explain exactly how CRP's work fits into this picture, and share my first experience vising Iraqi families at their homes in Jordan. When Sasha does a home visit to that of an Iraqi family, she is ultimately doing an initial assessment of several different aspects of that family's life. This assessment encompasses everything from their life in Iraq all the way to their living situation now, as well as their most crucial needs in the immediate future . As I may have forgot to mention earlier, because these refugee families have been scattered all over Amman, it is often impossible for a family to come here to CRP in order to meet with Sasha. Secondly, doing a home visit truly allows Sasha and CRP to see how this family lives on a daily basis, something that can only be done if Sasha is to visit a family in the environment in which they are most comfortable. Although there is a language barrier between Sasha and most of these families, although some of the individuals in the family speak some English, Sasha's co-worker Ghazwan is both a translator as well as a friend to these families that CRP visits. When the two of them work together, they provide these Iraqi families with both a means of communication regarding their situations as well as a long-term system of support to help guide and encourage them into the future.

My first official home visit with CRP took place last night. I would have written sooner but there is a bit of emotional digestion that must take place before one attempts to translate such personal narratives into words. Ghazwan, Sasha, and I all took a taxi to the area where this family lived. When we knocked on the door, all three of us were welcomed with an overwhelming sense of love and warmth. Sasha and I sat on one couch, while Ghazwan sat on another couch, and the husband and wife of the family then sat across the room from us on two separate chairs. We were greeted several times over, and then served cold drinks and bread, a very common tradition of hospitality in the Middle East. After several more minutes of "hello" and "how are you?" in both Arabic and English, Sasha then took out of her bag a pile of forms on which she would be writing for the rest of the evening. While these forms contain several sections all addressing a myriad of different issues a family could be facing at any given time, I will spare you the 10 hours it would take to list all of these possible problems and just share those that are relevant to this particular family and story. This family consisted only of husband and wife. While it may have been this couple's dream to have children one day, previous circumstances and torture when living in Iraq have made this dream virtually impossible. While this might seem like an unusual story to some, this is an unfortunately common reality for so many Iraqis today. Both the husband and the wife who lived in the home we visited were brutally tortured before they fled their country several years ago. Although never convicted of an actual crime, the husband was tortured so badly while jailed in Iraq that now him and his wife are not able to have children, something that is very emotionally devastating in a tradition where children and family are valued so greatly. In addition to the man's individual torture, 20 members of his family were killed by numerous different militias. When we speak of death in the United States, it is often people dying of disease, influenza, old age, etc. For this man, some of his family members had holes drilled through their heads and other horrific markings indicating showing the intense torture and pain before death. As for this man's wife, she had been thrown up against a wall and beaten to the point that she is now loosing her vision in one eye, the majority of which is irreversible. Even more devastating the story itself was the fact that the husband had videos on his phone of his dead family members during their autopsies. Not able to comprehend how he could relive these tragedies on a daily basis, he told us that he had these videos in his phone to prove to authorities the extreme trauma his family has undergone in hope that this documentation might possibly help his wife and him more forward in the process of resettlement. It is absolutely unthinkable to me that someone should be required to show and relive such memories, only to improve but not guarantee his chances to receive assistance or resettlement.

Now that you have read about this family's brutal history, one similar to so many Iraqi families living in Jordan today, I will share the next steps involved in the process of a home visit. After hearing each family's story, something that we attempt not to have to have retold unless absolutely necessary, we begin going down the list on the forms. Beginning with medical issues, both the husband and the wife listed off every medication he and she was taking, what it was for, how much it costs per month, and what portion of that cost was being covered by UNHCR. Although not mentioned earlier, UNHCR partakes in something called "cash assistance" in which a lump sum of money is given to a family via ATM or bank card most commonly to the father in the family. The lump sum is based only upon the number of members in the household and not on those family members' individual needs. There is a limit on the amount of money to be given to each family, approximately equal to around $320 dollars per month. Because these families are not legally eligible to work legally in Jordan, this money is often not enough to provide for even a family's basic needs. I should also explain that although the rules and regulations are not quite as strict as they once were, if an Iraqi is caught working illegally, instead being deported back to Iraq like in the past, he is jailed and then required to find a guarantor. Using a lawyer, a guarantor or sponsor is sometimes but not always found. After this sponsor has been identified and agreed to the process, that Iraqi is then dependent upon him in order to stay out of prison from there forward. If the Iraqi does not have the money to pay the sponsor, which is usually the case because he cannot work, the sponsor then refuses to be involved and the Iraqi is sent back to jail. It is a somewhat vicious cycle in which numerous Iraqis can easily be trapped.

To get back to this specific home visit, the list went on and on. After recalling all past medical problems, all previous treatment, all present medical issues, and all related costs, it is on to the next section. As sad as it may be, this is the foundational information that must be recorded before any further treatment, financial aid, or other forms of support can even be considered. After medical questions comes living questions. How long have you lived in this house? How many other family member are living here? It is often common that an entire family will live in one house (father, mother, children, grandparents, etc.). When did you come to Jordan? What was life like in Iraq? What was life like when you first came to Jordan? Did you go anywhere else? Why did you leave Iraq? Next comes questions about the children and school. How old are your children? Are they going to school here in Jordan? Public or Private? How was the transition for them? Do they have emotional or psychological issues do to past traumas? Have they missed school because of the transition?Are they able to get along with other children here? Do they feel safe? While all of these questions may sound exceptionally ordinary, the answers to all of them influence how these families live, what these families basic needs are right at that specific moment, and what must be prioritized by CRP in terms of helping these families in the best way possible. I need to mention that due to the very limited budget on which CRP is working, Sash's main goal is to facilitate and work within different systems to help Iraqis meet their most critical needs. Furthermore, her work is a combination of both social and humanitarian jointly aimed at creating some sense of stability in the lives of Iraqis, something that is far to uncommon for the majority of these families.

After learning of this family and their story, word of mouth lead us to another house near by consisting of husband, a wife, two young boys, and the children's grandmother all living in one small house. Two things that stayed with me about this family, although the same problems were present in the last family as well as many others, are diabetes and hypertension. These two medical problems slowly became know among CRP staff as the Iraqi diseases. Most Iraqis attribute the onset of both diabetes and hypertension to the stress and trauma that they experienced during the war, most specifically when one family member discovered that another relative had been killed. More in alignment with western sciences, diabetes is often caused by a poor diet, and families living in such poverty as the Iraqis find themselves eating only what is cheap, not necessarily the most healthy. Some of the children in these families, however, suffer from hypertension as well which leads me to believe that a portion of these two diseases is equally caused by trauma and stress. Although not as life threatening as a disease like cancer, the combination of diabetes, hypertension, and little to insufficient medical care can create a stressful, unhealthy, and dangerous physical state for a countless number of Iraqi men and women. Then last to issues that stayed with me with regards to the second family were the psychological health of his children and the physical health of the father. The father needed three surgeries. He had severe varicose veins causing him an almost unbearable amount of pain, calcified knee caps making it nearly impossible for him to walk, as well as an ear problem which although I did not fully understand the medical terminology seemed to be very uncomfortable. Of this father's two sons, one of them had just got to the point, nearly 5 years later, where he could rest at night without sleep walking around the house screaming in fear of the events he had experienced in Iraq. Bringing me to tears, the father said, "I would read him verses from the Qur'an and this would wake and calm him from his terrors".

After hearing these two stories, just the start of many I am sure, there is still the unfortunate fact that we are often not able to do a single thing. While it is the work of Sasha and CRP to help in any way possible, there are still impossible medical expenses, unchangeable living circumstances, and irreversible psychological damage for which there is often no assistance.

When I arrived back at CRP after after these two home visits, it was my initial inclination to curl up in my bed and cry. While there is a time and place for this particular emotional expression, I am more aware than ever that I have a responsibility to each and every one of these families. It is not a responsibility that promises money or medicine or a new home, but an internal promise that I will transform and project my own individual sadness into a voice for many.

Smiles are Universal and Palestine is Everywhere!

2010-05-11T11:40:00.000-07:00

Slightly exhausted and overwhelmed by the 98-degree weather outside, my first full day in Hashmi Shamali consisted of Sasha and I walking around to local stores and markets picking up materials and food we would be needing for CRP events later in the week. While this may not have been the most exciting or enthusiastic day of our lives due to my sleep deprivation and Sasha's ongoing cold, there were two distinct things that I noticed during our entire walk around town.

Smiles are universal! From the instant we left CRP and began walking, children everywhere would smile and say hello both in English and Arabic. It did not seem to matter whether they thought I was American, Jordanian, or of any other nationality for that matter, kids are kids and smiles are smiles. I also want to say that even if these children had no idea who I was or why I was there, their faces projected the most sincere smiles I have ever seen, as if I was their best friend and they had known me forever.

In combination with my own personal experience and knowledge, it is also important to me that I attempt to translate some portion of my academic learning to better understand and analyze the situations I encounter abroad. Last semester when participating in an education for international development class at American University, we spent a great deal of time discussing what is best known as "the youth bulge". This theory, coined by Gunnar Heinsohn in 1990 argues that countries where there is a large and concentrated population of young adults generally leads to higher levels of unemployment, and an increased overall propensity towards civil conflict as a result of competing interests and limited resources. After gaining a basic understanding of this theory, our class began debating whether or not this so called "youth bulge" is actually a problem. We learned that while some international development programs see a rapid growth of working-aged youth as a problem and disruption to society for the reasons mention above, others see these youth as the key to a brighter future, and I not agree more.

Children and youth in general know no differences except those that are learned. While I don't want to say that "you can't teach an old dog new tricks", there is an exceptional resilience and universality that comes with being young and possessing a natural ability or tendency to seek common ground rather than trying to find and judge based our inherent differences. To connect this back to my first day in Amman, seeing all of these children smiling and communicating with me regardless of my age, ethnicity, or political beliefs, reassures me of the promise and hope that lies within a young population. Most importantly this promise ad hope has the ability to, if nurtured not criticized, transform a nation's future from the bottom up.

With regards to my second major observation upon arrival in Amman, this one is a bit more obvious but sends just as important of a message as the first. Palestine is everywhere! Although I am constantly involved in great number of Israeli-Palestinian conflict resolution projects operating out of the U.S. and Palestine, it is quite amazing to witness the difference in the portrayal and presence of the Palestinian people and their culture through the eyes of Amman. As I walked around the area with Sasha today, it was honestly refreshing. It was refreshing to see Palestinian shops on every corner, signs advertising Palestinian embroidery without hesitation, and Palestinian people blending into Jordanian society free from the occupation that has taken over their homeland. While I fully understand that leaving Palestine to Jordan is far from a solution to the conflict (most Palestinians should be so lucky as to leave their homes without the threat of violence), it is truly encouraging to see, first hand that Palestinians are treated as dignified and respectable human beings in other parts of the world. This observation as a whole was yet another reminder that we live in a very diverse and complicated world. Due to the nature of U.S. Israeli relations, Palestinians are often shown in U.S. media to be no more than a violent and relentless group of terrorists. Despite this horrible distortion, there is a strong sense of hope filling my heart as I am staying in a country where Palestinians are able to walk and talk without this violent image overtaking their identities.

Collateral Repair Project

2010-05-11T09:16:00.000-07:00

Before I go on about my own travels, I should first tell you a bit more about the organization I came to work with here in Amman as well as my own motivations for interning with an organization that focuses on such a controversial issue. Collateral Repair Project (CRP) is "a grassroots movement, created to address the catastrophic displacement of five million Iraqis who have had to leave behind their homes and communities because of the violence and instability that is a result of the invasion ad occupation of their country"(http://www.collateralrepairproject.org/) . CRP is co-directed by Sasha Crow who is currently running the center in Amman and Mary Madsen who is based out of the United States and uses her presence there to do everything from coordinating local events, to managing the organization's books, to maintaining CRP's website. The Jordan office is located in an relatively impoverished town called Hashmi Shamali in the Eastern part of Amman. The center itself is the bottom floor of a two story building that Sasha rents from the owners who live above. The center consists of a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, two bathrooms, a distribution room, and an activity room. During my time at CRP, I am using the activity for my bedroom and then moving my stuff into a closet in order to transform the room back into its normal state. I am more privileged than most to be staying in such a beautiful place with the rare comfort of fans at my disposal, but am also immensely grateful to be sharing this building and community with so many Iraqis who value CRP and Sasha's presence as a safe haven from all of their struggles, past and present.

Political beliefs aside, my main desire to with Sasha and with CRP was to understand the entire story from start to finish. While I think it is safe to assume that most reading this blog are familiar with the first half of the story, the concept of U.S. soldiers being deployed to Iraq (even if one does not fully understand why), it was my intention to get to to know and learn from those effected by the second half of the story. One in every five Iraqis is displaced (both internally and externally), of which nearly 500,000 have fled to Jordan and others to the neighboring countries of Syria, Egypt, and Lebanon.

Although I could easily write a list containing the numerous projects CRP has taken on to serve the Iraqi community, I find that my daily experiences and sharing of Iraqi stories are better suited to convey the personal and emotional message that has slowly but completely taken over my heart. That said, I hope that this blog will serve not only as a literary expression of my own experiences and emotional growth abroad, but as a voice for those who need it most. Iraqis, Palestinians, or Jordanians. Everyone has a story that has not yet been heard, and it is the sharing and understanding of these unique narratives that lay a foundation for mutual understanding.

First Impressions

2010-05-10T07:39:00.000-07:00

One lesson I am continually learning in my life is to have no expectations. This applies to travel, to relationships, to work, to school, and everything else. When I say no expectations, I am referring to the concept that one should not come into a situation with preconceived notions about the people, the country, the culture, or the religions involved as this only leads to a greater number of opportunities for judgement.

Most likely the first thing I appreciated about Amman and Jordan in general was Sulliman, the little Jordanian man who drove me from the Airport to where I was staying. Grateful for him driving the 45 minutes to pick me up and waiting for my late arrival, I was even more grateful for his 80 mile an hour driving skills. With 95-degree weather and blazing sun, I have never been more happy to have a 80 mile per hour breeze on my face. About ten minutes away from the airport, Sulliman asked me if I would prefer the A/C using as much English as he knew and pointing at the dashboard where the air would come out. I said "la, la shukran" meaning "no, no thank you". He seemed to greatly appreciate the fact that I didn't require air conditioning to be happy, and me being happy made him even more happy, so happy was all around. Simple as they may have been, my three conversations with Mr. Sulliman, starting at the airport and ending at the house where I was staying might just have been three of my favorite conversation to date. In our last conversation, I told him in Arabic that I didn't speak much Arabic, he told me in English that he didn't speak much English, and then we both smiled and began to laugh.

Almost an hour later, we arrived at our destination. A slightly off-white building, mostly from the dust I suspect, sat on the corner of what I would later learn was a "horseshoe" shaped, dirt road. As I got out of the car and went to help unload my bags and boxes from the trunk, my feet began to turn the same color as the building from all the dust on the ground. It was at that exact moment when I was staring down at my dusty brown toes that a woman popped out from the front door of the building where we had arrived. Her name is Sasha Crow. While I had hoped, not expected, that she would be as amazing as I had been told by everyone who knew her, my dream had come true. Although I did not know it just yet, I would be working with one of the most extraordinary women and empowering organizations I have ever come across.

Flight and Arrival

2010-05-09T23:50:00.000-07:00

From the second I left my apartment in DC last Friday, I hadn't a single doubt that adventure was soon to follow. After spending several extra hours with a few too many people all anxious to make their respective connections out of New York, the plane finally took off. The time I spent awaiting my departure to JFK was roughly equivalent to double the time I actually spent in flight...maybe I should have just walked!

John F. Kennedy International Airport is an experience all by itself. As I was walking around looking for the departure/arrival screens to direct me to my next flight, I was amazed by how many languages were being spoken around me. While it was no surprise that a myriad of cultures should be meeting at an airport that serves most all countries around the globe, it was interesting however to witness the recent expansion of the service industry to encompass these multi-linguistic and cultural demands. When I spotted what I believed to be the gate and waiting area for my flight to Amman, I decided to check in with someone at the front desk just to make sure. As confident as I normally am in my own ability to read flight information off a simple digitalized screen, I wanted to be 100% sure I wasn't going to end up in Djibouti or Turkmenistan, not that I wouldn't have just as many adventures over there. To return to the topic, I first noticed this expansion in customer service when it was my turn in line at the front desk, and the young man about to assist me seemed slightly confused by my presence. He looked at me for about five seconds and then said "Salaam Aleikum" or "peace be upon you" with a bit of hesitance in his voice. Despite my improving Arabic skills, I was sleep-deprived enough to recognize that I was not going to comprehend flight numbers and letters in a foreign language at that point in time. Then responding with the same amount of hesitance in my own voice I said, "hello?". After hearing my response, he seemed a bit unhappy that he had misjudged my first language. It is my guess that he decided I was Arabic speaking based on the modest clothing I was wearing, the color of my skin, as well as the fact (unknown to me in that specific moment) that I was standing in a line almost completely filled with other people of Arab descent. After telling me, in English, that I was indeed at the correct gate for my flight to Amman, I walked away from "the Arab line" which was on the left only to look to my right and see "the American line" comprised of mostly business men and women and military personnel.

What was most interesting to me about my short conversation with this man at the information desk was that he seemed unhappy with himself not only because he had incorrectly assumed my first language, but because he was so keenly aware that these linguistic and cultural faux pas are now just as crucial in determining a persons "overall customer service experience" as are any other major factors (in-flight service, meals, etc.), and this reality was most obviously present in his facial expression as I walked away to board my plane.

As for the actual flight from New York to Amman, it is a bit difficult to describe this 13-hour, 350 person phenomena. I would love to say that "it is what you make of it", but really it is quite a joint effort. Four main cabin bathrooms, five crying babies at any one point in time, military personnel, Jordanians, international business men and women, and tourists from everywhere imaginable. Although it can be assumed that the majority of the people on the flight were extremely exhausted and not to be found in their most patient state of being, there was still an overarching feeling of tension between most everyone aboard. In International Business-101 we are taught that "different cultures produce different people", a fact obvious enough not to be paying $50,000 per year to understand. Obvious and general knowledge aside, a Muslim man praying in his seat on my Friday evening flight holds an ideology greatly differing from that of a U.S. contractor typing up a business memo on his Blackberry. Travel and airplanes, however, have an unavoidable way of squishing everyone together regardless of these differences.

13 sleepless hours later, I walked out of the air-conditioned airplane and into 95-degree dry heat, my favorite type of weather to be perfectly honest. After walking from the plane to the corresponding terminal, it turned out that we couldn't get anywhere near our checked baggage until we had exchanged money, and then used that money to obtain a Visa for the duration of our stay. While standing in the dreadfully long Visa line, I had the pleasure of conversing with two middle-aged Americans who took me under their wing almost immediately. This wonderful couple then made it their mission and responsibility to wait in every line in which I had to wait, to help me when carrying two 50 lbs. boxes full of art and music supplies off a crowded luggage conveyor belt , and to confirm my traveling safety with regards to my departure from the airport to where I would be staying. As my newly adopted family and I were getting towards the front of the Visa line, many began wondering, some even panicking as to where we should go to get our luggage. I already had a plan. If we followed the few people who were so very panicked and determined to find their luggage, some because they thought it had been stolen or because the luggage fairy had sent it on to Djibouti or Turkmenistan, we were sure to find ours as well. We would just do as they did, minus all the worry and panic...and it worked! Once my airport parents and I had all of our luggage and boxes loaded onto a cart, it was off to customs where they would then be taken off the cart. The man at the security and customs counter asked to open my boxes, and of course I said yes. He then starting asking me a round about circle of questions including but not limited to the following. What is in these boxes? Who are these boxes for? If they are for children are they for your children? If their not for your children then what children are they for? Where is the address of these children? Why are you bringing these children these things? What is in that box? What is in this box? Why are you bringing musical instruments here to Jordan? What is a harmonica? Finally, but believe me it took quite a while for the man to realize he was still talking regardless of whether my answers made any sense, he said "Okay, thank you. Have a good day and welcome to Amman".

As the woman who runs the the center for which I would be working came down with bad cold the night before, a friend of hers Mr. Sulliman came to pick me up at the airport. I am not exactly sure how he knew it was me since he did not have a sign or my picture, but some how he just knew. As my airport parents and I were walking to the arrival lane just outside the airport, a man looked me straight in the eye and said "Meera?", and I said "yes?". Although his English was greatly limited, he found a way to convey to me the fact that he knew who I was as well as Sasha, the woman I would be working with here in Amman, and that was enough for me to be convinced. My new parents had me double check just to make sure their newly adopted child wasn't getting in the car with a complete stranger...except I kind off was!

While I am completely grateful for this protective instinct that human beings, especially parents posses, there is another side to this story. Travel and trust go hand in hand. Traveling requires building long-term trust in the form of relationships as well as some degree of instantaneous trust. Many people assume the ultimatum that says that if one trusts, he or she gives up safety and/or security. Furthermore, because he or she has already prioritized safety or security at the top of the list, that person is then hesitant to trust based upon this ultimatum. I have found that one cannot have safety without trust, and in return trust creates a much safer environment. If my new airport parents had watched me get into "Sulliman's" car back in the U.S., I highly doubt that their level of concern for my well being would have matched that equivalent situation here in Amman. This simple experience with my new family and Mr. Sulliman illustrates for me, how important it is to trust and to trust fairly. Trust one stranger as you would another, and impose judgement only upon yourself, for your own actions, as that is all you are able to control.