Albeit crowded and unorganized, the line at the checkpoint leading out of Nablus moves quickly. Three obvious abnormalities dodge the restless children and abaayas, so as not to step on any of them.
'We just met,' says L.
'Can't we say we met in Jerusalem?' asks the extremely naïve 27 year old M. Her questions and shallow observations have begun to bring out the culture snob in me. Just the other day, I almost lost it at her mockery of 'insh'allah'; it's difficult to remember that not everyone reads up on culture or has lived in half a dozen countries. Kind of like my dear friend who thinks Farsi is a 'dialect' of Arabic.
With narrowed eyes, L. and I stare at her. In a slight hiss, I repeat, "We met here. In Nablus. At the guesthouse.'
I need to be more patient, but really, some people never learn!
Silently, I mentally go through the items in my handbag, as to make sure there is no slight piece of evidence that I am anything more than an ignorant tourist. Most days, when I am confronted with an Israeli soldier, there is a quick moment that I have to put my pride in check because I want him (or her) to know that, I do know. I know what is going on; I know the reality, and no, I am not here in Nablus to eat Kannafah and visit the soap factories.
However, M.'s anxiety is deemed pointless as the Israeli soldier does not even look for my visa – which I am grateful for as the IDF soldier at the Jordanian/Palestinian border tore it up – and with an extremely bored wave, passes me through.
While L and I wait for M., the hoards of Palestinians grow because their situation is nothing near ours. Bags are produced, opened, and searched at entire lengths. Old men who cannot stand for more than mere minutes are cornered and questioned as if they were terrorists. Little children are searched, and mothers forced to answer why they need to go to Ramallah or beyond.
It takes all of my energy to focus straight ahead, to pretend to be grateful that my time in the line was just a few seconds. If I don't stare blankly at the mob of servis taxis ahead of me, I am afraid I will start yelling.
How is it that these people, who live, breathe, and work inside this country, are not allowed to travel from city to city without the constant supervision of Israel? How can body-searching an 85 year old man who can barely hobble from the taxi to the soldier be deemed reasonable? Under what rules is turning away a woman or making her wait eight hours at the checkpoint before allowing her to pass securing the safety of their country?
Q. told me that a soldier once made him wait two hours because he did not like the clothes Q. wore that day.
M. comes out behind me and says, 'I feel so shaken up."I fight the urge to roll my eyes in her direction as we walk towards the fence to catch a taxi to Bir Zeit.
Note: I really am grateful to have another foreigner around like M., and I am glad she is here to learn and help (most of the time).
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Q and the Man with the 'Doodlys'
While walking down the stairs of the University building, Q. stops to listen to the girls' conversation and then decided, even before he is out of earshot, 'I hate her.'
'Why? What did she say?'
He tells me the last sentence he heard: "The Israelis have more honor than the Palestinian Authority."
'Why do you think she said that', comes the thought out response to an extremely delicate situation.
OK, imagine this, he says. You have a stolen car: The Israeli soldier could care less and will let you keep it and do as you wish. The PA will take it and confiscate it to crush it into trash. Of course that girl hates the PA, he continues, because she is seeing this in a way that is harmful to her and is only seeing the small picture.
Q. walks into the café and confidently grabs a menu to translate. After deciding on a pair of white cheese toasts, he settles into his constant one-sided conversation again.
'You know, I'm not allowed into Jerusalem (Sidenote: Not surprising. Most inhabitants of the Occupied Territories are not allowed into Israel without permits, and even then, it is difficult) because I can't get a permit.
The one time he is allowed a permit, it comes via the graces of the American Embassy, which needs to see him to approve his scholarship to go to the United States in a few weeks. Within days, he has a visa to visit Al Quds.
His time frame is from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.
With his meeting at the Embassy at 1:00 p.m., Q. decided to leave at 7:30 so he can enter the Al-Aqsa Mosque and pray. At the first checkpoint, he is turned back twice until one of the Israeli soldiers eels a bit sorry for him and calls the Embassy to make sure he ahs permission.
Once he reaches Jerusalem and the second checkpoint, he is almost sent back to the West Bank.
'Can you believe this? They let me past the first checkpoint and then they try to send me back. I have a permit!'
By the time he reaches the Mosque, the two Israeli soldiers pull him aside and do not want him to enter. As they are bickering, a Jewish man, complete with the 'doodly things from his hair' walks right past the three of them and enters with a 'Shalom.'
At this point, the jibne toast is dismissed, and Q. beckons the waiter for the coffee and pulls out his cigarettes. Just moments before, he has proudly proclaimed he was cutting back, but lights up instantly with a guilty expression and explains, ' This conversation is frustrating me.'
After a puff or two, his mind is back on the Mosque.
'It is MY Mosque, you know. Mine! And not some Jewish guy's Mosque. Except, he gets to enter and they get to interrogate me.'
A wild look takes over his face as the conversation turns into a rant. In Hebron, where Isaac, Abraham, and their wives are buried, Palestinians cannot enter on a Saturday and the ehzaan (call to prayer) is not allowed. On the days the Palestinians may enter, the must enter from the back.
'Can you even imagine this? Say this is a Palestinian restaurant (motioning around to the café). Everyone who is not Palestinian enters from the front, while we enter from a small, side door.'
He pulls out a second cigarette with a challenging look pasted across his face. Suddenly, he switches back to Jerusalem and his trip to the United States after he received the visa and the scholarship.
In a split second, he is reminiscing about his weeks in D.C, Chicago, and Madison, with the stories of Jerusalem and Hebron locked up as if they are a part of a different life.
I wonder if this is how he (and everyone else here) copes.
'Why? What did she say?'
He tells me the last sentence he heard: "The Israelis have more honor than the Palestinian Authority."
'Why do you think she said that', comes the thought out response to an extremely delicate situation.
OK, imagine this, he says. You have a stolen car: The Israeli soldier could care less and will let you keep it and do as you wish. The PA will take it and confiscate it to crush it into trash. Of course that girl hates the PA, he continues, because she is seeing this in a way that is harmful to her and is only seeing the small picture.
Q. walks into the café and confidently grabs a menu to translate. After deciding on a pair of white cheese toasts, he settles into his constant one-sided conversation again.
'You know, I'm not allowed into Jerusalem (Sidenote: Not surprising. Most inhabitants of the Occupied Territories are not allowed into Israel without permits, and even then, it is difficult) because I can't get a permit.
The one time he is allowed a permit, it comes via the graces of the American Embassy, which needs to see him to approve his scholarship to go to the United States in a few weeks. Within days, he has a visa to visit Al Quds.
His time frame is from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.
With his meeting at the Embassy at 1:00 p.m., Q. decided to leave at 7:30 so he can enter the Al-Aqsa Mosque and pray. At the first checkpoint, he is turned back twice until one of the Israeli soldiers eels a bit sorry for him and calls the Embassy to make sure he ahs permission.
Once he reaches Jerusalem and the second checkpoint, he is almost sent back to the West Bank.
'Can you believe this? They let me past the first checkpoint and then they try to send me back. I have a permit!'
By the time he reaches the Mosque, the two Israeli soldiers pull him aside and do not want him to enter. As they are bickering, a Jewish man, complete with the 'doodly things from his hair' walks right past the three of them and enters with a 'Shalom.'
At this point, the jibne toast is dismissed, and Q. beckons the waiter for the coffee and pulls out his cigarettes. Just moments before, he has proudly proclaimed he was cutting back, but lights up instantly with a guilty expression and explains, ' This conversation is frustrating me.'
After a puff or two, his mind is back on the Mosque.
'It is MY Mosque, you know. Mine! And not some Jewish guy's Mosque. Except, he gets to enter and they get to interrogate me.'
A wild look takes over his face as the conversation turns into a rant. In Hebron, where Isaac, Abraham, and their wives are buried, Palestinians cannot enter on a Saturday and the ehzaan (call to prayer) is not allowed. On the days the Palestinians may enter, the must enter from the back.
'Can you even imagine this? Say this is a Palestinian restaurant (motioning around to the café). Everyone who is not Palestinian enters from the front, while we enter from a small, side door.'
He pulls out a second cigarette with a challenging look pasted across his face. Suddenly, he switches back to Jerusalem and his trip to the United States after he received the visa and the scholarship.
In a split second, he is reminiscing about his weeks in D.C, Chicago, and Madison, with the stories of Jerusalem and Hebron locked up as if they are a part of a different life.
I wonder if this is how he (and everyone else here) copes.
Monday, November 12, 2007
In Memory of Abu Ammar
Yesterday marked the third anniversary of Arafat's death in Paris , and a huge rally was held in Ramallah. Apparently, tens of thousands of people went, tehre were even buses organized from Nablus and An-Najah to take students to the Fatah founder's, and probablyPalestine's best shot at unified peace, memorial.
However, today, at a similar memorial in Hamas-controlled Gaza, gunshots and confiscated hats, banners, and posters were teh central points of the rally. Hamas followers fired gunshots into the thousands of people gathered to commemorate Araft's memroy and his intentions to bring together 'One Homeland', because they had come under fire from Fatah, they said.
More than a dozen people are known to be wounded, and guess what? it's only 14:30.
However, today, at a similar memorial in Hamas-controlled Gaza, gunshots and confiscated hats, banners, and posters were teh central points of the rally. Hamas followers fired gunshots into the thousands of people gathered to commemorate Araft's memroy and his intentions to bring together 'One Homeland', because they had come under fire from Fatah, they said.
More than a dozen people are known to be wounded, and guess what? it's only 14:30.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
The Human Investment and Peace Talks
Nablus, Palestine
I remember watching the broken peace talks in 1998, not really understanding the images of tanks and little boys with stones. I remember images of the Wailing Wall lined with those at prayer time.
Now it's all here, and I get to see it with my own eyes, except this time, I understand the situation a bit better. Even more, the first peace talks in seven years are coming up in Annapolis either this month or next, and I feel just as nervous as those around me.
This morning, I had an interview with the President of the University because they want to hire me until I go back to my life in the States next Fall. It's a tough decision to stay in a city like Nablus, which the President called a 'prison', but not tough for the right reasons.
He explained the aspirations of the University, the image that he would like to change, and in his quiet voice, said, ' Education is the only investment that Palestinians, as human beings, can make. We don't have oil or resources, just education.'
Just last Thursday, after the failed video conference, I walked down to the center to pick up a few amenities before heading over to J's house. Because I was in a rush, I decided to cut through the Old City (which I know is never a good idea, but it is also my favorite part of the city). Everything seemed normal, as I have quickly discovered is the normal Nablus façade, and left for J's. As we were talking in her room, one of her family members yelled that there was a bomb just three hours before at one of the entrances of the Old City.
J looked at me, shrugged, and went back to her computer.
I, on the other hand, as the novice conflict zone inhabitant of the city, was a little strung out, and demanded details. How is it that I live in this city, and have no idea what is going on at times? How could the very same place I was standing, have been covered in blood just hours before, and within hours, people were back, bustling on the street as if nothing had happened. It's a tragic sign of resignation to injustice. Just how much must these people have seen to react in such a way? More than the bombs, snipers, tanks, and Israeli airplanes, I am frightened by the numbness that has resulted from the instinct of survival.
Saturday, back at work, someone mentions that S. had to go pick up the pieces – the man killed was in three parts and S. had to go, and literally, pick up the pieces. Compassionate, caring, delicately put-together S. I want him to get out; far, far away from this place where he can play his music and learn Spanish.
The peace talks must work, but I have a feeling that it will be Clinton's nightmare déjà vu all over again, but only worse. This time, there's the issue of Hamas-controlled Gaza. Yet, people seem so optimistic here (despite the aforementioned resignation), but it's the only means of survival.
While the Annapolis Peace Talks will cover refuges, the right of return for Palestinians, Jerusalem, borders, etc., just how logical is this two-state solution?
Take a good look at the last forty years and think again.
I remember watching the broken peace talks in 1998, not really understanding the images of tanks and little boys with stones. I remember images of the Wailing Wall lined with those at prayer time.
Now it's all here, and I get to see it with my own eyes, except this time, I understand the situation a bit better. Even more, the first peace talks in seven years are coming up in Annapolis either this month or next, and I feel just as nervous as those around me.
This morning, I had an interview with the President of the University because they want to hire me until I go back to my life in the States next Fall. It's a tough decision to stay in a city like Nablus, which the President called a 'prison', but not tough for the right reasons.
He explained the aspirations of the University, the image that he would like to change, and in his quiet voice, said, ' Education is the only investment that Palestinians, as human beings, can make. We don't have oil or resources, just education.'
Just last Thursday, after the failed video conference, I walked down to the center to pick up a few amenities before heading over to J's house. Because I was in a rush, I decided to cut through the Old City (which I know is never a good idea, but it is also my favorite part of the city). Everything seemed normal, as I have quickly discovered is the normal Nablus façade, and left for J's. As we were talking in her room, one of her family members yelled that there was a bomb just three hours before at one of the entrances of the Old City.
J looked at me, shrugged, and went back to her computer.
I, on the other hand, as the novice conflict zone inhabitant of the city, was a little strung out, and demanded details. How is it that I live in this city, and have no idea what is going on at times? How could the very same place I was standing, have been covered in blood just hours before, and within hours, people were back, bustling on the street as if nothing had happened. It's a tragic sign of resignation to injustice. Just how much must these people have seen to react in such a way? More than the bombs, snipers, tanks, and Israeli airplanes, I am frightened by the numbness that has resulted from the instinct of survival.
Saturday, back at work, someone mentions that S. had to go pick up the pieces – the man killed was in three parts and S. had to go, and literally, pick up the pieces. Compassionate, caring, delicately put-together S. I want him to get out; far, far away from this place where he can play his music and learn Spanish.
The peace talks must work, but I have a feeling that it will be Clinton's nightmare déjà vu all over again, but only worse. This time, there's the issue of Hamas-controlled Gaza. Yet, people seem so optimistic here (despite the aforementioned resignation), but it's the only means of survival.
While the Annapolis Peace Talks will cover refuges, the right of return for Palestinians, Jerusalem, borders, etc., just how logical is this two-state solution?
Take a good look at the last forty years and think again.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Tales from Palestine # 8
Tentatively, after broaching all other subjects of family, friends, and life in general, Ha brings up the issue of significant others. Rather than answering, I keep my distance as the aspiring journalist, and shoot the same question back to her. Her face lights up, and quite obviously, it was the question she was waiting for.
Fingering her abaaya, she tells me how she met him three years before in Nablus, but he was born in Italy. Muslim, she assures, with a grin, and continues on with the story. Although she has not seen him in nearly one year, tomorrow they will meet in Ramallah for one day before she heads back to the University to her classes on Thursday.
From her appearance, her revelation of her boyfriend comes as a shock, but then the discussion turns to religion and dress, and all is clear. While the giggling group of muhajababes continues to stare at the strange combination of a Palestinian girl in an abaaya and an American gesturing dramatically, Ha flicks her eyes over and asks about my perception of religion and the hijab.
I look over at them and give the routine answer: If girls are continuing wearing the hijabs paired with tight clothes, then what is the point. I understand that many of them do so due to family obligation and because of the conservative nature of Nabl—
She cuts me off. Nablus is not as conservative as it appears, she explains. It is an appearance, mostly for the older generation, and sometimes, even strange circumstances.
Nablus is a trendy city; everyone must be thin, beautiful, and have equally trendy clothes, she says. You know, I didn't wear an abaaya when I first started University, but I didn't have money to buy new clothes everyday, so I decided to wear an abaaya until I graduate and have the money for new clothes.
I must be frowning because she tells me not to be angry with her, and I ask her why she thinks I would be angry. I had let it slip that I respect religion and those who believe in it, and she thinks her revelation will destroy our friendship. I assure her that it is quite the opposite.
As I walk around campus since our conversation, I have not been able to look at the girls without thinking of Ha. How many of these girls in abaaya wear them for reasons besides religion? Are they as religious as they look? Do the hijabs and abaayas have anything to do with culture, even?
Appearances can be deceiving, and I say that with as much cliché-power as possible, but the abaaya clad girl with the Italian boyfriend, who has no religious or cultural tie to her religious dress has pushed me to delve deeper.
Fingering her abaaya, she tells me how she met him three years before in Nablus, but he was born in Italy. Muslim, she assures, with a grin, and continues on with the story. Although she has not seen him in nearly one year, tomorrow they will meet in Ramallah for one day before she heads back to the University to her classes on Thursday.
From her appearance, her revelation of her boyfriend comes as a shock, but then the discussion turns to religion and dress, and all is clear. While the giggling group of muhajababes continues to stare at the strange combination of a Palestinian girl in an abaaya and an American gesturing dramatically, Ha flicks her eyes over and asks about my perception of religion and the hijab.
I look over at them and give the routine answer: If girls are continuing wearing the hijabs paired with tight clothes, then what is the point. I understand that many of them do so due to family obligation and because of the conservative nature of Nabl—
She cuts me off. Nablus is not as conservative as it appears, she explains. It is an appearance, mostly for the older generation, and sometimes, even strange circumstances.
Nablus is a trendy city; everyone must be thin, beautiful, and have equally trendy clothes, she says. You know, I didn't wear an abaaya when I first started University, but I didn't have money to buy new clothes everyday, so I decided to wear an abaaya until I graduate and have the money for new clothes.
I must be frowning because she tells me not to be angry with her, and I ask her why she thinks I would be angry. I had let it slip that I respect religion and those who believe in it, and she thinks her revelation will destroy our friendship. I assure her that it is quite the opposite.
As I walk around campus since our conversation, I have not been able to look at the girls without thinking of Ha. How many of these girls in abaaya wear them for reasons besides religion? Are they as religious as they look? Do the hijabs and abaayas have anything to do with culture, even?
Appearances can be deceiving, and I say that with as much cliché-power as possible, but the abaaya clad girl with the Italian boyfriend, who has no religious or cultural tie to her religious dress has pushed me to delve deeper.
Tales from Palestine # 7
Due to the Friends of Israel group at Manchester University, the Video Conference that we have been working in order to foster a dialogue between the youth in Nablus and England has been cancelled for the second time in two days.
According to the aforementioned coalition, An-Najah is a breeding ground for terror (this is not the first time that this has been said), and that nineteen suicide bombers have come from this school. While the latter is true, there has not been a known suicide bomber to come from the University in the past three years. They have also cited the Hamas-made Sbarro Restaurant bombing display at the University re-creating the deadly scene.
The Friends of Israel passed a motion objecting to the twinning of the two Universities, which led to the group in Manchester waiting to speak to the Palestinian students in Nablus, to be kicked out their on-campus meeting.
In reality, what this project, hosted by Zajel, intended to produce was a deeper understanding to the daily life and opinions of the students that are affected by occupation, especially in a city like Nablus. Do individuals, who are simply affiliated to institutions, not have the right to interact with others because of their supposed 'breeding ground of terror" University? How does limiting debate and dialogue enable us to move past assumptions and discrimination?
http://www.umsu.manchester.ac.uk/pdf/MOTION_C_14.11.07.pdf
This is the motion that was passed by the Friends of Israel group, and principally, it seems to be one of understanding. However, after explaining the volatile situation at the University, it then goes on to say that the University should not be affiliated with one that has links to terrorism.
Interesting. I didn't know that Universities were responsible for the actions of students off campus and their students' personal beliefs and opinions. That is certainly not the case in the United States. Does this mean that because we've had on campus shootings in some high schools and Universities, that those places of learning foster terrorist activity?
Chomsky, in Middle East Illusions, explains that nationalism seems to be stronger outside of the country that is being represented by the nation when he speaks of Palestine and Israel. I wonder if any of these students that have passed such a motion have ever visited Israel/Palestine and the West Bank. On the other hand, the students that I have met in the past two weeks have demonstrated an impressive and mature perspective on their situation, so understanding that it is almost jarring.
According to the aforementioned coalition, An-Najah is a breeding ground for terror (this is not the first time that this has been said), and that nineteen suicide bombers have come from this school. While the latter is true, there has not been a known suicide bomber to come from the University in the past three years. They have also cited the Hamas-made Sbarro Restaurant bombing display at the University re-creating the deadly scene.
The Friends of Israel passed a motion objecting to the twinning of the two Universities, which led to the group in Manchester waiting to speak to the Palestinian students in Nablus, to be kicked out their on-campus meeting.
In reality, what this project, hosted by Zajel, intended to produce was a deeper understanding to the daily life and opinions of the students that are affected by occupation, especially in a city like Nablus. Do individuals, who are simply affiliated to institutions, not have the right to interact with others because of their supposed 'breeding ground of terror" University? How does limiting debate and dialogue enable us to move past assumptions and discrimination?
http://www.umsu.manchester.ac.uk/pdf/MOTION_C_14.11.07.pdf
This is the motion that was passed by the Friends of Israel group, and principally, it seems to be one of understanding. However, after explaining the volatile situation at the University, it then goes on to say that the University should not be affiliated with one that has links to terrorism.
Interesting. I didn't know that Universities were responsible for the actions of students off campus and their students' personal beliefs and opinions. That is certainly not the case in the United States. Does this mean that because we've had on campus shootings in some high schools and Universities, that those places of learning foster terrorist activity?
Chomsky, in Middle East Illusions, explains that nationalism seems to be stronger outside of the country that is being represented by the nation when he speaks of Palestine and Israel. I wonder if any of these students that have passed such a motion have ever visited Israel/Palestine and the West Bank. On the other hand, the students that I have met in the past two weeks have demonstrated an impressive and mature perspective on their situation, so understanding that it is almost jarring.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Tales from Palestine # 3,4,5,6
Nablus, Palestine
November 5, 2007
Five Palestinian girls live in our three bedroom flat with Maria and me. We are all the same age, with similar aspirations and dreams, but the eternal flaw is that their country will never let them forget. I come home later than they do, and as they sit around the TV watching Grey's Anatomy or listening to Amr Diab I am always welcomed back with loud greeting and questions of: Why are you so late?
It's 8 p.m.
In a span of ten days, and ten days only, I feel like they are my sisters. As soon as we enter the flat, no one speaks about the plane hovering above us, waiting to take our pictures and figure out who we are. No one flinches at the distant sound of gun shots or explosions. Instead, we talk about Tamer Hosney and how his music is so romantic or we discuss Islam while we drink Argileh or moan about how this conservative city is ruining normal interaction between male and females or they teach me to dance debkeh. This is the other side of life that I am grateful to infiltrate – to feel that some semblance of life is remains available to this generation, because quite frankly, this will be the lost generation.
I say this not for dramatic effect, but because someone has already pointed this out to me, and it would have been simply a matter of time before I came to this understanding myself. Since the second Intifadah and the siege of the city six years ago, martyr posters and messages are still tacked on all over the city walls and brains of the youth. Rival Islamic groups fight between themselves, not only with the Israelis, about how to find a solution and in reality, how to fight. Death is something that is life to them, ironically. Fear is drilled into their thought process and anger is rarely flashed across faces or weaved through words. They seem to cope by keeping themselves busy, in a whirlwind, to evade the exhausting activity of thinking about how unjust or abnormal their lives may be.
It seems to be the only way.
---
Maria and I sat at a hotel in downtown Nablus, which was only opened up again six months ago, and after a little while, we heard the echoing of loud gun fire. No one sitting on the terrace outside flinched, and surprisingly, neither did we. A little boy ran scrambled around the balcony with all the energy that only a two year old may posses while in the other corner, six women in hijabs continued their conversations. No one wanted to be bothered by this slight obstruction of relative peace. Finally, I put my coffee down, looked over at Maria, and said, do you realize how normal that sound has become?
As we stepped downstairs, back onto the streets, we were cut off at the next intersection by a band of Palestinian men, probably best described as the 'Palestinian Authority.' Maria looks at me and we both recognize instantly the reason for the sounds of gun fire from the old city. While we walk behind them, Maria says, in more of a statement than a question: I wonder how many people here see them as traitors.
It seems that I have arrived at a historic moment: the Israelis are planning on handing over the city to its owners – the Palestinians. For this reason, they are training hundreds of the PA to take their position here. Yet, no one seems excited or hopeful at this piece of news because they have been promised this many times over and have been brutally rebuffed an equal amount of times.
The entire city is crawling with the PA and Palestinian police officers, but there is no sense of safety in there air. What difference will it make to have them roaming around the streets of Nablus in hoards of ten and fifteen? Yet, I still think people feel sorry for them. When we went for Kannafah the other day, a pair of PA was stopped by an owner of a coffee shop and he insisted on giving them something to drink as they patrolled the street.
---
Here, people seem to spill out their life stories before you've had a chance to even learn their names properly. Not that I mind, but I think, as a Westerner, I am used to instantly establishing a bubble for my personal space, whether it is my ideas or my physical surroundings. Also, I think most of the younger inhabitants of this city are eager to meet someone their age, but from a different culture, a different form of life, to learn what it is to have a life 180 degrees away from this scenario. Probably, they just want their stories heard.
Every morning, at the university, I am bombarded with offers for a coffee break, a lunch break, a soda break, a walking break, any chance to get out of the office and talk. The kids admit their fears of marriage, of never being able to put into practice what they have learned, of love, of never fulfilling their full potential under this oppression, of seeing the world, and in essence, the fear of not being able to live.
Y. tells me, over our respective cans of juice and diet coke, why she chose to wear a niqaab instead of just a hijab. Although her mother or her younger sister does not wear the niqaab, she has chosen to do so because she feels that the current situation of Islam is a distortion of the original religion. As her own personal effort, she is reverting to the original practices and culture of Islam to respect her love for her religion. She then asks me what I am most grateful for, and I am uncertain of how to answer such a question. I ask her to tell me first. She, unsurprisingly in retrospect, instantly responds with: Allah.
I want to know the reason behind these assertions, and her response is truly beautiful and unbelievably wise for her age. She explains to me that although there are hundreds of people in this world she can trust, can ask for help, and can understand, that when she is dead, the only other person in her coffin will be God. He is the only one who will be with her for eternity.
In accordance to her beliefs and her religion, she has a point. Admittedly, for an outsider, a beautiful one, as well.
Ys. suggests that we walk down into the cemetery as we make our way towards the city center, ad however uncomfortable it is to see the fresh tombstones from just days before, I agree. He starts telling me about his life, how he fell in love, but that it is too hard to fathom a stable future because there is no certainty that he will be able to get a job, provide a house, and a strong support for his future (insh'allah) wife. For these reasons, all of which are outside of his control due to the lack of jobs and money in this country, he is certain that her father will say no, and as a sign to his unflagging faith to his culture he says he will not marry her without permission. Without waiting for a response, he hurries on to tell me that he has contemplated and tried to commit suicide. After a few moments of contemplation (and discomfort from the cold American side of my emotions), he asks me if I have ever been in love. I pause to mull over his eagerness and impatience to find a job after college, to buy a house, just so he can ask for permission to win over her father, all with a great chance of being rejected.
No, I say. And we walk on.
---
J.'s family allows me to come over whenever I want. I knock on the door a few times, always with something in hand because I know better than to enter a house in this culture empty handed. Besides, as most people say when they find out that I am Indian, Palestinians and Indians have the same blood, and it's what we do in our culture, as well. Her mother always smiles and says, Ahlan, how are you? Her brother always teases me about my head shaking and then continues on to setting up a time so that we can have a political/cultural lecture. His little girls run around and cautiously take the chocolate I bring for them every time, not really wanting to talk to the strange girl who speaks a language they don't understand, but always asking about me after I leave. I feel like family, especially when I sit in their living room, stuffing my face with food and teas and coffee with J., not feeling the least bit uncomfortable. As we watch horrible B-list movies on MBC 4, her brother tells me about his five years in prison. The next time, he shows me pictures. On my very first few hours in the West Bank, he opened the balcony door and told me to slowly look outside, but warned me to be careful. We stared down at the ghost streets of the city center, and he told me to check my watch. Barely ten, but not a single person willing to walk down the street in fear of snipers and sudden death.
I want to experience every bit of Palestine.
---
As a foreigner, I have been an extremely fortunate one, mostly because I am able to blend in. For a city that has not been able to promulgate tourism (due to the aforementioned siege of the city), there have not been many Westerners, especially, in this prison of a town. Therefore, when we walk down the streets, it is Maria who is usually stopped by children and adults alike with: Hello! Where are you from? Welcome, welcome to Palestine. I, on the other hand, just get impatient looks when I am asked a question in Arabic and am only bale to give a blubbering, broken reply. They ask again. And I look equally confused and stupid as I did the first time. Finally, the person gets the hint and says, You are not Arab? You look Arab. My response is the same, Yes, everyone thinks that, but I'm not. I'm from India (believe me, it's easier this way than explaining my true country of birth). Ahlan wa Sahlan.
What's strange is that even after this piece of information, I feel like an honorary Arab or Palestinian (the same thing happened almost every time in Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon, as well) because they same to treat me differently than most foreigners, simply because we share similar looks and cultures. In this way, I am grateful, because I am offered a bit more unhindered insight into their opinions and stories.
---
Around 7:15 each weekday morning - that's Saturday to Wednesday for you out in the West – my six flatmates head out to the bus that will take us to the old and new campuses. Ever morning we engage in a silent struggle. As soon as we hand our 1.5 shekels to the driver, L. turns to look at H. and me because the three of us are the most stubborn, most willful. We nod and she leads the way to the seats in the front. Almost always, we are some of the firsts to enter the bus and within minutes, the male professors are giving us dirty looks and telling us to move to the back of the bus. Pardon me, but I do not want to reenact Rosa Park's fateful sit-in. The first day of classes, the girls, who are teachers at the university by the way, obediently moved farther down the bus. However, that night at home, we discussed the situation and decided that we had every right to sit wherever we wanted. The next day, some of the male professors gave us their best 'I'm a male professor in a male-dominated society so be the submissive women we have trained you to become' look, but the girls ignored their looks. By the beginning of this week, one of the professors made a speech that all the female students should sit in the back and leave the first few rows for the male professors.
Fine. We are stubborn and independent but not disrespectful. But the situation goes to far when H. rushes onto the bus as it is leaving, in front of a few professors, and plops down in the second row. One of the professors gets up, asks her to sit in the back where there is an empty seat next to a girl (there is no need for segregation like this, either, L. and I bemoan), but H. says no and stares steadily at the seat in front of her. This is too much.
Without thinking, I start my ranting: Where does he get the right to tell her where to sit? He let a male student sit in the front. What does he think he is doing – does he think this is what the Q'uran says? I then ask L. in a loud voice if the Q'uran demands that women have to be submissive and inferior to men. She looks at me gleefully and shakes her head no. I keep asking myself rhetorical questions on the bus ride along the lines of, I am impressed by the Arab culture of being disrespectful of women. I hope they train their wives and daughters to be oppressed and inferior, especially if the country is going to be ruled by men like them. As soon as we get to the new campus, the professors within earshot practically jump off the bus after shooting us dirty glares and L. and I laugh and say goodbye for the day.
November 5, 2007
Five Palestinian girls live in our three bedroom flat with Maria and me. We are all the same age, with similar aspirations and dreams, but the eternal flaw is that their country will never let them forget. I come home later than they do, and as they sit around the TV watching Grey's Anatomy or listening to Amr Diab I am always welcomed back with loud greeting and questions of: Why are you so late?
It's 8 p.m.
In a span of ten days, and ten days only, I feel like they are my sisters. As soon as we enter the flat, no one speaks about the plane hovering above us, waiting to take our pictures and figure out who we are. No one flinches at the distant sound of gun shots or explosions. Instead, we talk about Tamer Hosney and how his music is so romantic or we discuss Islam while we drink Argileh or moan about how this conservative city is ruining normal interaction between male and females or they teach me to dance debkeh. This is the other side of life that I am grateful to infiltrate – to feel that some semblance of life is remains available to this generation, because quite frankly, this will be the lost generation.
I say this not for dramatic effect, but because someone has already pointed this out to me, and it would have been simply a matter of time before I came to this understanding myself. Since the second Intifadah and the siege of the city six years ago, martyr posters and messages are still tacked on all over the city walls and brains of the youth. Rival Islamic groups fight between themselves, not only with the Israelis, about how to find a solution and in reality, how to fight. Death is something that is life to them, ironically. Fear is drilled into their thought process and anger is rarely flashed across faces or weaved through words. They seem to cope by keeping themselves busy, in a whirlwind, to evade the exhausting activity of thinking about how unjust or abnormal their lives may be.
It seems to be the only way.
---
Maria and I sat at a hotel in downtown Nablus, which was only opened up again six months ago, and after a little while, we heard the echoing of loud gun fire. No one sitting on the terrace outside flinched, and surprisingly, neither did we. A little boy ran scrambled around the balcony with all the energy that only a two year old may posses while in the other corner, six women in hijabs continued their conversations. No one wanted to be bothered by this slight obstruction of relative peace. Finally, I put my coffee down, looked over at Maria, and said, do you realize how normal that sound has become?
As we stepped downstairs, back onto the streets, we were cut off at the next intersection by a band of Palestinian men, probably best described as the 'Palestinian Authority.' Maria looks at me and we both recognize instantly the reason for the sounds of gun fire from the old city. While we walk behind them, Maria says, in more of a statement than a question: I wonder how many people here see them as traitors.
It seems that I have arrived at a historic moment: the Israelis are planning on handing over the city to its owners – the Palestinians. For this reason, they are training hundreds of the PA to take their position here. Yet, no one seems excited or hopeful at this piece of news because they have been promised this many times over and have been brutally rebuffed an equal amount of times.
The entire city is crawling with the PA and Palestinian police officers, but there is no sense of safety in there air. What difference will it make to have them roaming around the streets of Nablus in hoards of ten and fifteen? Yet, I still think people feel sorry for them. When we went for Kannafah the other day, a pair of PA was stopped by an owner of a coffee shop and he insisted on giving them something to drink as they patrolled the street.
---
Here, people seem to spill out their life stories before you've had a chance to even learn their names properly. Not that I mind, but I think, as a Westerner, I am used to instantly establishing a bubble for my personal space, whether it is my ideas or my physical surroundings. Also, I think most of the younger inhabitants of this city are eager to meet someone their age, but from a different culture, a different form of life, to learn what it is to have a life 180 degrees away from this scenario. Probably, they just want their stories heard.
Every morning, at the university, I am bombarded with offers for a coffee break, a lunch break, a soda break, a walking break, any chance to get out of the office and talk. The kids admit their fears of marriage, of never being able to put into practice what they have learned, of love, of never fulfilling their full potential under this oppression, of seeing the world, and in essence, the fear of not being able to live.
Y. tells me, over our respective cans of juice and diet coke, why she chose to wear a niqaab instead of just a hijab. Although her mother or her younger sister does not wear the niqaab, she has chosen to do so because she feels that the current situation of Islam is a distortion of the original religion. As her own personal effort, she is reverting to the original practices and culture of Islam to respect her love for her religion. She then asks me what I am most grateful for, and I am uncertain of how to answer such a question. I ask her to tell me first. She, unsurprisingly in retrospect, instantly responds with: Allah.
I want to know the reason behind these assertions, and her response is truly beautiful and unbelievably wise for her age. She explains to me that although there are hundreds of people in this world she can trust, can ask for help, and can understand, that when she is dead, the only other person in her coffin will be God. He is the only one who will be with her for eternity.
In accordance to her beliefs and her religion, she has a point. Admittedly, for an outsider, a beautiful one, as well.
Ys. suggests that we walk down into the cemetery as we make our way towards the city center, ad however uncomfortable it is to see the fresh tombstones from just days before, I agree. He starts telling me about his life, how he fell in love, but that it is too hard to fathom a stable future because there is no certainty that he will be able to get a job, provide a house, and a strong support for his future (insh'allah) wife. For these reasons, all of which are outside of his control due to the lack of jobs and money in this country, he is certain that her father will say no, and as a sign to his unflagging faith to his culture he says he will not marry her without permission. Without waiting for a response, he hurries on to tell me that he has contemplated and tried to commit suicide. After a few moments of contemplation (and discomfort from the cold American side of my emotions), he asks me if I have ever been in love. I pause to mull over his eagerness and impatience to find a job after college, to buy a house, just so he can ask for permission to win over her father, all with a great chance of being rejected.
No, I say. And we walk on.
---
J.'s family allows me to come over whenever I want. I knock on the door a few times, always with something in hand because I know better than to enter a house in this culture empty handed. Besides, as most people say when they find out that I am Indian, Palestinians and Indians have the same blood, and it's what we do in our culture, as well. Her mother always smiles and says, Ahlan, how are you? Her brother always teases me about my head shaking and then continues on to setting up a time so that we can have a political/cultural lecture. His little girls run around and cautiously take the chocolate I bring for them every time, not really wanting to talk to the strange girl who speaks a language they don't understand, but always asking about me after I leave. I feel like family, especially when I sit in their living room, stuffing my face with food and teas and coffee with J., not feeling the least bit uncomfortable. As we watch horrible B-list movies on MBC 4, her brother tells me about his five years in prison. The next time, he shows me pictures. On my very first few hours in the West Bank, he opened the balcony door and told me to slowly look outside, but warned me to be careful. We stared down at the ghost streets of the city center, and he told me to check my watch. Barely ten, but not a single person willing to walk down the street in fear of snipers and sudden death.
I want to experience every bit of Palestine.
---
As a foreigner, I have been an extremely fortunate one, mostly because I am able to blend in. For a city that has not been able to promulgate tourism (due to the aforementioned siege of the city), there have not been many Westerners, especially, in this prison of a town. Therefore, when we walk down the streets, it is Maria who is usually stopped by children and adults alike with: Hello! Where are you from? Welcome, welcome to Palestine. I, on the other hand, just get impatient looks when I am asked a question in Arabic and am only bale to give a blubbering, broken reply. They ask again. And I look equally confused and stupid as I did the first time. Finally, the person gets the hint and says, You are not Arab? You look Arab. My response is the same, Yes, everyone thinks that, but I'm not. I'm from India (believe me, it's easier this way than explaining my true country of birth). Ahlan wa Sahlan.
What's strange is that even after this piece of information, I feel like an honorary Arab or Palestinian (the same thing happened almost every time in Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon, as well) because they same to treat me differently than most foreigners, simply because we share similar looks and cultures. In this way, I am grateful, because I am offered a bit more unhindered insight into their opinions and stories.
---
Around 7:15 each weekday morning - that's Saturday to Wednesday for you out in the West – my six flatmates head out to the bus that will take us to the old and new campuses. Ever morning we engage in a silent struggle. As soon as we hand our 1.5 shekels to the driver, L. turns to look at H. and me because the three of us are the most stubborn, most willful. We nod and she leads the way to the seats in the front. Almost always, we are some of the firsts to enter the bus and within minutes, the male professors are giving us dirty looks and telling us to move to the back of the bus. Pardon me, but I do not want to reenact Rosa Park's fateful sit-in. The first day of classes, the girls, who are teachers at the university by the way, obediently moved farther down the bus. However, that night at home, we discussed the situation and decided that we had every right to sit wherever we wanted. The next day, some of the male professors gave us their best 'I'm a male professor in a male-dominated society so be the submissive women we have trained you to become' look, but the girls ignored their looks. By the beginning of this week, one of the professors made a speech that all the female students should sit in the back and leave the first few rows for the male professors.
Fine. We are stubborn and independent but not disrespectful. But the situation goes to far when H. rushes onto the bus as it is leaving, in front of a few professors, and plops down in the second row. One of the professors gets up, asks her to sit in the back where there is an empty seat next to a girl (there is no need for segregation like this, either, L. and I bemoan), but H. says no and stares steadily at the seat in front of her. This is too much.
Without thinking, I start my ranting: Where does he get the right to tell her where to sit? He let a male student sit in the front. What does he think he is doing – does he think this is what the Q'uran says? I then ask L. in a loud voice if the Q'uran demands that women have to be submissive and inferior to men. She looks at me gleefully and shakes her head no. I keep asking myself rhetorical questions on the bus ride along the lines of, I am impressed by the Arab culture of being disrespectful of women. I hope they train their wives and daughters to be oppressed and inferior, especially if the country is going to be ruled by men like them. As soon as we get to the new campus, the professors within earshot practically jump off the bus after shooting us dirty glares and L. and I laugh and say goodbye for the day.
Tales from palestine # 2
November 4, 2007
Nablus, Palestine
The sound of the Israeli plane surveying the city is gone. It's strange not to fall asleep to the constant drone that seemed so strange just a week ago. How soon things become routine and familiar. However, here, the sense of familiarity incites no feelings of safety and comfort.
In just ten days, I feel more disconcerted and estranged from the world than I ever have. It's not just the idea of being in a different place, but the realization of experiencing a reality that you thought you knew, but in truth, might never be able to understand. Does that make sense?
My first night in Nablus, with Jihane, I woke up to every gunshot, every small rumble in the street. By ten p.m., there was not a single person outside in downtown, and I'm assuming, the old city. It's an eerie feeling to witness what seems to be a daily fleeing of the inhabitants when you very well know they are in their homes, too afraid to pop their heads out of their balconies in fear of being spotted by the chance surveillance or Israeli jeep.
I haven't been able to write things down in the past few days because I just don't know what to say or think. Every passing hour I worry that I don't know enough, haven't seen enough to be able to express the right amount of sympathy or opinion on the happenings. It's impossible when I am tucked away into my safe haven of an apartment far from the city center and the old city. In the mornings, when I read the news, it shocks me just as much as it will shock you, to read of the clashes between the Israelis and the gangs here. Really? Did I sleep through all that gunfire? Am I truly in the most dangerous city in the West Bank?
It's not just the physical distance, though. There's an emotional barrier between the foreigner and the Nablusi, not because they put one up but because I don't know if there will ever be a way to hammer down our differences. You can see it in their eyes; they are broken but unphased. I wonder what they must have seen to reveal equal amounts of determination and pain.
There is a boy here, S., who has graduated from music school, wants to study in Spain, drives the ambulances at night in the old city to take in the fighters when they have been injured by the Israelis, work with children, and really, has the biggest heart that anyone can have in such a situation. Yet, you can feel it in his eyes. He is tired, tired from experiencing a lifetime of pain and watching the country he has known his entire life suffer. One day, we were walking together in downtown and some random man stops him to tell him that his friend, who was driving an ambulance during his night shift as a volunteer and was shot in the back of the head by a stray bullet, has died. How many times has he heard that same kind of story, I wonder. Yet, he looks at me, with a smile, only betrayed by his eyes, and asks if I will be OK getting home alone. I stare at him in amazement, wondering if anyone can be as selfless as he is. By the time I convince him that I know the way, he is already running towards the hospital to have his last goodbye.
This is nothing. There are a million stories in this 9,000 year old city, but what is the point of repeating them all. Family members will still be used as human shields in the random night raids, students will still be kidnapped in front of the university, and this city will still be named 'the center of terror.'Everyone that I have met still stumbles on, morning to evening to morning, with a glazed look on their face, always willing to talk, and eternally determined to move on. Whether this means working for human rights, protesting in front of the wall, throwing stones at the Israeli tanks, being a martyr for their country, or leaving this lifetime war zone for a new story, a better future, they live on.
Nablus, Palestine
The sound of the Israeli plane surveying the city is gone. It's strange not to fall asleep to the constant drone that seemed so strange just a week ago. How soon things become routine and familiar. However, here, the sense of familiarity incites no feelings of safety and comfort.
In just ten days, I feel more disconcerted and estranged from the world than I ever have. It's not just the idea of being in a different place, but the realization of experiencing a reality that you thought you knew, but in truth, might never be able to understand. Does that make sense?
My first night in Nablus, with Jihane, I woke up to every gunshot, every small rumble in the street. By ten p.m., there was not a single person outside in downtown, and I'm assuming, the old city. It's an eerie feeling to witness what seems to be a daily fleeing of the inhabitants when you very well know they are in their homes, too afraid to pop their heads out of their balconies in fear of being spotted by the chance surveillance or Israeli jeep.
I haven't been able to write things down in the past few days because I just don't know what to say or think. Every passing hour I worry that I don't know enough, haven't seen enough to be able to express the right amount of sympathy or opinion on the happenings. It's impossible when I am tucked away into my safe haven of an apartment far from the city center and the old city. In the mornings, when I read the news, it shocks me just as much as it will shock you, to read of the clashes between the Israelis and the gangs here. Really? Did I sleep through all that gunfire? Am I truly in the most dangerous city in the West Bank?
It's not just the physical distance, though. There's an emotional barrier between the foreigner and the Nablusi, not because they put one up but because I don't know if there will ever be a way to hammer down our differences. You can see it in their eyes; they are broken but unphased. I wonder what they must have seen to reveal equal amounts of determination and pain.
There is a boy here, S., who has graduated from music school, wants to study in Spain, drives the ambulances at night in the old city to take in the fighters when they have been injured by the Israelis, work with children, and really, has the biggest heart that anyone can have in such a situation. Yet, you can feel it in his eyes. He is tired, tired from experiencing a lifetime of pain and watching the country he has known his entire life suffer. One day, we were walking together in downtown and some random man stops him to tell him that his friend, who was driving an ambulance during his night shift as a volunteer and was shot in the back of the head by a stray bullet, has died. How many times has he heard that same kind of story, I wonder. Yet, he looks at me, with a smile, only betrayed by his eyes, and asks if I will be OK getting home alone. I stare at him in amazement, wondering if anyone can be as selfless as he is. By the time I convince him that I know the way, he is already running towards the hospital to have his last goodbye.
This is nothing. There are a million stories in this 9,000 year old city, but what is the point of repeating them all. Family members will still be used as human shields in the random night raids, students will still be kidnapped in front of the university, and this city will still be named 'the center of terror.'Everyone that I have met still stumbles on, morning to evening to morning, with a glazed look on their face, always willing to talk, and eternally determined to move on. Whether this means working for human rights, protesting in front of the wall, throwing stones at the Israeli tanks, being a martyr for their country, or leaving this lifetime war zone for a new story, a better future, they live on.
Tales from Palestine # 1
October 25, 2007
Jerusalem
While crossing the Jordanian and Palestinian border, in retrospect, I wonder if I should have been less carefree and nonchalant about the situation. I met a guy a little bit older than me at the border, P., who has been traveling for the last three years all through the world and some of his recent ventures were Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and Pakistan. Not really Israel's favorite tourist spots and those with any of those stamps find it increasingly difficult to enter the country. However, I, on the other hand, only had a Syrian stamp (and the Israeli's don’t care about Lebanon). As soon as it came to be my turn to pass through the first round of security, the IDF soldier opened my passport, smiled wide and said, 'You're Indian? Welcome to Israel! Are you Muslim?'
I looked at her, extremely insulted, not because of the religion in question, but she could be so aggressive and obvious about her possible discrimination. Would it kill her to ask me what my religion was, rather than letting me know that it would work against my favor to be Muslim? I told her I was Hindu and she smiled even wider and let me pass. At the second window, though, where I was asked for my email, home address and phone number, cell phone number, etc. So they could run a security check on me, the IDF soldier kept demanding to know if I was Arab. Your name is Arab, she says. I know this is a trick, to see if I am lying, to make me nervous. I give her a bored look and just say, 'I'm Hindu.' End of story. She gives me a once over for the last time, and after we have entered into multiple rapid fire questions and answers, she tells me I need to wait for my security check.
This is OK because most people who have been to Syria require this check, but my main frustration is the inherent racism. I met P. on the bus between Jordan and Palestine, and he has been traveling for the past three years. Some of his latest ventures are Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and Syria. However, probably because he is not brown (there is no tactful way to put this), his security check took just as long as mine. At this point, I was too tired to argue and went through with my non-stamped passport with three months in the country. The last man (all the other IDFs were women, thus far), without looking up, takes my passport and starts speaking in Arabic. Although I understand his greetings and questions, I know it is better to play dumb. I look at him, with my most obvious sad, Indian eyes look and tell him, 'I'm sorry, I don't understand Arabic.' He looks a bit doubtful, tells me that I look completely Arab and then asks me where I am from originally. I tell him, and because he cannot say my name, he calls me India. We establish a friendly relationship until I realize that my huge bag is missing. A few moments later I find that it has been put aside because I brought my laptop and it needs to be checked because the bag is so humongous.
I am almost there, I think, just a little bit more. Another man is standing next to me and the IDF soldier asks him in Arabic for a pen. Without thinking, because I am exhausted, I reach into my bag and hand him a pen. I realize my mistake as he looks me in the eye and frowns. He starts speaking in Arabic, telling me that he does not have time for games and to open my bag. I panic. He then tells me that there is no need to pretend, and if I lie, I will not be allowed in. I just keep shaking my head, saying, 'Sorry, I don't understand you. Please, in English, please.' Finally, I win the struggle and he resigns back to English, looks through my bag, and lets me pass.
By the time P. and I reach Jerusalem, we are exhausted from my big bag and our apparent wrongdoings of visiting Arab countries and looking Arab, respectively.
However, a long, leisurely sit at the steps of the Damascus gate get us through the rest of the evening just fine.
Jerusalem
While crossing the Jordanian and Palestinian border, in retrospect, I wonder if I should have been less carefree and nonchalant about the situation. I met a guy a little bit older than me at the border, P., who has been traveling for the last three years all through the world and some of his recent ventures were Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and Pakistan. Not really Israel's favorite tourist spots and those with any of those stamps find it increasingly difficult to enter the country. However, I, on the other hand, only had a Syrian stamp (and the Israeli's don’t care about Lebanon). As soon as it came to be my turn to pass through the first round of security, the IDF soldier opened my passport, smiled wide and said, 'You're Indian? Welcome to Israel! Are you Muslim?'
I looked at her, extremely insulted, not because of the religion in question, but she could be so aggressive and obvious about her possible discrimination. Would it kill her to ask me what my religion was, rather than letting me know that it would work against my favor to be Muslim? I told her I was Hindu and she smiled even wider and let me pass. At the second window, though, where I was asked for my email, home address and phone number, cell phone number, etc. So they could run a security check on me, the IDF soldier kept demanding to know if I was Arab. Your name is Arab, she says. I know this is a trick, to see if I am lying, to make me nervous. I give her a bored look and just say, 'I'm Hindu.' End of story. She gives me a once over for the last time, and after we have entered into multiple rapid fire questions and answers, she tells me I need to wait for my security check.
This is OK because most people who have been to Syria require this check, but my main frustration is the inherent racism. I met P. on the bus between Jordan and Palestine, and he has been traveling for the past three years. Some of his latest ventures are Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and Syria. However, probably because he is not brown (there is no tactful way to put this), his security check took just as long as mine. At this point, I was too tired to argue and went through with my non-stamped passport with three months in the country. The last man (all the other IDFs were women, thus far), without looking up, takes my passport and starts speaking in Arabic. Although I understand his greetings and questions, I know it is better to play dumb. I look at him, with my most obvious sad, Indian eyes look and tell him, 'I'm sorry, I don't understand Arabic.' He looks a bit doubtful, tells me that I look completely Arab and then asks me where I am from originally. I tell him, and because he cannot say my name, he calls me India. We establish a friendly relationship until I realize that my huge bag is missing. A few moments later I find that it has been put aside because I brought my laptop and it needs to be checked because the bag is so humongous.
I am almost there, I think, just a little bit more. Another man is standing next to me and the IDF soldier asks him in Arabic for a pen. Without thinking, because I am exhausted, I reach into my bag and hand him a pen. I realize my mistake as he looks me in the eye and frowns. He starts speaking in Arabic, telling me that he does not have time for games and to open my bag. I panic. He then tells me that there is no need to pretend, and if I lie, I will not be allowed in. I just keep shaking my head, saying, 'Sorry, I don't understand you. Please, in English, please.' Finally, I win the struggle and he resigns back to English, looks through my bag, and lets me pass.
By the time P. and I reach Jerusalem, we are exhausted from my big bag and our apparent wrongdoings of visiting Arab countries and looking Arab, respectively.
However, a long, leisurely sit at the steps of the Damascus gate get us through the rest of the evening just fine.
Chris Hedges is Overrated
October 24, 2007
Amman, Jordan
I don't mean to freak you out (OK, fine, just a little), but I'm moving tomorrow. Yes, I said I would be in Amman until March, but ciricumstances change. I've spent the last four days in my room, with my phone turned off, and I'm pretty sure my roommates think I'm a vampire and/or dead. It's a good thing I keep a stash of diet coke and nutella in my wardrobe, right? Anyway, the last month has been an emotional version of musical chairs and while I contemplated going back to the United States, the only two people I would speak with (and no, one of them was not myself) in the last ninety-six hours have voted. I'm staying in the region, but leaving the country. Really, it's for my sanity.
In the aformentioned hours of solitude, Chomsky, Fisk, Said, and Chris Hedges kept me company. They have spoken: It's now or never, people. I'm already having doubts about the whole career goal, and now is a good time as ever to test it out. Mainly, these war correspondents/political scientists are getting on my last nerve. Please, someone explain to me how Hedges can end a work that ravages every aspect of war and conflict with, "But love, in its mystery, has its own power. It alone gives us meaning that endures. It alone allows us to embrace and cherish life. Love has power both to resist in our nature what we know what we must resist, and to affirm what we know we must affirm. And love, as the poets remind us, is eternal."
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Yeah, we need hope, blah blah blah and a reason to fight and live, but really? I mean...really?
Did I pick up Shakespeare by accident or is this really the man who has trampeled all parts of the earth to cover death by the masses? I'm pretty sure, also, that you, Dayna, adore this man. He is everything you stand for and maybe this is why you are better cut out for this profession than I am. I, however, did not manage to see love in Pristina where an entire culture has been massacared, or in Belgrade where hatred still rules minute ethnic differences, or did not feel it in the abandoned, posh streets of downtown Beirut where only soldiers care to venture anymore. And I most certainly do not expect to feel it tomorrow when I wait twelve hours under the sun to enter a territory with hundreds of others who this land belongs to, but are handpicked to enter after hours of pain and embarassment.
OK, so this man knows more than I do and has seen more of the world, history, culture than I have, but I doubt the end/reason to conflict is so simple. Also, I am not that much of a cynic that I expected him to write that we, as a humanity, are doomed. But this?
But I digress, I'm moving. Sorry for the last few days' hibernation, but I will get back to you soon and will write once I reach my destination.
Amman, Jordan
I don't mean to freak you out (OK, fine, just a little), but I'm moving tomorrow. Yes, I said I would be in Amman until March, but ciricumstances change. I've spent the last four days in my room, with my phone turned off, and I'm pretty sure my roommates think I'm a vampire and/or dead. It's a good thing I keep a stash of diet coke and nutella in my wardrobe, right? Anyway, the last month has been an emotional version of musical chairs and while I contemplated going back to the United States, the only two people I would speak with (and no, one of them was not myself) in the last ninety-six hours have voted. I'm staying in the region, but leaving the country. Really, it's for my sanity.
In the aformentioned hours of solitude, Chomsky, Fisk, Said, and Chris Hedges kept me company. They have spoken: It's now or never, people. I'm already having doubts about the whole career goal, and now is a good time as ever to test it out. Mainly, these war correspondents/political scientists are getting on my last nerve. Please, someone explain to me how Hedges can end a work that ravages every aspect of war and conflict with, "But love, in its mystery, has its own power. It alone gives us meaning that endures. It alone allows us to embrace and cherish life. Love has power both to resist in our nature what we know what we must resist, and to affirm what we know we must affirm. And love, as the poets remind us, is eternal."
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Yeah, we need hope, blah blah blah and a reason to fight and live, but really? I mean...really?
Did I pick up Shakespeare by accident or is this really the man who has trampeled all parts of the earth to cover death by the masses? I'm pretty sure, also, that you, Dayna, adore this man. He is everything you stand for and maybe this is why you are better cut out for this profession than I am. I, however, did not manage to see love in Pristina where an entire culture has been massacared, or in Belgrade where hatred still rules minute ethnic differences, or did not feel it in the abandoned, posh streets of downtown Beirut where only soldiers care to venture anymore. And I most certainly do not expect to feel it tomorrow when I wait twelve hours under the sun to enter a territory with hundreds of others who this land belongs to, but are handpicked to enter after hours of pain and embarassment.
OK, so this man knows more than I do and has seen more of the world, history, culture than I have, but I doubt the end/reason to conflict is so simple. Also, I am not that much of a cynic that I expected him to write that we, as a humanity, are doomed. But this?
But I digress, I'm moving. Sorry for the last few days' hibernation, but I will get back to you soon and will write once I reach my destination.
Expats: Mean Girls Re-Created?
August 29, 2007
Amman, Jordan
Hello, All --
There are many things to address: 1) No, I am not dead, just trying to find my niche in the Middle East (which is unsurprisingly difficult); 2) Yes, I am in the Middle East, but alas, there are not too many camels (I think there were more in India, actually); 3) Jordan is unlike any other country around these parts, so, stop worrying (except for the fact that I am trying to weasel a trip to Iraq out of the company).
-----
Now, the subject of this week's email: Expats.
Although this is my fourth home in a year, I relatively tuned out the internationals elsewhere. Partly because, well, in Ankara, I think I was the only foreigner resigned to living there; in Budapest, we had a tight group of friends and didn't need to look further; and as for India, let's just say that I was longing for the days where my parents told me I had to be home by 8 p.m. Here, though, the international community is a bit like high school -- it's important to be seen with certain people as well as to ignore others, it matters where you go out, where you eat, and there will always be gossip. Loads and loads of gossip, no matter the type of people you hang out with. It reminds me a bit of Mean Girls. When I first arrived, my three of-the-simple-lifestyle-roommates took me under their wing and showed me around for the first three weeks. After that, i was on my own. During their time here, they told me who to stay away from, who they thought was snobby, and the cheap hideouts in the city. As much as I love the budget lifestyle of two falafels a day, I was not necessarily looking to re-create the Simple Life in Amman. What I also did not appreciate was why they could not say why they didn't like certain people in the city, besides the fact they spent money. So, you judge them for not even having money, but for leading a different lifestyle than you? I readily admit that I do not like flaunting money that one cannot spend in their home country, but can easily throw around in the Middle East, but really, to each his own. Besides, just because certain people spend money does not make them bad human beings Then there are the people who go out to ridiculously designed clubs with crystal chandeliers and have gym memberships that cost more than the average car. I don't know if it is because they can afford this lifestyle, or if it is because this is what they are used to at home. I wonder if they began life as normal but began to feel alienated from the life in Jordan as time went on, and then created their own worlds. Sometimes, when I go out to coffee or go out on the town with certain friends, I wonder if they realize where they are. Do they realize the importance and unique quality of this place? Do they understand the fragile nature of this country and its people? Do they know that there is trouble brewing silently amongst the Iraqis, the government, and the Palestinians?
The Middle East is a tough place to be, I admit it. There are rules, mostly unspoken, there are judgements, there are expectations, but which is the right way? Simpleton or Diva? Both are equally ludicrous and shallow, it seems to me. The former defines a lifestyle, in my opinion, as one feels it should be in this region, while the latter takes advantage of the country and its surroundings. Certainly, this dilemma pops up everywhere, but it seems especially highlighted inside a country in a region where the East and West cannot meet, let alone blend. It's tough.
Sometimes, when I need time to think, I take a quick walk down to Al Sweifiyeh, and watch the rich Iraqis, Saudis, and Jordanians traipse by Mango and Starbucks. I blend in easily, but I have to laugh at the teenager in the board shorts with his popped-collar polo. Am I really in Jordan? I try to walk in downtown to take a look at the mosque, the vegetables, and the markets, but it's difficult. No matter how conservative my dress, no matter how Arab I look, it's an uncomfortable stroll through the "real" Amman. I wonder if this is what happened to the others; did they give up after a while? The difference between them and me, though, is that I refuse to give up. I don't travel the world to sit with the other Westerners in an Irish pub in the most expensive neighborhood to complain about people looking at my ankles. It happens, though, and it is nice, I readily admit, to have sympathetic conversations.
Maybe it is all a part of the "real" experience?
I'd like to think that I am somewhere in between, but it seems that I am lone in my quest to find that equilibrium. In between my lunch at the Four Seasons and night out drinking Argille in a rundown building, I'll let you know.
Amman, Jordan
Hello, All --
There are many things to address: 1) No, I am not dead, just trying to find my niche in the Middle East (which is unsurprisingly difficult); 2) Yes, I am in the Middle East, but alas, there are not too many camels (I think there were more in India, actually); 3) Jordan is unlike any other country around these parts, so, stop worrying (except for the fact that I am trying to weasel a trip to Iraq out of the company).
-----
Now, the subject of this week's email: Expats.
Although this is my fourth home in a year, I relatively tuned out the internationals elsewhere. Partly because, well, in Ankara, I think I was the only foreigner resigned to living there; in Budapest, we had a tight group of friends and didn't need to look further; and as for India, let's just say that I was longing for the days where my parents told me I had to be home by 8 p.m. Here, though, the international community is a bit like high school -- it's important to be seen with certain people as well as to ignore others, it matters where you go out, where you eat, and there will always be gossip. Loads and loads of gossip, no matter the type of people you hang out with. It reminds me a bit of Mean Girls. When I first arrived, my three of-the-simple-lifestyle-roommates took me under their wing and showed me around for the first three weeks. After that, i was on my own. During their time here, they told me who to stay away from, who they thought was snobby, and the cheap hideouts in the city. As much as I love the budget lifestyle of two falafels a day, I was not necessarily looking to re-create the Simple Life in Amman. What I also did not appreciate was why they could not say why they didn't like certain people in the city, besides the fact they spent money. So, you judge them for not even having money, but for leading a different lifestyle than you? I readily admit that I do not like flaunting money that one cannot spend in their home country, but can easily throw around in the Middle East, but really, to each his own. Besides, just because certain people spend money does not make them bad human beings Then there are the people who go out to ridiculously designed clubs with crystal chandeliers and have gym memberships that cost more than the average car. I don't know if it is because they can afford this lifestyle, or if it is because this is what they are used to at home. I wonder if they began life as normal but began to feel alienated from the life in Jordan as time went on, and then created their own worlds. Sometimes, when I go out to coffee or go out on the town with certain friends, I wonder if they realize where they are. Do they realize the importance and unique quality of this place? Do they understand the fragile nature of this country and its people? Do they know that there is trouble brewing silently amongst the Iraqis, the government, and the Palestinians?
The Middle East is a tough place to be, I admit it. There are rules, mostly unspoken, there are judgements, there are expectations, but which is the right way? Simpleton or Diva? Both are equally ludicrous and shallow, it seems to me. The former defines a lifestyle, in my opinion, as one feels it should be in this region, while the latter takes advantage of the country and its surroundings. Certainly, this dilemma pops up everywhere, but it seems especially highlighted inside a country in a region where the East and West cannot meet, let alone blend. It's tough.
Sometimes, when I need time to think, I take a quick walk down to Al Sweifiyeh, and watch the rich Iraqis, Saudis, and Jordanians traipse by Mango and Starbucks. I blend in easily, but I have to laugh at the teenager in the board shorts with his popped-collar polo. Am I really in Jordan? I try to walk in downtown to take a look at the mosque, the vegetables, and the markets, but it's difficult. No matter how conservative my dress, no matter how Arab I look, it's an uncomfortable stroll through the "real" Amman. I wonder if this is what happened to the others; did they give up after a while? The difference between them and me, though, is that I refuse to give up. I don't travel the world to sit with the other Westerners in an Irish pub in the most expensive neighborhood to complain about people looking at my ankles. It happens, though, and it is nice, I readily admit, to have sympathetic conversations.
Maybe it is all a part of the "real" experience?
I'd like to think that I am somewhere in between, but it seems that I am lone in my quest to find that equilibrium. In between my lunch at the Four Seasons and night out drinking Argille in a rundown building, I'll let you know.
The World is Flat
August 9, 2007
Amman, Jordan
Gamze, Meril, and Elif met me at the Istanbul airport for some ciggies and Starbucks, after my last dinner with Noyan. We laughed, they interviewed me, we took pictures, and after a minor emergency, I was on my way through the passport check.
This time, unlike eight months ago, I didn't feel one ounce of sadness; it was different this time. My favorite Café's owners still remember me, the little shop outside of my metro stop welcomed me back, and for two weeks I felt completely peaceful. I feel like I finished what I needed to rid myself of, and at the same time, realized that I have found an incredible second home.
I am thinking of Dayna and desperately trying not to romanticize Turkey just as she (quite poetically, and, therefore, unsuccessfully) tries not to romanticize Robert.
Benan, Aydin, and some of her other friends had spent my last night in Ankara at Benan's flat, so we didn't sleep much and had to catch our respective buses by 8 a.m. By the time of my flight I was completely exhausted (especially after those strenuous 6 hours of lounging over the Bosphorus), and could barely wake myself up to get off the plane in Amman. Partly, I don't feel nervous anymore; nothing feels more standard than packing up and shipping off to another country.
Also, I've found incredible warmth in humanity that, a bit dangerously, lets me put my fate entirely in its hands. As soon as I walked toward passport control at 2 a.m., they security ushered me past everyone since I was alone and in a matter of minutes, I was outside customs waiting for the mysterious person who was going to pick me up. After a minute or two of unsuccessful searching, I stood uncomfortable to the side and every single hired driver waiting for their respective client tried to help me. "Do you have a phone number?" "Can we drop you somewhere?" Never once did it feel uncomfortable or wrong. As I was debating forty minutes later on what my next step should be, I caught sight of a rumpled guy, around my age, and definitely not Jordanian, who was carrying an equally crumpled sign with my name scrawled lazily. Unfortunately, he was holding it at his said and walking around as if he was there to socialize and not find me.
As soon as I caugh a hold of him, and said, "Hi, I think you're looking for me," he screamed, "Thank God I found you!" and enveloped me into a hug. Ew. Seriously, people. I think the sign above my head that says DO NOT TOUCH is pretty obvious. "You've been drinking.""Yeah! Sorry, did you wait long? I convinced the security to let me in to duty free so I could buy some alcohol.""But that's illegal…""
I just kept talking and waving my passport around and finally they got tired of me."
After some unnecessary drunken bickering over fixed taxi pices, he ushered me home where I met the other two flatmates (The more responsible ones who had forced the irresponsible one to pick me up, ahem!).
Yet, I love all three of them; unfortunately, one left Monday, one will leave next week, and the other in two weeks. After that, I will move in to a flat closer to downtown with some other workmates because this one is too nice for any standard of living.
Two living rooms, two balconies, three and a half bedrooms, three bathrooms, and the list could go on forever. We are surrounded by all sides by BMWs, rich Iraqis, and Sri Lankan house maids. It's all too much, and I would just like to feel like I am a part of Jordan, not a foreign spectator disengaging herself so soon from the truth. It's really not that different from any place else. There are rich parts, poor parts, and a few refugee camps. The rich parts of the city look as if they belong in Paris or Santa Monica, while the less than accommodating areas feel like home from any region or city in the world. It's strange; I feel alienated and uncomfortable by the short skirts and sports cars in Abdoun and Sweifiyah. But is that wrong to say? As if I am being too Western and expecting Amman not to be like this? I don't know.
As for work, I am moving up quickly they want me to join the permanent staff. However, I have only been here a week, so we will see how this progresses. I think they see the impatience and stubborn passion in me, and really, I think one year of this kind of resettling and working is the perfect precursor for a job in Amman. Although it's only been a little more than a week since I've arrived, I feel completely at home. It feels like it's already been an eternity; and I am closer to most people than they are with each other. When one of the Danish guys left on Monday, they wanted him to choose a girl so that they could do a Jordanian dance. I sat back comfortably with my eyes closed and listened to the music; no way would he pick me. He had been working for six months with these dozen women. Yet, I hear, "Khushbu?" and I think – Oh, Crap. We had gone for nargile and music the past weekend and I knew I couldn't do anything near that kind of dancing yet.
Yet, it feels nice to blend in and feel a part of things so easily (besides, he's a Casanova – yeah, me-- and I know half the girls were staring daggers into my head to will me to trip and hurt myself –again). This frightens me (not the girls). I think I have mastered the skill of making friends quickly and passionately, but does that make me a smooth politician? I haven't decided if I like these new developments.
……..
Amman's a calm city; some would say boring, but I hate when people label places like that. I want to discover it for myself by walking through the rough streets, the palm trees, the hills covered with beautiful white homes, and humanity. I might lose everything by gambling all of my faith in humanity, but a this point I am ready to take that risk. Everyday it seems less and less like I need to save the world, but really, that the world, in fact, might save me
Amman, Jordan
Gamze, Meril, and Elif met me at the Istanbul airport for some ciggies and Starbucks, after my last dinner with Noyan. We laughed, they interviewed me, we took pictures, and after a minor emergency, I was on my way through the passport check.
This time, unlike eight months ago, I didn't feel one ounce of sadness; it was different this time. My favorite Café's owners still remember me, the little shop outside of my metro stop welcomed me back, and for two weeks I felt completely peaceful. I feel like I finished what I needed to rid myself of, and at the same time, realized that I have found an incredible second home.
I am thinking of Dayna and desperately trying not to romanticize Turkey just as she (quite poetically, and, therefore, unsuccessfully) tries not to romanticize Robert.
Benan, Aydin, and some of her other friends had spent my last night in Ankara at Benan's flat, so we didn't sleep much and had to catch our respective buses by 8 a.m. By the time of my flight I was completely exhausted (especially after those strenuous 6 hours of lounging over the Bosphorus), and could barely wake myself up to get off the plane in Amman. Partly, I don't feel nervous anymore; nothing feels more standard than packing up and shipping off to another country.
Also, I've found incredible warmth in humanity that, a bit dangerously, lets me put my fate entirely in its hands. As soon as I walked toward passport control at 2 a.m., they security ushered me past everyone since I was alone and in a matter of minutes, I was outside customs waiting for the mysterious person who was going to pick me up. After a minute or two of unsuccessful searching, I stood uncomfortable to the side and every single hired driver waiting for their respective client tried to help me. "Do you have a phone number?" "Can we drop you somewhere?" Never once did it feel uncomfortable or wrong. As I was debating forty minutes later on what my next step should be, I caught sight of a rumpled guy, around my age, and definitely not Jordanian, who was carrying an equally crumpled sign with my name scrawled lazily. Unfortunately, he was holding it at his said and walking around as if he was there to socialize and not find me.
As soon as I caugh a hold of him, and said, "Hi, I think you're looking for me," he screamed, "Thank God I found you!" and enveloped me into a hug. Ew. Seriously, people. I think the sign above my head that says DO NOT TOUCH is pretty obvious. "You've been drinking.""Yeah! Sorry, did you wait long? I convinced the security to let me in to duty free so I could buy some alcohol.""But that's illegal…""
I just kept talking and waving my passport around and finally they got tired of me."
After some unnecessary drunken bickering over fixed taxi pices, he ushered me home where I met the other two flatmates (The more responsible ones who had forced the irresponsible one to pick me up, ahem!).
Yet, I love all three of them; unfortunately, one left Monday, one will leave next week, and the other in two weeks. After that, I will move in to a flat closer to downtown with some other workmates because this one is too nice for any standard of living.
Two living rooms, two balconies, three and a half bedrooms, three bathrooms, and the list could go on forever. We are surrounded by all sides by BMWs, rich Iraqis, and Sri Lankan house maids. It's all too much, and I would just like to feel like I am a part of Jordan, not a foreign spectator disengaging herself so soon from the truth. It's really not that different from any place else. There are rich parts, poor parts, and a few refugee camps. The rich parts of the city look as if they belong in Paris or Santa Monica, while the less than accommodating areas feel like home from any region or city in the world. It's strange; I feel alienated and uncomfortable by the short skirts and sports cars in Abdoun and Sweifiyah. But is that wrong to say? As if I am being too Western and expecting Amman not to be like this? I don't know.
As for work, I am moving up quickly they want me to join the permanent staff. However, I have only been here a week, so we will see how this progresses. I think they see the impatience and stubborn passion in me, and really, I think one year of this kind of resettling and working is the perfect precursor for a job in Amman. Although it's only been a little more than a week since I've arrived, I feel completely at home. It feels like it's already been an eternity; and I am closer to most people than they are with each other. When one of the Danish guys left on Monday, they wanted him to choose a girl so that they could do a Jordanian dance. I sat back comfortably with my eyes closed and listened to the music; no way would he pick me. He had been working for six months with these dozen women. Yet, I hear, "Khushbu?" and I think – Oh, Crap. We had gone for nargile and music the past weekend and I knew I couldn't do anything near that kind of dancing yet.
Yet, it feels nice to blend in and feel a part of things so easily (besides, he's a Casanova – yeah, me-- and I know half the girls were staring daggers into my head to will me to trip and hurt myself –again). This frightens me (not the girls). I think I have mastered the skill of making friends quickly and passionately, but does that make me a smooth politician? I haven't decided if I like these new developments.
……..
Amman's a calm city; some would say boring, but I hate when people label places like that. I want to discover it for myself by walking through the rough streets, the palm trees, the hills covered with beautiful white homes, and humanity. I might lose everything by gambling all of my faith in humanity, but a this point I am ready to take that risk. Everyday it seems less and less like I need to save the world, but really, that the world, in fact, might save me
Familiar Stranger
Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India
May 20, 2007
WARNING: It's A LOOOONG ONE
Ironically, yet in the most advantageous way, Gujarat has become my toughest destination. From my last email, I am sure you have gathered as much. However, I'd like to offer a little bit more insight into these using, and delve a bit more into what it is that I find so taxing, rather than stick to the age old, "Geeze, but they're so backwards here!"
--- Do you ever find that the more "open-minded" and "liberal" that you become, the more judgemental you really are? Somehow, it is extremely simple to see it in others, like my brilliant friend who went to a small private college on the East Coast and who would let slip things like, "being lazy is a part of their culture." Or the free spirit who almost made me vomit in a fit of rage after she mentioned that her thoughts on those that wear headscarves in Turkey. Arrogantly, and so easily it seems, I thought I had exempted myself from such musings and lapse of superior behavior.
Oh, how wrong I am.
India -- my land, my culture, my people -- and yet, at the same time, I have never felt more distant from people. Let me say right now that it is a completely unique experience for those non-Indian foreigners; no parallel exists, really. In the same way that I am treated as a stranger, a complete goof of my traditions and values, I am somehow expected to maintain a cultural and social parallel. You, on the other hand, are just a foreigner. Plain and simple. At the same time though, when I don't feel like a competed wretched and like a failure, I am allowed insight into what it feels like to be a part of this sprawling territory, and it really does feel like I am able to find some inkling of family and compassion no matter which corner of this sub-continent that I travel.
A few weeks ago, I laid into my aunt about her subservient nature and the fact that she calls my uncle "saahib" (boss). We went back and forth for a few minutes until she held up her hand and said in one those wise manners that I really can't emulate, "Beta, to you, this seems like a terrible way to lead life, but to us, this is the only and correct way to live life. I am happy." Shoot, did I miss something? It wasn't until later, when we were driving back from one event or another, as I watched couples parked by the expressway in secret, veiled by the smog and the night, that I have become one judgemental son of a --well, you get the picture.
So this is their way of coping with what is handed to them. At that moment, I felt like such a Western snob, and so guilty. Yet, I can't help but feel resentful as I watch my friends order around a boy barely older than themselves to clean up a mess, as they have spilled some sauce on the table. Or as I watch my cousin's son stubbornly scream and yell in selfish fits of anger, while a boy that is probably his age comes in through the back door to help his mother wash and dry the dishes that we have just used in the evening. There are so many moments that I try no to judge, so many, but I can't help it.
--- My Mom's brother's best friends are all in Nadiad and Ahmedabad this week for one of their best friend's son's wedding. While my uncle isn't here, and I have never met most of them, and the few that i have I haven't seen since I was about two, they invited me to the five day fiesta. I really don't feel comfortable going to a wedding surrounded by 500 people for five days where I don't know a single person, but one of the uncles cajoled me with the bribe of a few cocktails and the huge party.
OK, well, at least the alcohol will numb the experience. From the moment that we arrived on D. Mama's (uncle's BFF # 1) farm -- which is really just a huge plot of land filled with palm trees, willow trees, and a huge cascading waterfall -- I knew I was in over my head. All of his best friends are like the Paris Hilton's of Gujarat. As we drove up along the stream, a 20 foot hookah stand welcomed us onto the farm and every thing else was covered in black and red. They had brought in Russian, Ukrainian, and Middle Eastern dancers from all over the world, the best DJ from Mumbai, and a trio of bartenders (believe me, this has a moral, I promise). Hemali Auntie (Wife of BFF # 2, R. Mama) and I went back to D. Mama's house to get ready before the huge cocktail party that night, and she told me to keep an eye out for the guys, and to have fun. Just relax and have fun. I really shouldn't have taken that too literally.
While there were 300 people at the part that night, hardly any of the women (openly) drank. Hemali Auntie told me it was OK; in fact, she brought me back my first martini (one of many, let me add) because I was refusing to make a fool of myself. In retrospect, I shouldn't have bothered because fate had already made me a fool. You see, three guys had come to drop us off at D. Mama's house, one being the groom (K. Uncle's nephew, BFF # 3), and his best friend decided that because I had smiled at him (to say thank you for dropping us off), he was in love. Fat chance. Also, to make it worse, no one thought I was Indian. R. Mama kept being asked why he kept speaking to one of the Russian dancers; turns out, they were talking about me. The bride thought I was Egyptian. Just because I am American, all the guys pretty much thought I was a slut, and kept coming up in cycles to talk to me, to see if they could "break me." The next day, one of them told me that he had heard I was married; barely 24 hours into Nadiad and the gossip is flying. I spent four days avoiding eye contact with any of the guys because I knew one wrong move would mean marriage proposals. I'll draw a veil over some of the more embarrassing parts, but let's just say I failed to manage that.
Also, the next day Kam. Uncle (BFF # 4) sat me down and decided to lecture me about my "bad American habits" and my "ridiculous future." Ironically, as I mulled over how I was going to let the stinker have it, I counted to ten in my head, and reminded myself to be the good submissive Indian girl that I was supposed to portray. Apparently, Mr. Boozer and smoker did not like my drinking from a few nights before and the fact that I have this "obsessions" with the Middle East.
When I told Mom, she just laughed and explained how they all thought of me as a daughter, and it was only natural they don't want me going off to Jordan and Pakistan. As much as I complain about the constant nagging and nosy people, I have never felt so welcome within just four days. By the night of the reception, Keval Uncle and I were swapping stories, he told me to wait to have dinner with the bridal party, and all the uncle's and I were best friends.
By the end of four days, people were asking me where my Mom and Dad were. it took me a few times to realize they mean Rajiv Mama and Hemali Auntie (they have no kids, but man, would they be good at being parents). Even all their daughters were amazingly friendly and I never felt like I was a stranger. That's the thing about Indian culture. Once you're there, you're family. As tense as I was with all the guys circling like hawks around a dead body, the sense of family made up for it by a long shot. At the reception table, while I sat empty-handed because I had eaten already with some of the girls, Sunny and Sonu (Keval Uncle's kids) kept asking the waiter to send over some juice for me so by the end of dinner, there were fifteen cups placed in front of me. They thought they were hilarious. All the drunk uncle's would come around and shove sweets down the girls' throats and when I refused, they would yell, "Beta, you're our daughter, no way. Open up!"
And when the pan guy came around to offer post-dinner aperitifs and ghazals (a short poem for each lady), R. Mama shooed them away from me by saying, "No, no, don't embarrass my daughter."
At the same time, Datten (D. Mama's 16 year-old son) and i grew close in four days. It was great having an annoying little brother around, who was also watching out for me. After he had heard about the incidents of the cocktail party, he followed me around for three days whispering, "Khushbu, that guy is looking at you for way too long. Want me to beat him up?" or "Ooooh, is that the guy that told you you should dance professionally? He's ugly." Just like family.
What frustrated me the most was how everyone kept telling me how straight,simple, and pure their kids were. Ha, please, oh, please. While they are saying this, their kids are texting and secretly calling their secret significant others of four or five years, and only tell their parents when it is marrying age/when they get caught.Straight as jalaibees, more like it. Really, it seems to me that their kids and I are the same; there is no difference but they want to see a difference. All those Hrithik Roshan wannabes with their too-tight pants and Dolce and Gabana cell phones trying to hit on the new girl in secret. Puhhh-leaase. It's hard to explain; as much as I am bothered by the nonchalance that people treat others below them with, I can hardly complain. I didn't want to be the annoying superior American when the girls were laughing at the men who were offering the pan, because really, they are doing a job. Who cares how they make their money. I sighed with relief when one of the girls finally spoke up and said, "We shouldn't laugh at them. At least they are not begging for money; Who cares how they make it?" She was my saving grace.
---
It takes a lot of patience to be here because I don't know whether I feel like an outsider or one of them. Luckily for me, I have two more months. The only downside is that everyone wants me to "meet" their sons. I've warned them, and I am ready to play it rough. Actually, I already have, and it's been quite fun. For those of you that have been to India and think that it is no so, and that I am exaggerating, Gujarat is different. Believe me. It's stuck, it really is. I tell my uncle all the time that no matter how technologically advanced or monetarily stable India becomes, without an advancement in social norms, India is going to be it's own vice. They watch people being beaten by their peers on TV for stealing (good thing we believe in justice, I guess?) and the police never arrive. So while the person is bleeding to death, some fifty people have made it their own business to teach that person a lesson. What good is it? it all seems like a vicious cycle. And there I go again, the judgemental outsider. Don't worry, I'll learn.
May 20, 2007
WARNING: It's A LOOOONG ONE
Ironically, yet in the most advantageous way, Gujarat has become my toughest destination. From my last email, I am sure you have gathered as much. However, I'd like to offer a little bit more insight into these using, and delve a bit more into what it is that I find so taxing, rather than stick to the age old, "Geeze, but they're so backwards here!"
--- Do you ever find that the more "open-minded" and "liberal" that you become, the more judgemental you really are? Somehow, it is extremely simple to see it in others, like my brilliant friend who went to a small private college on the East Coast and who would let slip things like, "being lazy is a part of their culture." Or the free spirit who almost made me vomit in a fit of rage after she mentioned that her thoughts on those that wear headscarves in Turkey. Arrogantly, and so easily it seems, I thought I had exempted myself from such musings and lapse of superior behavior.
Oh, how wrong I am.
India -- my land, my culture, my people -- and yet, at the same time, I have never felt more distant from people. Let me say right now that it is a completely unique experience for those non-Indian foreigners; no parallel exists, really. In the same way that I am treated as a stranger, a complete goof of my traditions and values, I am somehow expected to maintain a cultural and social parallel. You, on the other hand, are just a foreigner. Plain and simple. At the same time though, when I don't feel like a competed wretched and like a failure, I am allowed insight into what it feels like to be a part of this sprawling territory, and it really does feel like I am able to find some inkling of family and compassion no matter which corner of this sub-continent that I travel.
A few weeks ago, I laid into my aunt about her subservient nature and the fact that she calls my uncle "saahib" (boss). We went back and forth for a few minutes until she held up her hand and said in one those wise manners that I really can't emulate, "Beta, to you, this seems like a terrible way to lead life, but to us, this is the only and correct way to live life. I am happy." Shoot, did I miss something? It wasn't until later, when we were driving back from one event or another, as I watched couples parked by the expressway in secret, veiled by the smog and the night, that I have become one judgemental son of a --well, you get the picture.
So this is their way of coping with what is handed to them. At that moment, I felt like such a Western snob, and so guilty. Yet, I can't help but feel resentful as I watch my friends order around a boy barely older than themselves to clean up a mess, as they have spilled some sauce on the table. Or as I watch my cousin's son stubbornly scream and yell in selfish fits of anger, while a boy that is probably his age comes in through the back door to help his mother wash and dry the dishes that we have just used in the evening. There are so many moments that I try no to judge, so many, but I can't help it.
--- My Mom's brother's best friends are all in Nadiad and Ahmedabad this week for one of their best friend's son's wedding. While my uncle isn't here, and I have never met most of them, and the few that i have I haven't seen since I was about two, they invited me to the five day fiesta. I really don't feel comfortable going to a wedding surrounded by 500 people for five days where I don't know a single person, but one of the uncles cajoled me with the bribe of a few cocktails and the huge party.
OK, well, at least the alcohol will numb the experience. From the moment that we arrived on D. Mama's (uncle's BFF # 1) farm -- which is really just a huge plot of land filled with palm trees, willow trees, and a huge cascading waterfall -- I knew I was in over my head. All of his best friends are like the Paris Hilton's of Gujarat. As we drove up along the stream, a 20 foot hookah stand welcomed us onto the farm and every thing else was covered in black and red. They had brought in Russian, Ukrainian, and Middle Eastern dancers from all over the world, the best DJ from Mumbai, and a trio of bartenders (believe me, this has a moral, I promise). Hemali Auntie (Wife of BFF # 2, R. Mama) and I went back to D. Mama's house to get ready before the huge cocktail party that night, and she told me to keep an eye out for the guys, and to have fun. Just relax and have fun. I really shouldn't have taken that too literally.
While there were 300 people at the part that night, hardly any of the women (openly) drank. Hemali Auntie told me it was OK; in fact, she brought me back my first martini (one of many, let me add) because I was refusing to make a fool of myself. In retrospect, I shouldn't have bothered because fate had already made me a fool. You see, three guys had come to drop us off at D. Mama's house, one being the groom (K. Uncle's nephew, BFF # 3), and his best friend decided that because I had smiled at him (to say thank you for dropping us off), he was in love. Fat chance. Also, to make it worse, no one thought I was Indian. R. Mama kept being asked why he kept speaking to one of the Russian dancers; turns out, they were talking about me. The bride thought I was Egyptian. Just because I am American, all the guys pretty much thought I was a slut, and kept coming up in cycles to talk to me, to see if they could "break me." The next day, one of them told me that he had heard I was married; barely 24 hours into Nadiad and the gossip is flying. I spent four days avoiding eye contact with any of the guys because I knew one wrong move would mean marriage proposals. I'll draw a veil over some of the more embarrassing parts, but let's just say I failed to manage that.
Also, the next day Kam. Uncle (BFF # 4) sat me down and decided to lecture me about my "bad American habits" and my "ridiculous future." Ironically, as I mulled over how I was going to let the stinker have it, I counted to ten in my head, and reminded myself to be the good submissive Indian girl that I was supposed to portray. Apparently, Mr. Boozer and smoker did not like my drinking from a few nights before and the fact that I have this "obsessions" with the Middle East.
When I told Mom, she just laughed and explained how they all thought of me as a daughter, and it was only natural they don't want me going off to Jordan and Pakistan. As much as I complain about the constant nagging and nosy people, I have never felt so welcome within just four days. By the night of the reception, Keval Uncle and I were swapping stories, he told me to wait to have dinner with the bridal party, and all the uncle's and I were best friends.
By the end of four days, people were asking me where my Mom and Dad were. it took me a few times to realize they mean Rajiv Mama and Hemali Auntie (they have no kids, but man, would they be good at being parents). Even all their daughters were amazingly friendly and I never felt like I was a stranger. That's the thing about Indian culture. Once you're there, you're family. As tense as I was with all the guys circling like hawks around a dead body, the sense of family made up for it by a long shot. At the reception table, while I sat empty-handed because I had eaten already with some of the girls, Sunny and Sonu (Keval Uncle's kids) kept asking the waiter to send over some juice for me so by the end of dinner, there were fifteen cups placed in front of me. They thought they were hilarious. All the drunk uncle's would come around and shove sweets down the girls' throats and when I refused, they would yell, "Beta, you're our daughter, no way. Open up!"
And when the pan guy came around to offer post-dinner aperitifs and ghazals (a short poem for each lady), R. Mama shooed them away from me by saying, "No, no, don't embarrass my daughter."
At the same time, Datten (D. Mama's 16 year-old son) and i grew close in four days. It was great having an annoying little brother around, who was also watching out for me. After he had heard about the incidents of the cocktail party, he followed me around for three days whispering, "Khushbu, that guy is looking at you for way too long. Want me to beat him up?" or "Ooooh, is that the guy that told you you should dance professionally? He's ugly." Just like family.
What frustrated me the most was how everyone kept telling me how straight,simple, and pure their kids were. Ha, please, oh, please. While they are saying this, their kids are texting and secretly calling their secret significant others of four or five years, and only tell their parents when it is marrying age/when they get caught.Straight as jalaibees, more like it. Really, it seems to me that their kids and I are the same; there is no difference but they want to see a difference. All those Hrithik Roshan wannabes with their too-tight pants and Dolce and Gabana cell phones trying to hit on the new girl in secret. Puhhh-leaase. It's hard to explain; as much as I am bothered by the nonchalance that people treat others below them with, I can hardly complain. I didn't want to be the annoying superior American when the girls were laughing at the men who were offering the pan, because really, they are doing a job. Who cares how they make their money. I sighed with relief when one of the girls finally spoke up and said, "We shouldn't laugh at them. At least they are not begging for money; Who cares how they make it?" She was my saving grace.
---
It takes a lot of patience to be here because I don't know whether I feel like an outsider or one of them. Luckily for me, I have two more months. The only downside is that everyone wants me to "meet" their sons. I've warned them, and I am ready to play it rough. Actually, I already have, and it's been quite fun. For those of you that have been to India and think that it is no so, and that I am exaggerating, Gujarat is different. Believe me. It's stuck, it really is. I tell my uncle all the time that no matter how technologically advanced or monetarily stable India becomes, without an advancement in social norms, India is going to be it's own vice. They watch people being beaten by their peers on TV for stealing (good thing we believe in justice, I guess?) and the police never arrive. So while the person is bleeding to death, some fifty people have made it their own business to teach that person a lesson. What good is it? it all seems like a vicious cycle. And there I go again, the judgemental outsider. Don't worry, I'll learn.
The Times of India SUCKS
Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India
April 27, 2007
Hello All
It's not as crowded or dirty as I remembered it to be, but it certainly is ridiculously hot.
This is the first alone time I've had in two weeks, so I thought I would write a bit down. However, I am not in the best of moods for a variety of reasons.
Here's the breakdown:
Times of India
After pulling a lot of strings, working through a lot of connections, and putting on my best " I-love-India-even-though-you-think-I'm-a-complete-Americanized-moron" smile, I got the job with TOI. I quit the next day. Yeah, quit. Long story short, I didn't appreciate getting jumbled 1,000 word lumps (sentences, paragraphs, and pages are not the right words to describe the crap people sent in) and turning them into 300 word articles so that some idiot could get credit for the article. No, thank you. Also, I sat at my desk for an hour, twiddling my thumbs before the guy working with me looked at me and offered me some work. It was the last time he looked at me for 7 hours. Did I mention that the job was from 3 p.m. to 10 p.m.? When I asked the editor if I could do this part time because I am taking Hindi classes and going to the orphanage a few times in the evening, he looked at me like I was insane, and then said, " We all work six days a week or don't work here at all. You make the decision." Fine. I know you think that you are some amazing personality because of your sensationalized-good-for-nothing-let's-focus-on-the-Bacchan-wedding-for-a-solid-week newspaper, but NO, THANK YOU. At 10, when I left, after staring at the computer screen blankly for six hours, I told them I wouldn't be coming back.
Surprisingly, my parents and my relative, who had spent the last few days in constant nepotism limbo, were unbelievably supportive.
My parents had warned me about the way some businesses ran in India, but of course, I am incredibly naive. When my Aunt and I went to the TOI office for an interview, they kept us waiting for two hours so that they looked incredibly important and busy. This probably would have gone on for a while if my Aunt hadn't gone to yell at the security officer, and then we were promptly let in.
Also, it just wasn't my kind of office ambiance. No one besides the editor and the guy he had me working for, said anything to me all day. Not that they didn't stare or glare, but nothing. To them, I'm just some privileged American looking a way to kill some time. Listen, people, if I were so privileged, spoiled, or stupid, I would have kept the newspaper job just so I could have put it on my CV instead of trying to learn a little more about my background.
Phew, that felt good.
Culture
I can't get over how every single thing is out in the open, and how your family breathes down your neck every single second of the day. On my first (and last) day at the job, my aunt called me four times to make sure I was doing OK. It's difficult for someone like me who is so used to my independence that I think I've become a bit selfish with my time and responsibilities. At the same time, though, I love the sense of family. That was another reason I don't take the job. I would never get to see my family, and hang out with them during the weekends if I had stayed with the Times. Now that I think about it, I would have done the job if it hadn't been in India. It's just that I want a little bit more out of this country than that extra addition to my CV. I love how everyone here is your family. No matter what. The "uncle" that got me my job is a friend of my Mom's brother and I've never met him before.
But he's family, you know?
I'm a little apprehensive about sticking around here for so long because I keep getting phone calls from "aunties" about their sons. I've even had a few drop ins, and let me tell you, I don't think they'll be coming back. The first day that I got to India, my Kaka, Kaki, and I went to the Temple and on our way out to the car, as I was walking with my Kaka (my uncle), someone whistled at us all the way down to the Temple. While I am with my uncle. In front of a temple, for the love of Krishna. I know anyone who has ever visited India knows it can be much worse (I slapped someone while I was waiting for my aunt to pick me up after I got off the bus from Mehsana to Ahmedabad). I've just learned to find my voice. Yes, that's what I'm glad I've found. My voice. I would have never been able to quit such a place before or stand up for myself in a sea of a billion (literally) strangers.
I love cricket. Love, love, love it. I just wish Harbhajan Singh wasn't going to Bangladesh; I miss him.
I can't wait for the finals on Saturday, and this WC has been amazing. I just wish India had gotten a bit farther.
Even Ireland got farther than them (at least they were shut down at 77 runs...that was such a pathetic game). As you can see, my biggest vice has returned.
No one comes between me and my cricket. No one.
I think the rest of India feels the same way, too.
Hey, at least I immerse myself, right?
Anne Moyer
Where in GOD'S NAME are you.
That is all.
El Fin
OK, my lovelies, I know that this is a shitty update, but I just haven't been in the mood. There are lots of stories, mostly nasty ones that end up with me hitting someone or me sweating like a pig every where I go in this 43 degree weather. The good news is that I am going to Kashmir in a few weeks. That is my only saving grace at this moment in time. Now, as I leave you, I am looking for a new way to spend my time. I am thinking of going to Mumbai and trying to be the new Kajol. Wish me luck. Lots of Love, Khushbu P.S. Remind me to tell you how ridiculous it is for India to put out an arrest warrant for Richard Gere after he kissed Shilpa Shetty on the cheek. How is this country going to grow when it pulls stuff like this?
April 27, 2007
Hello All
It's not as crowded or dirty as I remembered it to be, but it certainly is ridiculously hot.
This is the first alone time I've had in two weeks, so I thought I would write a bit down. However, I am not in the best of moods for a variety of reasons.
Here's the breakdown:
Times of India
After pulling a lot of strings, working through a lot of connections, and putting on my best " I-love-India-even-though-you-think-I'm-a-complete-Americanized-moron" smile, I got the job with TOI. I quit the next day. Yeah, quit. Long story short, I didn't appreciate getting jumbled 1,000 word lumps (sentences, paragraphs, and pages are not the right words to describe the crap people sent in) and turning them into 300 word articles so that some idiot could get credit for the article. No, thank you. Also, I sat at my desk for an hour, twiddling my thumbs before the guy working with me looked at me and offered me some work. It was the last time he looked at me for 7 hours. Did I mention that the job was from 3 p.m. to 10 p.m.? When I asked the editor if I could do this part time because I am taking Hindi classes and going to the orphanage a few times in the evening, he looked at me like I was insane, and then said, " We all work six days a week or don't work here at all. You make the decision." Fine. I know you think that you are some amazing personality because of your sensationalized-good-for-nothing-let's-focus-on-the-Bacchan-wedding-for-a-solid-week newspaper, but NO, THANK YOU. At 10, when I left, after staring at the computer screen blankly for six hours, I told them I wouldn't be coming back.
Surprisingly, my parents and my relative, who had spent the last few days in constant nepotism limbo, were unbelievably supportive.
My parents had warned me about the way some businesses ran in India, but of course, I am incredibly naive. When my Aunt and I went to the TOI office for an interview, they kept us waiting for two hours so that they looked incredibly important and busy. This probably would have gone on for a while if my Aunt hadn't gone to yell at the security officer, and then we were promptly let in.
Also, it just wasn't my kind of office ambiance. No one besides the editor and the guy he had me working for, said anything to me all day. Not that they didn't stare or glare, but nothing. To them, I'm just some privileged American looking a way to kill some time. Listen, people, if I were so privileged, spoiled, or stupid, I would have kept the newspaper job just so I could have put it on my CV instead of trying to learn a little more about my background.
Phew, that felt good.
Culture
I can't get over how every single thing is out in the open, and how your family breathes down your neck every single second of the day. On my first (and last) day at the job, my aunt called me four times to make sure I was doing OK. It's difficult for someone like me who is so used to my independence that I think I've become a bit selfish with my time and responsibilities. At the same time, though, I love the sense of family. That was another reason I don't take the job. I would never get to see my family, and hang out with them during the weekends if I had stayed with the Times. Now that I think about it, I would have done the job if it hadn't been in India. It's just that I want a little bit more out of this country than that extra addition to my CV. I love how everyone here is your family. No matter what. The "uncle" that got me my job is a friend of my Mom's brother and I've never met him before.
But he's family, you know?
I'm a little apprehensive about sticking around here for so long because I keep getting phone calls from "aunties" about their sons. I've even had a few drop ins, and let me tell you, I don't think they'll be coming back. The first day that I got to India, my Kaka, Kaki, and I went to the Temple and on our way out to the car, as I was walking with my Kaka (my uncle), someone whistled at us all the way down to the Temple. While I am with my uncle. In front of a temple, for the love of Krishna. I know anyone who has ever visited India knows it can be much worse (I slapped someone while I was waiting for my aunt to pick me up after I got off the bus from Mehsana to Ahmedabad). I've just learned to find my voice. Yes, that's what I'm glad I've found. My voice. I would have never been able to quit such a place before or stand up for myself in a sea of a billion (literally) strangers.
I love cricket. Love, love, love it. I just wish Harbhajan Singh wasn't going to Bangladesh; I miss him.
I can't wait for the finals on Saturday, and this WC has been amazing. I just wish India had gotten a bit farther.
Even Ireland got farther than them (at least they were shut down at 77 runs...that was such a pathetic game). As you can see, my biggest vice has returned.
No one comes between me and my cricket. No one.
I think the rest of India feels the same way, too.
Hey, at least I immerse myself, right?
Anne Moyer
Where in GOD'S NAME are you.
That is all.
El Fin
OK, my lovelies, I know that this is a shitty update, but I just haven't been in the mood. There are lots of stories, mostly nasty ones that end up with me hitting someone or me sweating like a pig every where I go in this 43 degree weather. The good news is that I am going to Kashmir in a few weeks. That is my only saving grace at this moment in time. Now, as I leave you, I am looking for a new way to spend my time. I am thinking of going to Mumbai and trying to be the new Kajol. Wish me luck. Lots of Love, Khushbu P.S. Remind me to tell you how ridiculous it is for India to put out an arrest warrant for Richard Gere after he kissed Shilpa Shetty on the cheek. How is this country going to grow when it pulls stuff like this?
Irreplaceable
February 15, 2007
Budapest, Hunagry
Irreplaceable
The song is in the room somewhere, I can hear it. I look up, catch Maureen's eye and we both start laughing until we are cracking up and I almost fall out of my broken chair. We look at Nino, who is rocking out to Beyonce and blissfully unaware, with the blaring music coming from her headphones. For days after her birthday, she has played that one song on repeat from the CD we got her. Last night, she requested it at the bar and the eight or nine of us sang (or screamed, depending on your definition of "tone deaf") along with her.
The last three months have been so – how do I put this – stable. That might sound boring, but it's really not. There have been no ups and downs, and while that means that there were no bad times, there were also no exceptionally amazing or brilliant events, either.
However, it has always been a very good time, which is more than I can say for my time in Turkey . I remember how much I hated it in the beginning, writing that the days felt like weeks and the weeks felt like years. Yet, when I talk about Turkey now, saying how rough it was, Mo always reminds me, "Well, when you talk about it, it sounds like you had a great time."
Here, I can't even tell you where the last three months have gone. It's been a blur of experiences, tranquility, and friendships. My first day at work, my second day in the city, I met Nino and Maureen, and at the end of my first week, I met Annie and Cam. In between, we've made dozens of friends, and it's strange to think how we all have to go our separate ways. Yet, it's not so sad or sentimental this time; none of us are going to be here very long.
Most of us will be in the US or the UK for school or work or life so we'll see each other often. I guess you could say, (oh, yes, I am going to be cheesy-- not surprising) it has been irreplaceable.
Oh, god, it is so cliché that it hurts, but more often than not, I feel like my life is a tad bit cliché.
For example, when we were out last night, long story short, some guy ended up saying to me, "You won't talk to me because I am black, right?" and "There are too many whites in South Africa." COME ON. I feel like no matter how much some people travel, educate themselves, and live, they just don't get it. I felt a little bit sorry for him at first, but for the love of God, he is a student at CEU. I am sure life was/is perfect for him, but using race as bait is unacceptable. Talk about a life lesson straight out of My So-Called Life.
I think I've learned a lot more than I think at the HHC. Gabor and I usually end up in fierce question/answer sessions, Andrew and I have war debates (and I find that I can support my answers so much better now), Nina, Bako, and I spent the weekend talking about current events and politics, and I have been writing country reports, doing translations, visiting refugee camps, researching country of origin information which has been infinitely rewarding.
Our last trip to a refugee camp is when Nino and I will go to Debrecen next Friday, and everyone keeps telling us to be ready. No tears, little emotion, and a strong will, they say, because it is supposed to be a nightmare. Needless to say, I can't wait.
The next time you hear from me, I will be in the Balkans, on my first real "trip." Most people would choose Greece or Italy. I chose Albania , Bosnia, Serbia, Kosovo, and Macedonia . I want to spend the majority of my time in Sarajevo, if possible, and just wander and write, write, write.
On the 17 th of March, I am going home to Carlsbad (I really wish I could visit the Bay Area before leaving again but my parents would kill me if I ever thought to leave C-bad). It's strange to think that two years ago I was just back from my first trip abroad trip solo, and thinking what a big deal it was to go to Spain and the UK. The Brazilian grad student on the late night shuttle to Berkeley with me listened patiently to my energetic descriptions of Barcelona and Edinburgh , sometimes even asking questions in between my gushing. Oh, the poor guy. Except that I was the one who was slightly embarrassed every time I ran into him in the Spanish/Portuguese Department.
Now, it's strange to think of the Middle Eastand how I will be living there for at least six months. I'm not nearly as nervous as I was about Turkey/Hungary, just excited. Jordan, I am sure, will be an interesting and safe (I promise) experience. Also, in case you haven't heard, I am going to Gaza . It's final. If I keep mulling it over, it will never happen. However, I am going to wait until next February to go, and if the security clearance, etc doesn't work out, then, oh well. But if all is OK, consider me the next Christiane Amanpour. Yeah, right, but let me just say one thing: If any of you ever, EVER see her, you MUST talk to her (Ahem, Sabzi). End of story.
I applied when Cagri was here thinking that no one would respond and I could just pretend I didn't apply. Yet, the director replied and we have been in constant contact. I have hot and cold phases where I say yes but think no, say no but think yes, and so far, we are still at step one. He just wrote to me today, and even though I asked about fifteen questions and told him that I couldn't come 'til this time next year so if he wanted to give my job to some one else, he could. Instead, he wrote back with answers to all my questions and said that they will wait for me and I can come to Gaza whenever I want.
The more I think about it, the more I want to go, but I am also waiting a year so I know that I will make the best decision for myself (However, I think someone was right in saying that I would either get shot, sad, or have to do something extreme to get myself out while I am there). I can't believe Turkey and Hungary really are over; where did it all go? I loved meeting all these people, learning what it really means to be passionate about something, and being given the chance to learn so much. Yet, I cannot wait to come home.
Budapest, Hunagry
Irreplaceable
The song is in the room somewhere, I can hear it. I look up, catch Maureen's eye and we both start laughing until we are cracking up and I almost fall out of my broken chair. We look at Nino, who is rocking out to Beyonce and blissfully unaware, with the blaring music coming from her headphones. For days after her birthday, she has played that one song on repeat from the CD we got her. Last night, she requested it at the bar and the eight or nine of us sang (or screamed, depending on your definition of "tone deaf") along with her.
The last three months have been so – how do I put this – stable. That might sound boring, but it's really not. There have been no ups and downs, and while that means that there were no bad times, there were also no exceptionally amazing or brilliant events, either.
However, it has always been a very good time, which is more than I can say for my time in Turkey . I remember how much I hated it in the beginning, writing that the days felt like weeks and the weeks felt like years. Yet, when I talk about Turkey now, saying how rough it was, Mo always reminds me, "Well, when you talk about it, it sounds like you had a great time."
Here, I can't even tell you where the last three months have gone. It's been a blur of experiences, tranquility, and friendships. My first day at work, my second day in the city, I met Nino and Maureen, and at the end of my first week, I met Annie and Cam. In between, we've made dozens of friends, and it's strange to think how we all have to go our separate ways. Yet, it's not so sad or sentimental this time; none of us are going to be here very long.
Most of us will be in the US or the UK for school or work or life so we'll see each other often. I guess you could say, (oh, yes, I am going to be cheesy-- not surprising) it has been irreplaceable.
Oh, god, it is so cliché that it hurts, but more often than not, I feel like my life is a tad bit cliché.
For example, when we were out last night, long story short, some guy ended up saying to me, "You won't talk to me because I am black, right?" and "There are too many whites in South Africa." COME ON. I feel like no matter how much some people travel, educate themselves, and live, they just don't get it. I felt a little bit sorry for him at first, but for the love of God, he is a student at CEU. I am sure life was/is perfect for him, but using race as bait is unacceptable. Talk about a life lesson straight out of My So-Called Life.
I think I've learned a lot more than I think at the HHC. Gabor and I usually end up in fierce question/answer sessions, Andrew and I have war debates (and I find that I can support my answers so much better now), Nina, Bako, and I spent the weekend talking about current events and politics, and I have been writing country reports, doing translations, visiting refugee camps, researching country of origin information which has been infinitely rewarding.
Our last trip to a refugee camp is when Nino and I will go to Debrecen next Friday, and everyone keeps telling us to be ready. No tears, little emotion, and a strong will, they say, because it is supposed to be a nightmare. Needless to say, I can't wait.
The next time you hear from me, I will be in the Balkans, on my first real "trip." Most people would choose Greece or Italy. I chose Albania , Bosnia, Serbia, Kosovo, and Macedonia . I want to spend the majority of my time in Sarajevo, if possible, and just wander and write, write, write.
On the 17 th of March, I am going home to Carlsbad (I really wish I could visit the Bay Area before leaving again but my parents would kill me if I ever thought to leave C-bad). It's strange to think that two years ago I was just back from my first trip abroad trip solo, and thinking what a big deal it was to go to Spain and the UK. The Brazilian grad student on the late night shuttle to Berkeley with me listened patiently to my energetic descriptions of Barcelona and Edinburgh , sometimes even asking questions in between my gushing. Oh, the poor guy. Except that I was the one who was slightly embarrassed every time I ran into him in the Spanish/Portuguese Department.
Now, it's strange to think of the Middle Eastand how I will be living there for at least six months. I'm not nearly as nervous as I was about Turkey/Hungary, just excited. Jordan, I am sure, will be an interesting and safe (I promise) experience. Also, in case you haven't heard, I am going to Gaza . It's final. If I keep mulling it over, it will never happen. However, I am going to wait until next February to go, and if the security clearance, etc doesn't work out, then, oh well. But if all is OK, consider me the next Christiane Amanpour. Yeah, right, but let me just say one thing: If any of you ever, EVER see her, you MUST talk to her (Ahem, Sabzi). End of story.
I applied when Cagri was here thinking that no one would respond and I could just pretend I didn't apply. Yet, the director replied and we have been in constant contact. I have hot and cold phases where I say yes but think no, say no but think yes, and so far, we are still at step one. He just wrote to me today, and even though I asked about fifteen questions and told him that I couldn't come 'til this time next year so if he wanted to give my job to some one else, he could. Instead, he wrote back with answers to all my questions and said that they will wait for me and I can come to Gaza whenever I want.
The more I think about it, the more I want to go, but I am also waiting a year so I know that I will make the best decision for myself (However, I think someone was right in saying that I would either get shot, sad, or have to do something extreme to get myself out while I am there). I can't believe Turkey and Hungary really are over; where did it all go? I loved meeting all these people, learning what it really means to be passionate about something, and being given the chance to learn so much. Yet, I cannot wait to come home.
"We need men who can dream of things that never were."-- JFK
January 27, 2007
Budapest, Hungary
As we sit in an overly lit, almost empty room crowded with dozens of chairs and too many tables, I stare across the table at the man sitting on the other side, unsure of what to say. I want to smile, hold his hand, talk to him about life, but this is inappropriate for the situation, I tell myself.
Ali's an amazing guy, only 22, who has been all over the Eurasian continents and speaks half a dozen languages. I think for a moment before I decide to offer him a small, questioning smile.
"So, how did you manage to learn six languages?" I ask him.
"This is not important. I am in Hungary now," he explains with a smile to let me know the response is without sharpness.
The conversation then continues along its usual route, with him bombarding me with question after question, peppering my answers with, "Good, good" while he clasps his hands but rotates his thumbs around one another.
We understand each other and I catch myself thinking that I wish I had met him in any other context besides this.
My thoughts are shaken by the lawyer returning to the table and Nino clearing her throat uncomfortably.
"Ali, do you know why your claim was rejected this time?""No, no I don't. I don't know.""She didn't tell you? Let's go over what they said, just give me one moment to look over the summary."
For the next thirty minutes we listen to the conversation, sometimes heated, pass between our lawyer and asylum-seeker.
It's heart-breaking and I cannot but help thinking that our only difference in luck is that I was born in a different country. Eventually, Ali is told that he must appeal within fifteen days and that he must wait for it to come before the court until September.
September.
I've been at the refugee camp for a grand totally of four hours and I cannot wait to get out. The moment that we pulled up to the gates I began to feel dizzy, my heart started beating faster, and I thought I was going to throw up. Apparently, it is one of the "protocol" camps (ironic, I know) in the region. It has an internet/computer building, individual houses, a canteen, and so forth.
I met a man who has been in the Bicske camp for three years. While he was one of the lucky few to be granted refugee status, he is going back home to Nepal in a few days. His family was unable to join hum, and while he would like to stay in Hungary, there is no point as he is unable to get a decent job in the country, or enough to support his family. In his own words, "he is not made to live like an animal." I walk around the camp in circles, alone, because Maureen and Nino would rather sit in the warm office than try and walk around the camp, out in the cold.
I also think this is what makes us different: I want to be surround by this kind of reality; they do not want to be "depressed."I think of these people, who are given the equivalent of $12 USD a month, who must decide if they will give up their lives, their dreams, their ambitions to survive in a caged area until they are give the green light to be deemed capable to be integrated back inot society. Or they can "disappear."
A couple years ago, this trip to a refugee camp would have shattered me; I would have cried for days and thought of nothing else. On Wednesday, I wallowed, but not in sympathy of my feelings but in the shock of their lives.
----------------
I've always wondered where I've gotten this wandering/writer inclination from. Up until now, I've forgot to look to my easiest source: my grandfather. He's an incredible man -- he went to prison with Gandhi, wrote countless books, worked as a lawyer (many times for free) even though he had nine kids to take care of, and the list could go on. About two weeks ago I decided to fore go the opportunity to work with the UN in Sarajevo to go back to the homeland. I thought about it for a long time, and while I felt like I was giving up an amazing opportunity, I really wanted to see India again. It's been five years since I've been and I have a feeling that this time I will take advantage of my time there. I am planning on writing for a newspaper, volunteering at an orphanage, visiting Pakistan/Kashmir (albeit the incredulity of my relatives), and taking Hindi classes to brush up my skills. I thought of my grandfather and how much I would like to see him, to talk to him about what I have been doing and progressively became intensely excited. The next day, I decided to call my parents to tell them of my decision, but my mom didn't sound like she really cared. I hung up the phone feeling as if I had made the worst mistake in the world, and while I was still kicking myself while watching Laguna Beach with Annie, Cam, and Heather, she called me back. "Khusbu, beta, uhhhhh...dadaji passed...uhh...yesterday.""Oh, ok. cool. I have to go now. Bye."Yeah, so I didn't manage to handle that so well, either, but strangely enough, I didn't react for about a week. The girls have been extremely supportive, telling me it was a coincidence, not some strange act of fate, that I made my decision on the same day. However, I think this is for the best because I am finally at a point where I can experience India from all perspectives and vantage points. Also, some friend(s) from Turkey might visit and being able to see them will be so exciting. I didn't realize how used to talking to them on a regular basis I am and how concrete we are in each others' lives. Although many of us just met a few months ago back in August, Selma went to see Bahadir off at the airport before he left for the states. They worked together for pretty much only a month, but knowing that they stay in touch, just as I do with the rest of them makes me happy. I sign onto MSN at home sometimes, but I can't type because my keyboard is completely messed up. I just want to see some of the familiar names, mostly. I fell asleep reading Kafka on the Shore last night at around 10 and I woke up late this morning at 9 to a barrage of messages. I love that Benan thinks of me when she has "boy problems" and that Noyan writes to me randomly just to say hi. My favorite was from Baris who,surprisingly, I haven't spoken to in a week or two, told me that they wrote Mr. Flower on Bahadir's farewell cake.
----------------------
Next week, I am going to Austria and Slovenia for the weekend. I feel that it would be pretty stupid not to go everywhere since I am in such a central location. So, we have trips planned to those places, a week-long trip to the Ukraine/Moldova/Romania, weekend plans for Croatia and Serbia, an adventure to Poland and the Czech Republic, and my personal favorite -- a solo trip to Sarajevo and Kosovo (which might be amended to include Selma!).
-------------------------
Recently, I've been working on a case which involves a schizophrenic woman who has no past, speaks an number of languages, seems to be very educated, and makes allusions to a history which seems impossible. She is Jewish and from Israel but speak no Hebrew; instead she speaks Arabic, English, French, Russian, and German perfectly. I've spent a solid week feeling a litter bit like Nancy Drew trying to contact the people she has let slip from her memory.
I also feel like I've been cheating on Turkey a bit in the past few weeks. A number of asylum-seekers from the East of Turkey come to Hungary, and I have had to compile a report on the torture cases in violation of Article 3 of the European Convention on Human Rights in front of the ECtHR.
-----------------------
I woke up this morning a little early for a Saturday and looked out my window to figure out what time it was and why the hell I was up so early. It took a few moments to register, but I caught the sight of freshly fallen snow and almost jumped off of my loft bed in all of the excitement. It's strange how it is finally snowing, when it was almost springtime-warm during Heather's visit just two weeks ago. We had a great time, and I cannot imagine not seeing her or everyone else for another few months. What I haven't told you is that I am thinking of going to Jordan for a year to work at a Center for Human Rights and learn Arabic. I think grad school can wait one more year for this kind of adventure. Yet, I am still unsure and part of me wants to go back home and work in NY while I apply this fall. I still have time, but it all seems to be going by so fast. Walking outside in the windswept city makes me feel at home. I don't know what it is, but the cold, wet nights in city centers make me feel most at home. I am really beginning to think that the world is smaller than it seems, and that nothing is as different as we make it out to be. I think of Ali, who has searched over continents to find a place that feels like home and who not given up yet. I think of Vijay, the Nepalese man, who has given up his long fight of hope of a safe home, and is regrettably giving up his new home to return to his daughters and wife. And then I think of myself, only 22, who has been lucky enough to find a handful of homes all over the world.
Budapest, Hungary
As we sit in an overly lit, almost empty room crowded with dozens of chairs and too many tables, I stare across the table at the man sitting on the other side, unsure of what to say. I want to smile, hold his hand, talk to him about life, but this is inappropriate for the situation, I tell myself.
Ali's an amazing guy, only 22, who has been all over the Eurasian continents and speaks half a dozen languages. I think for a moment before I decide to offer him a small, questioning smile.
"So, how did you manage to learn six languages?" I ask him.
"This is not important. I am in Hungary now," he explains with a smile to let me know the response is without sharpness.
The conversation then continues along its usual route, with him bombarding me with question after question, peppering my answers with, "Good, good" while he clasps his hands but rotates his thumbs around one another.
We understand each other and I catch myself thinking that I wish I had met him in any other context besides this.
My thoughts are shaken by the lawyer returning to the table and Nino clearing her throat uncomfortably.
"Ali, do you know why your claim was rejected this time?""No, no I don't. I don't know.""She didn't tell you? Let's go over what they said, just give me one moment to look over the summary."
For the next thirty minutes we listen to the conversation, sometimes heated, pass between our lawyer and asylum-seeker.
It's heart-breaking and I cannot but help thinking that our only difference in luck is that I was born in a different country. Eventually, Ali is told that he must appeal within fifteen days and that he must wait for it to come before the court until September.
September.
I've been at the refugee camp for a grand totally of four hours and I cannot wait to get out. The moment that we pulled up to the gates I began to feel dizzy, my heart started beating faster, and I thought I was going to throw up. Apparently, it is one of the "protocol" camps (ironic, I know) in the region. It has an internet/computer building, individual houses, a canteen, and so forth.
I met a man who has been in the Bicske camp for three years. While he was one of the lucky few to be granted refugee status, he is going back home to Nepal in a few days. His family was unable to join hum, and while he would like to stay in Hungary, there is no point as he is unable to get a decent job in the country, or enough to support his family. In his own words, "he is not made to live like an animal." I walk around the camp in circles, alone, because Maureen and Nino would rather sit in the warm office than try and walk around the camp, out in the cold.
I also think this is what makes us different: I want to be surround by this kind of reality; they do not want to be "depressed."I think of these people, who are given the equivalent of $12 USD a month, who must decide if they will give up their lives, their dreams, their ambitions to survive in a caged area until they are give the green light to be deemed capable to be integrated back inot society. Or they can "disappear."
A couple years ago, this trip to a refugee camp would have shattered me; I would have cried for days and thought of nothing else. On Wednesday, I wallowed, but not in sympathy of my feelings but in the shock of their lives.
----------------
I've always wondered where I've gotten this wandering/writer inclination from. Up until now, I've forgot to look to my easiest source: my grandfather. He's an incredible man -- he went to prison with Gandhi, wrote countless books, worked as a lawyer (many times for free) even though he had nine kids to take care of, and the list could go on. About two weeks ago I decided to fore go the opportunity to work with the UN in Sarajevo to go back to the homeland. I thought about it for a long time, and while I felt like I was giving up an amazing opportunity, I really wanted to see India again. It's been five years since I've been and I have a feeling that this time I will take advantage of my time there. I am planning on writing for a newspaper, volunteering at an orphanage, visiting Pakistan/Kashmir (albeit the incredulity of my relatives), and taking Hindi classes to brush up my skills. I thought of my grandfather and how much I would like to see him, to talk to him about what I have been doing and progressively became intensely excited. The next day, I decided to call my parents to tell them of my decision, but my mom didn't sound like she really cared. I hung up the phone feeling as if I had made the worst mistake in the world, and while I was still kicking myself while watching Laguna Beach with Annie, Cam, and Heather, she called me back. "Khusbu, beta, uhhhhh...dadaji passed...uhh...yesterday.""Oh, ok. cool. I have to go now. Bye."Yeah, so I didn't manage to handle that so well, either, but strangely enough, I didn't react for about a week. The girls have been extremely supportive, telling me it was a coincidence, not some strange act of fate, that I made my decision on the same day. However, I think this is for the best because I am finally at a point where I can experience India from all perspectives and vantage points. Also, some friend(s) from Turkey might visit and being able to see them will be so exciting. I didn't realize how used to talking to them on a regular basis I am and how concrete we are in each others' lives. Although many of us just met a few months ago back in August, Selma went to see Bahadir off at the airport before he left for the states. They worked together for pretty much only a month, but knowing that they stay in touch, just as I do with the rest of them makes me happy. I sign onto MSN at home sometimes, but I can't type because my keyboard is completely messed up. I just want to see some of the familiar names, mostly. I fell asleep reading Kafka on the Shore last night at around 10 and I woke up late this morning at 9 to a barrage of messages. I love that Benan thinks of me when she has "boy problems" and that Noyan writes to me randomly just to say hi. My favorite was from Baris who,surprisingly, I haven't spoken to in a week or two, told me that they wrote Mr. Flower on Bahadir's farewell cake.
----------------------
Next week, I am going to Austria and Slovenia for the weekend. I feel that it would be pretty stupid not to go everywhere since I am in such a central location. So, we have trips planned to those places, a week-long trip to the Ukraine/Moldova/Romania, weekend plans for Croatia and Serbia, an adventure to Poland and the Czech Republic, and my personal favorite -- a solo trip to Sarajevo and Kosovo (which might be amended to include Selma!).
-------------------------
Recently, I've been working on a case which involves a schizophrenic woman who has no past, speaks an number of languages, seems to be very educated, and makes allusions to a history which seems impossible. She is Jewish and from Israel but speak no Hebrew; instead she speaks Arabic, English, French, Russian, and German perfectly. I've spent a solid week feeling a litter bit like Nancy Drew trying to contact the people she has let slip from her memory.
I also feel like I've been cheating on Turkey a bit in the past few weeks. A number of asylum-seekers from the East of Turkey come to Hungary, and I have had to compile a report on the torture cases in violation of Article 3 of the European Convention on Human Rights in front of the ECtHR.
-----------------------
I woke up this morning a little early for a Saturday and looked out my window to figure out what time it was and why the hell I was up so early. It took a few moments to register, but I caught the sight of freshly fallen snow and almost jumped off of my loft bed in all of the excitement. It's strange how it is finally snowing, when it was almost springtime-warm during Heather's visit just two weeks ago. We had a great time, and I cannot imagine not seeing her or everyone else for another few months. What I haven't told you is that I am thinking of going to Jordan for a year to work at a Center for Human Rights and learn Arabic. I think grad school can wait one more year for this kind of adventure. Yet, I am still unsure and part of me wants to go back home and work in NY while I apply this fall. I still have time, but it all seems to be going by so fast. Walking outside in the windswept city makes me feel at home. I don't know what it is, but the cold, wet nights in city centers make me feel most at home. I am really beginning to think that the world is smaller than it seems, and that nothing is as different as we make it out to be. I think of Ali, who has searched over continents to find a place that feels like home and who not given up yet. I think of Vijay, the Nepalese man, who has given up his long fight of hope of a safe home, and is regrettably giving up his new home to return to his daughters and wife. And then I think of myself, only 22, who has been lucky enough to find a handful of homes all over the world.
Granny Khush and the Case of the Bad New Year's Resolution
January 10, 2007
Budapest, Hunagry
We made it a point to make worth wile resolutions this year. Cam decided it was time for her to be more selfish. Annie wants to "not give a fuck." Maureen is trying to be less stressed and tense all the time. And so the list goes. Six girls and six resolutions. We see each other practically every day and do every single thing together. It's hard to believe we've only been this girl posse for six weeks; strangers look at us as if we're childhood friends. Therefore, it is easy for us to predict the others' resolutions. Mine is pretty obvious.
"Be more adventurous and...be less of a prude," I declared (well, I whispered the last part).
Everyone just looked amused and gave me their all knowing smirks (I hate those smirks). This was around midnight and by 5 a.m. every single one of us had broken our resolutions. I was the first to go.
As we were walking from bar/club number three, we ran into a group of Italian guys that we had been running into all night. Somehow, the girls ended up keeping pace with our group of Georgian, Canadian, and Hungarian friends while I was surrounded by five leering and jeering, although quite handsome may I add, creeps. I felt like a prized donkey, but I was determined to be my new self.
"I kiss you. Happy New Years. I kiss you."(In my head: OK, no problem there. Been there, done the three kisses on the cheek thing all night. I'm a pro)Repeat five times. *Something inappropriate from one of the Italian stallions* Me: (ponders momentarily and muses the reaction from friends, but before being able to control myself, I blurt out) EXCUSE ME? I have morals, thank you.
Thirteen pairs of eyes roll towards the heavens and I realize that I am the first to break my resolution. Damn it. As we walk towards our new destination, Annie does not hesitate to start the teasing:
"Granny Khush, you have morals, eh?"
----------------------------------
New Years is insane. There is no way to describe it. Everyone is out on the street drinking straight out of champagne and vodka bottles. Firecrackers are sailing past people and we are running behind each other while screaming in the typical girly fashion (even our guys, although they deny it now). We make it to Vorosmarty in time to see the hourglass filled with sand, but leave soon before midnight because the square looks like a battle zone and someone is bound to lose an eye with those stray firecrackers. In Oktogon, a massive concert is raging, but we decide to head towards the water to watch the fireworks with our glasses of mulled wine secured. Thousand of people are teeming the street and every language imaginable is audible. There are no words to describe it except once-in-a-lifetime. Ironically, my birthday this year is incredibly similar to last year's; however, this time, I remember my (albeit, unnecessary) ID.
Last year, Heather, Britt, Annie and I made our way down to Old Town for Margaritas and Mexican food, some shopping in SD, and then back to Carlsbad with the rest of the girls for some dancing. It was a simple, perfect birthday, just like this years. Annie and Cam came back form Paris on the 28th and seven of us crowded into Iguanas for some Margaritas and Mexican food. It felt a little bit like deja vu and a lot like good luck.
Cagri visits and it makes me so happy. He was my very first friend in Turkey, so being able to show him around the city is my way of reciprocating his kindness. He says something along the lines of, "You did more for me in three days than I did for you in four months."
But that is not true. I remember our daily lunches, his efforts to find me the perfect cafe, our search for vcds, books, and music, and his constant quest to make sure I didn't drive myself crazy in Ankara. I love it here so I want him to love it here; showing him around and having him meet my friends is more for myself than it is for him, selfishly enough. Also, his visit reassures my concrete friendships in this city because the girls made it a point to see him everyday and come with us on all of our adventures. They had nothing to gain from his seventy-two hour acquaintance, yet they did it with pleasure. I like to think that this is a sign of a good friend when they show sincerity in meeting your other friends.
Heather comes in three days and I am more nervous than anything else (mostly because the girl drives me mad with her nagging questions of metro tickets and the Budapest card). I warn everyone to make sure that I come off as prudish and pure as possible, which is not hard to pull off, sigh. Then I tell myself to relax; no one changes that much in five months. Besides, we've known each other for thirteen years, and a little travelling will change nothing -- I can't wait to see one of my best friends.
---------------------------
At this point, I am a little exhausted and ever so optimistic. The reason I have written so much about Christmas (Cagri's visit), my birthday, and New Years is because we had a two week holiday. Work starts up again today and Nino and I are the only ones in the office this morning thus far. As she covers the moot court happenings, I am buried under Country of Origin Information research. The HHC is carrying out research and observation on border guards and their training and handling of asylum seekers both at airports and at the country lines, which I get to sit in on and go to observe some of the time. Secretly, I think my internship is more interesting than the task of responding to overstrung law students asking technical b.s. questions. I still might go to Sarajevo in April because even if I am exhausted, I am not finished. However, I might skip Bosnia for another country, but it is not secured yet, and also, I am not sure I want to tell you the place I am considering.
Budapest, Hunagry
We made it a point to make worth wile resolutions this year. Cam decided it was time for her to be more selfish. Annie wants to "not give a fuck." Maureen is trying to be less stressed and tense all the time. And so the list goes. Six girls and six resolutions. We see each other practically every day and do every single thing together. It's hard to believe we've only been this girl posse for six weeks; strangers look at us as if we're childhood friends. Therefore, it is easy for us to predict the others' resolutions. Mine is pretty obvious.
"Be more adventurous and...be less of a prude," I declared (well, I whispered the last part).
Everyone just looked amused and gave me their all knowing smirks (I hate those smirks). This was around midnight and by 5 a.m. every single one of us had broken our resolutions. I was the first to go.
As we were walking from bar/club number three, we ran into a group of Italian guys that we had been running into all night. Somehow, the girls ended up keeping pace with our group of Georgian, Canadian, and Hungarian friends while I was surrounded by five leering and jeering, although quite handsome may I add, creeps. I felt like a prized donkey, but I was determined to be my new self.
"I kiss you. Happy New Years. I kiss you."(In my head: OK, no problem there. Been there, done the three kisses on the cheek thing all night. I'm a pro)Repeat five times. *Something inappropriate from one of the Italian stallions* Me: (ponders momentarily and muses the reaction from friends, but before being able to control myself, I blurt out) EXCUSE ME? I have morals, thank you.
Thirteen pairs of eyes roll towards the heavens and I realize that I am the first to break my resolution. Damn it. As we walk towards our new destination, Annie does not hesitate to start the teasing:
"Granny Khush, you have morals, eh?"
----------------------------------
New Years is insane. There is no way to describe it. Everyone is out on the street drinking straight out of champagne and vodka bottles. Firecrackers are sailing past people and we are running behind each other while screaming in the typical girly fashion (even our guys, although they deny it now). We make it to Vorosmarty in time to see the hourglass filled with sand, but leave soon before midnight because the square looks like a battle zone and someone is bound to lose an eye with those stray firecrackers. In Oktogon, a massive concert is raging, but we decide to head towards the water to watch the fireworks with our glasses of mulled wine secured. Thousand of people are teeming the street and every language imaginable is audible. There are no words to describe it except once-in-a-lifetime. Ironically, my birthday this year is incredibly similar to last year's; however, this time, I remember my (albeit, unnecessary) ID.
Last year, Heather, Britt, Annie and I made our way down to Old Town for Margaritas and Mexican food, some shopping in SD, and then back to Carlsbad with the rest of the girls for some dancing. It was a simple, perfect birthday, just like this years. Annie and Cam came back form Paris on the 28th and seven of us crowded into Iguanas for some Margaritas and Mexican food. It felt a little bit like deja vu and a lot like good luck.
Cagri visits and it makes me so happy. He was my very first friend in Turkey, so being able to show him around the city is my way of reciprocating his kindness. He says something along the lines of, "You did more for me in three days than I did for you in four months."
But that is not true. I remember our daily lunches, his efforts to find me the perfect cafe, our search for vcds, books, and music, and his constant quest to make sure I didn't drive myself crazy in Ankara. I love it here so I want him to love it here; showing him around and having him meet my friends is more for myself than it is for him, selfishly enough. Also, his visit reassures my concrete friendships in this city because the girls made it a point to see him everyday and come with us on all of our adventures. They had nothing to gain from his seventy-two hour acquaintance, yet they did it with pleasure. I like to think that this is a sign of a good friend when they show sincerity in meeting your other friends.
Heather comes in three days and I am more nervous than anything else (mostly because the girl drives me mad with her nagging questions of metro tickets and the Budapest card). I warn everyone to make sure that I come off as prudish and pure as possible, which is not hard to pull off, sigh. Then I tell myself to relax; no one changes that much in five months. Besides, we've known each other for thirteen years, and a little travelling will change nothing -- I can't wait to see one of my best friends.
---------------------------
At this point, I am a little exhausted and ever so optimistic. The reason I have written so much about Christmas (Cagri's visit), my birthday, and New Years is because we had a two week holiday. Work starts up again today and Nino and I are the only ones in the office this morning thus far. As she covers the moot court happenings, I am buried under Country of Origin Information research. The HHC is carrying out research and observation on border guards and their training and handling of asylum seekers both at airports and at the country lines, which I get to sit in on and go to observe some of the time. Secretly, I think my internship is more interesting than the task of responding to overstrung law students asking technical b.s. questions. I still might go to Sarajevo in April because even if I am exhausted, I am not finished. However, I might skip Bosnia for another country, but it is not secured yet, and also, I am not sure I want to tell you the place I am considering.
Why Jesus is better than Santa Claus
December 11, 2006
Budapest, Hunagry
I've been meaning to write to you for the last few days but booze, the opera, and refugees have been getting in the way. Also, I figured that I might try and spice up these emails because frankly, I am sure you are tired of " and then I met the most wonderful person blah blah blah" or "and then we went out to the coolest bar in the pouring rain yadi yadda yadda" OR my personal favorite, " and it was magical" as I am. Seriously, what kind of crap is that? I am even more ashamed of it than I am of Plato's cave theory and Mango's horrible excuse for a sale last week (but not in that order).
Instead, I thought I would take a page from a writer's worst enemy, a philosopher, because, well, I am fresh out of style --aka in a word rut -- and who better to cheat off of than the nemesis. I hate philosophers, I really do; It's all a bunch of made up mumbo jumbo to make 'em sound esoteric. But hey, I mean, people buy it all the time -- look at Marx, he started a movement, for the love of God (or not). OK, so I think I am going to start with one of the earliest. Hint: a type of dialogue
Me (To myself in Ferihegy Airport): OK, another country, Khushbu. Just try and get out of here alive with you ginormous luggage and you are golden.
Turkish Man 1: Hello. Where you from?
Me: Seriously, buddy, not right now.
Turkish Man: *Stream of Turkish*
Me: Sorry, don't understand. You can stop now.
Turkish Man turns to Japanese Man and asks him to translate between us. Me (To Japanese Man): Did he seriously just ask you to translate from Turkish into English? I'm impressed.
Japanese Man: Sorry, I don't understand. I don't speak.
(Then I have Turkish Man 2 grab my 120 lbs of luggage, hand them off to his drivers and proceed to stalk me. It's almost a continuation of my first hour in Ankara. I am so blessed.)
Me and Australian are climbing up the hills to the Castle in the late night...
Me: No, I am not a big fan of pretty things. They just don't intrigue me 'cause all they are is beautiful.
Australian: Really? I quite like this castle sparkling over the Danube. And the church is amaz--Me: Whatever. I am never impressed by beauty (At the same time, I see the first side of the church). HOLY SHI--
Australian: i can't see from this angle but I reckon you see the chruch.
Me: Ooooh, pretty things.
Me: So, did I tell you? The very first friend that I made in Turkey is visiting me next month. I can't wait!
Friend: Oh, really. When is he coming?
Me: Uhhh... 23rd-26th?Friend: Does he not realize that those are the worst three days of the year to visit a Christian country?
Me: Well, it won't be so bad. We have a party to go to and then we can go out the rest of the days. He said he doesn't care too much about museums.
Friend: What kind of people go to a bar on Christmas Day?
Me: You CANNOT judge me. Hungarians were Communists for decades. If they allowed that on Christmas, I think a Muslim and a Hindu can ignore Jesus's birth. Wait...Jesus is in the Q'uran... Friend: Do you really think that humanity is still going to let you try and save it?
Me:Everybody know the story of Madame Butterfly? I mean, unless we all know Italian or Hungarian...
5 blank stares
Me: OK, we have...oh, no, it's starting. OK, American navy jerk/man marries Japanese beauty. He has to go back home. She waits for three years has a kid. He comes back with a wife, Butterfly is depressed, kills herself. The end.
Friend: Yes, Khushbu, you are a writer. A true artiste because now, I just can't wait to see this opera.
Intern: Yeah, I am here to get a new perspective on life. I thought an NGO working with refugees and human rights would be a great spin after IT and film.
Me: Well, I've always been obsessed with the human rights' issues, and I've always known what I've wanted to do. I guess I'm lucky.
Intern: How old are you? 23? 24?
Me: actually, I am turning 22 in a month.
Intern: (clasps hand to heart) Awwwwwwww, that's precious (She's 29).
If you're still reading this sorry excuse for philosophy/screenplay, I am completely meaning to offend Plato in trying to emulate his Socratic Dialogue. La-dee-da-da. I can see that it wasn't so pretty. How about some poetry?
Budapest, like Istanbul, is split into two,
The grungy Danube and a gazillion bridges let you cross through,
Thanks to global warming it is raining instead of snowing,
So we are soaking wet at night after the drinks have been flowing
But I still love this fairy tale,
Even though there are lots of Canadians here who drink Whiskey and ginger ale.
Fine, Robert Frost I am not, but let me just say, I came up with that in 30 seconds...annnnnnd you can probably tell...never mind my quickly deflating pride.
Maybe this wasn't the update you were looking for, but I hope you can see that I am insatiably happy (but NO, I am not on medication or taking drugs -- I KNOW you are thinking this N&J).
This was my easiest transition and the best place so far. It is so beautiful, I am never home, and I have met, cheesily enough, so many great people. I will write more about the city and send some pictures after Cagri visits in two weeks and Heather visits right after. Or, you guys could book some tickets and get here ASAP because Budapest is fabulous. And so is my apartment, complete with an old, out-of-tune piano but I adore it.
For now, though, I will leave you with a truly deep thinker:
"Aristotle was not Belgian. The central message of Buddhism is not 'every man for himself.' And the London Underground is not a political movement. Those are all mistakes, Otto. I looked them up." - A Fish Called Wanda
--------------------
While I may be off my usual style, I am still taking everything in with this in mind: "We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are - that is the fact." -- Jean-Paul Sartre. I read it four years ago and I still have no clue if I like the quote or dislike the quote, but it makes me think. And I am slowly learning that even if i don't know what I what I want, let alone which country I want to live in, there is no rush. Well, except for the parentals pushing for me to get a real job.
Budapest, Hunagry
I've been meaning to write to you for the last few days but booze, the opera, and refugees have been getting in the way. Also, I figured that I might try and spice up these emails because frankly, I am sure you are tired of " and then I met the most wonderful person blah blah blah" or "and then we went out to the coolest bar in the pouring rain yadi yadda yadda" OR my personal favorite, " and it was magical" as I am. Seriously, what kind of crap is that? I am even more ashamed of it than I am of Plato's cave theory and Mango's horrible excuse for a sale last week (but not in that order).
Instead, I thought I would take a page from a writer's worst enemy, a philosopher, because, well, I am fresh out of style --aka in a word rut -- and who better to cheat off of than the nemesis. I hate philosophers, I really do; It's all a bunch of made up mumbo jumbo to make 'em sound esoteric. But hey, I mean, people buy it all the time -- look at Marx, he started a movement, for the love of God (or not). OK, so I think I am going to start with one of the earliest. Hint: a type of dialogue
Me (To myself in Ferihegy Airport): OK, another country, Khushbu. Just try and get out of here alive with you ginormous luggage and you are golden.
Turkish Man 1: Hello. Where you from?
Me: Seriously, buddy, not right now.
Turkish Man: *Stream of Turkish*
Me: Sorry, don't understand. You can stop now.
Turkish Man turns to Japanese Man and asks him to translate between us. Me (To Japanese Man): Did he seriously just ask you to translate from Turkish into English? I'm impressed.
Japanese Man: Sorry, I don't understand. I don't speak.
(Then I have Turkish Man 2 grab my 120 lbs of luggage, hand them off to his drivers and proceed to stalk me. It's almost a continuation of my first hour in Ankara. I am so blessed.)
Me and Australian are climbing up the hills to the Castle in the late night...
Me: No, I am not a big fan of pretty things. They just don't intrigue me 'cause all they are is beautiful.
Australian: Really? I quite like this castle sparkling over the Danube. And the church is amaz--Me: Whatever. I am never impressed by beauty (At the same time, I see the first side of the church). HOLY SHI--
Australian: i can't see from this angle but I reckon you see the chruch.
Me: Ooooh, pretty things.
Me: So, did I tell you? The very first friend that I made in Turkey is visiting me next month. I can't wait!
Friend: Oh, really. When is he coming?
Me: Uhhh... 23rd-26th?Friend: Does he not realize that those are the worst three days of the year to visit a Christian country?
Me: Well, it won't be so bad. We have a party to go to and then we can go out the rest of the days. He said he doesn't care too much about museums.
Friend: What kind of people go to a bar on Christmas Day?
Me: You CANNOT judge me. Hungarians were Communists for decades. If they allowed that on Christmas, I think a Muslim and a Hindu can ignore Jesus's birth. Wait...Jesus is in the Q'uran... Friend: Do you really think that humanity is still going to let you try and save it?
Me:Everybody know the story of Madame Butterfly? I mean, unless we all know Italian or Hungarian...
5 blank stares
Me: OK, we have...oh, no, it's starting. OK, American navy jerk/man marries Japanese beauty. He has to go back home. She waits for three years has a kid. He comes back with a wife, Butterfly is depressed, kills herself. The end.
Friend: Yes, Khushbu, you are a writer. A true artiste because now, I just can't wait to see this opera.
Intern: Yeah, I am here to get a new perspective on life. I thought an NGO working with refugees and human rights would be a great spin after IT and film.
Me: Well, I've always been obsessed with the human rights' issues, and I've always known what I've wanted to do. I guess I'm lucky.
Intern: How old are you? 23? 24?
Me: actually, I am turning 22 in a month.
Intern: (clasps hand to heart) Awwwwwwww, that's precious (She's 29).
If you're still reading this sorry excuse for philosophy/screenplay, I am completely meaning to offend Plato in trying to emulate his Socratic Dialogue. La-dee-da-da. I can see that it wasn't so pretty. How about some poetry?
Budapest, like Istanbul, is split into two,
The grungy Danube and a gazillion bridges let you cross through,
Thanks to global warming it is raining instead of snowing,
So we are soaking wet at night after the drinks have been flowing
But I still love this fairy tale,
Even though there are lots of Canadians here who drink Whiskey and ginger ale.
Fine, Robert Frost I am not, but let me just say, I came up with that in 30 seconds...annnnnnd you can probably tell...never mind my quickly deflating pride.
Maybe this wasn't the update you were looking for, but I hope you can see that I am insatiably happy (but NO, I am not on medication or taking drugs -- I KNOW you are thinking this N&J).
This was my easiest transition and the best place so far. It is so beautiful, I am never home, and I have met, cheesily enough, so many great people. I will write more about the city and send some pictures after Cagri visits in two weeks and Heather visits right after. Or, you guys could book some tickets and get here ASAP because Budapest is fabulous. And so is my apartment, complete with an old, out-of-tune piano but I adore it.
For now, though, I will leave you with a truly deep thinker:
"Aristotle was not Belgian. The central message of Buddhism is not 'every man for himself.' And the London Underground is not a political movement. Those are all mistakes, Otto. I looked them up." - A Fish Called Wanda
--------------------
While I may be off my usual style, I am still taking everything in with this in mind: "We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are - that is the fact." -- Jean-Paul Sartre. I read it four years ago and I still have no clue if I like the quote or dislike the quote, but it makes me think. And I am slowly learning that even if i don't know what I what I want, let alone which country I want to live in, there is no rush. Well, except for the parentals pushing for me to get a real job.
The Bosphorus is Not Enough to Separate Us if We Just Trust the Stars...
November 17, 2006
Ankara, Turkey
I know it's been a while since my usual emails, but it's been a hectic month. Also, I know that a few of you, Ok, two of you in particular, think that I have gone off the deep end, and while I appreciate your concern (you guys are like vultures!), my soul-searching days have been amazing thus far.
Real Life: Ain't It Grand?
Fine, I know you guys are asking when I lead a normal life amidst all these deep thoughts, and let me tell you, it is rough, but it does happen. For two of the past four weeks, I was in Istanbul and Bulgaria. In Istanbul, I spent most of my time with five or six American girls who are studying abroad in Cairo, and one of them happened to be a good friend from Berkeley. Those ten days were absolutely perfect in every sense of the word. We hit up all of the touristy places, hung out with some Turkish friends, and pretty much acted as ridiculous as we could. One of my favorite memories is walking down Istiklal street singing Bollywood songs with two of them. We had our arms linked even though it is one of the most crowded streets ever, and under the glaring lights and smoke I just didn't care anymore. So we were tourists. Fine. So we were singing Shah Rukh Khan Hits. Yes, strange. So I sound like a dying cow when I sing. But honestly, I felt so free. Then there was our last night when two guys from Cairo showed up and we spent three hours, just four of us, standing in the middle of the street laughing until we fell down. I remember holding onto a car, with tears streaming down my face, trying not to pass out, and thinking how lucky I was. Because, really, who gets to be serenaded by a white guy who sings "You are my soniya" perfectly, watch a guy who impersonates people with impeccable style, and spend quality time with someone from home in the most perfect city in the world? The next day, I took a nine hour bus to Sofia, and at the border, being the only American on the bus I got some special treatment also known as heavy scrutiny and harassment. When I got to Sofia, I realized I had made no plans on where to stay, so I walked out of the huge bus terminal, brazenly sat down in a cab and told him, "Take me to a hotel." The smart ass pulled up to the Ritz, or something equally showy. Ok, yeah, are you going to pay for me, buddy? The doorman was sweet, though, and he handed us a city guide and I decided to rough it in a hostel, instead. Oh, the problems of a world traveler. The next morning, the lady who ran the hostel asked me if I spoke Spanish, and I thought she needed help because she spoke no English, so I didn't understand. Instead, she introduced me to her son who had just returned from Spain after two years, and he offered to show me around the city for the whole day. I know I gave him the "Ok, but what do you really want" look because he immediately said, I am just trying to help. Trust me. Ha! No, but really, he was a great tour guide: smart, funny, and a perfect gentleman. And I got to see the city in one day without getting lost, and with a cute Bulgarian boy who spoke Spanish. Yes, I am lucky; I readily admit this. Sofia is a beautiful city. It's quiet but intense and it is filled with equally beautiful people who are gentle and polite. There is a calm graciousness to the city that I cannot explain, except that it is even euphoric, to some extent. A calm that brings you to an intense desire for fantasy amidst the plain, sunny reality. We walked into huge churches, and for the first time, I felt strangely moved by religious buildings. Maybe it was magic, maybe it was the desperation of needing to believe in something. Whatever it was, it felt beautiful. It's been three weeks now, and in my head, I see it as cobblestones and sunshine and innocence. That is all I really need to remember.
This past weekend, three friends from Istanbul visited, and it was the strangest time; mostly because an American girl was showing them around their capital city. During the night time, we hit up all the snobby parts of the city and laughed at the fakeness of it all. Sitting with three other girls, making fun of bad pick-up lines from neighboring tables, listening to live music, talking about men, clothes, and getting drunk without caring for nights in a row for the first time in almost four months made me feel weightless. I forget sometimes that I am just another girl who has a right to girl talk and bottles of wine, even if I want to save the world. Life is fair like that.
Brought to you by the Vice President of Fantasyland
Yesterday, while running late to meet a friend, I had to buy metro tickets. After I asked for ten of them, I ran towards the train in a rush, but as soon as I sat down, it hit me. It hit me while I was buying metro tickets. Not when I said goodbye at work, not when I saw my Istanbul friends for the last time, and not even when I had an amazing four hour conversation with a great guy. An ugly pink paper card did it for me. I looked down at the ticket in my hand and I realized that I wouldn't need ten more rides. Funny how it's always the little things in life. Right now, I'm watching Kabhi Alvida naa Kehna while writing this because, frankly, that foul movie does not deserve even half of anyone's attention, but I still have to watch it. I am four months overdue, and besides, someone posted the whole thing on youtube. Ironically, Vandana is watching the DVD right now in Japan, and we are simultaneously making fun of Shah Rukh's bad acting and the matching extras walking all over Manhattan. It's a small piece of home that I am forever grateful for in my time away from you. Aydin is over, and to appease him for not spending time with him, I am making him watch Y tu Mama, Tambien in the next room. Right now, I don't want to talk to him because just looking at him makes me depressed – I will even miss our Jane/Tarzan conversations because there is nothing more fun than making friends with someone who doesn't speak the same language as you. Yet, we have somehow managed to cement a friendship, albeit the strangeness of it all. I guess what I am trying to say is that it has all been a strange time, but it has been most rejuvenating. I finally did it. 60 hours before my flight, I called the Airlines and asked when my flight was on Sunday. Yes, I know that sounds a bit ludicrous, seeing as I am leaving for another country, another life (because that is what I am really doing, right?), another chance, and yet, I still did not want to know. I think we've all realized that I am the best procrastinator out there…I bought my Turkey ticket 36 hours before I left. My dad just called me moments ago and he finally brought up the unsaid issue (maybe because my mom is visiting her brother in Florida and so someone isn't yelling at him every time we talk): me never being able to sit still. He asked me when I was going to be happy in one place, and we both laughed quietly, him as the understanding father and me as the lost wanderer, because neither of us wanted to acknowledge the unspoken but obvious answer. Yesterday, I met up with someone I don't know too well, he left town today to take some lawyer test, to say my goodbyes and to fill some chat time. Yet, we ended talking for four hours and I found myself telling him what I really think the world is like and how my mind really works, things that I have never told anyone else – sometimes all you need is a lucky connection. And then I compared some Turkish author to Hitler. Yes, I do have a way with good impressions. There I was pouring out my heart, thoughts, and frustrations to someone whom I maybe had spent a grand total of 20 hours with, but it felt perfect. Amidst the hum of Turkish chatter, talking to some guy who is practically a stranger (in logical terms only) made me realize that we definitely need to, as crude as this may be, screw boundaries. Countries, cities, languages – they mean nothing in terms of humanity. Ironically, this is coming from someone who is obsessed with the abrasive cultural implications of genocide and human rights, but hey, we can forget that for now. As you can see, the more I travel, the more naïve I become. I feel as if someday soon I am going to hand my soul over to the next person who speaks to me on a magical night under the snowfall just because it feels right. Aren't I supposed to become tougher and more cynical? Most of the time, though, I am content to walk out alone into the biting cold at night and walk past the clusters of people under the scattered lights of a small city and feel perfectly happy as the wind forces my hair –unattractively, may I add – into my face. It's just so perfect to be a bystander and feel as if you belong at the same time. Going soft is really not my style, but Turkey, of all the places in the world, has done me in. You would think it would have been Buenos Aires, Paris, or even Edinburgh, for the love of God, but here I am. Of course, there are repercussions; maybe that's why I guarded myself for so long. People always ask me how I can get off a plane and walk into a city with eyes practically closed, waiting for the first person to chop me up into little pieces and eat me. I guess I just believe that there are more good people than bad people out there in the world, and I have been lucky so far to find the very best in every place. I mean, look at my roommates here – I could not have asked for more perfect friendships, but I have told you this already. What I have learned, though, is that emotional robbery (as cheesy as that sounds please don't hate me. I am leaving, you know how I get) is far worse than any material loss. I really did leave my heart out on a silver platter this time, and it has come back to me like it was ravaged by the Donner family, Ok, fine, not really, but it sounds good, right? Right. Anyway, I, for the first time in my life, invited any person with half a brain and a smile into my life, as if I were an emotional welcome mat and warm apple pie that welcome the new neighbors. And I learned my lesson. I love it. No matter my current desire to pluck out someone's eyelashes one by one and then re-glue them with a hot glue gun, I really liked the liberating feeling for the past three months of just letting my guard down. The good memories (barely) outweigh the idiotic behavior. And I know that in a few weeks, I will trust this individual again, and we may be as good friends as I thought we would become.
As much as I think I have changed, I re-read an email to someone just two weeks before I left, and maybe I haven't changed that much. Or maybe I have and I've come back a full circle? Who knows. It is too early to tell, but I know that I have still salvaged the ME-ness that is Khushbu. Spanish pop, passion, diet coke, an insipid amount of optimism, inappropriate jokes, and just a little bit of crazy to keep me sane. Ciao, Turkey. Now, it is time to say goodbye to a country that I counted the days until I left for the first few weeks. Yet, I cannot remember where the time went in the last two and a half months. Sometime in between my whining and impatience, it started to feel like home. Maybe not Ankara because I categorize it as a cold city, but the warmness that emanates from people balances it out. There are friendships here that are so magnetic and real, that have formed in such a short time, and I do not want to let them go. The people are different; it is hard to explain, but everyone needs to experience Istanbul and Turkish hospitality once in their life so I will leave this up to you to decide what it is in the water here.
In the past three months, I haven't decided whether I was in the East or still in the West, how I feel about Turkish history, the EU issue, and the controversy surrounding the Armenian issue and Cyprus. What I do know, though, is that I am not the same Berkeley loon who believes everything written on Sproul right away anymore.
I don't feel as heartbroken to leave Ankara as I did Santiago, and maybe that says more about the changes in me than my experiences in each place. Instead of leaving my heart in each place, I am learning to take a little bit of each place with me. That's the magic of it all.
Ankara, Turkey
I know it's been a while since my usual emails, but it's been a hectic month. Also, I know that a few of you, Ok, two of you in particular, think that I have gone off the deep end, and while I appreciate your concern (you guys are like vultures!), my soul-searching days have been amazing thus far.
Real Life: Ain't It Grand?
Fine, I know you guys are asking when I lead a normal life amidst all these deep thoughts, and let me tell you, it is rough, but it does happen. For two of the past four weeks, I was in Istanbul and Bulgaria. In Istanbul, I spent most of my time with five or six American girls who are studying abroad in Cairo, and one of them happened to be a good friend from Berkeley. Those ten days were absolutely perfect in every sense of the word. We hit up all of the touristy places, hung out with some Turkish friends, and pretty much acted as ridiculous as we could. One of my favorite memories is walking down Istiklal street singing Bollywood songs with two of them. We had our arms linked even though it is one of the most crowded streets ever, and under the glaring lights and smoke I just didn't care anymore. So we were tourists. Fine. So we were singing Shah Rukh Khan Hits. Yes, strange. So I sound like a dying cow when I sing. But honestly, I felt so free. Then there was our last night when two guys from Cairo showed up and we spent three hours, just four of us, standing in the middle of the street laughing until we fell down. I remember holding onto a car, with tears streaming down my face, trying not to pass out, and thinking how lucky I was. Because, really, who gets to be serenaded by a white guy who sings "You are my soniya" perfectly, watch a guy who impersonates people with impeccable style, and spend quality time with someone from home in the most perfect city in the world? The next day, I took a nine hour bus to Sofia, and at the border, being the only American on the bus I got some special treatment also known as heavy scrutiny and harassment. When I got to Sofia, I realized I had made no plans on where to stay, so I walked out of the huge bus terminal, brazenly sat down in a cab and told him, "Take me to a hotel." The smart ass pulled up to the Ritz, or something equally showy. Ok, yeah, are you going to pay for me, buddy? The doorman was sweet, though, and he handed us a city guide and I decided to rough it in a hostel, instead. Oh, the problems of a world traveler. The next morning, the lady who ran the hostel asked me if I spoke Spanish, and I thought she needed help because she spoke no English, so I didn't understand. Instead, she introduced me to her son who had just returned from Spain after two years, and he offered to show me around the city for the whole day. I know I gave him the "Ok, but what do you really want" look because he immediately said, I am just trying to help. Trust me. Ha! No, but really, he was a great tour guide: smart, funny, and a perfect gentleman. And I got to see the city in one day without getting lost, and with a cute Bulgarian boy who spoke Spanish. Yes, I am lucky; I readily admit this. Sofia is a beautiful city. It's quiet but intense and it is filled with equally beautiful people who are gentle and polite. There is a calm graciousness to the city that I cannot explain, except that it is even euphoric, to some extent. A calm that brings you to an intense desire for fantasy amidst the plain, sunny reality. We walked into huge churches, and for the first time, I felt strangely moved by religious buildings. Maybe it was magic, maybe it was the desperation of needing to believe in something. Whatever it was, it felt beautiful. It's been three weeks now, and in my head, I see it as cobblestones and sunshine and innocence. That is all I really need to remember.
This past weekend, three friends from Istanbul visited, and it was the strangest time; mostly because an American girl was showing them around their capital city. During the night time, we hit up all the snobby parts of the city and laughed at the fakeness of it all. Sitting with three other girls, making fun of bad pick-up lines from neighboring tables, listening to live music, talking about men, clothes, and getting drunk without caring for nights in a row for the first time in almost four months made me feel weightless. I forget sometimes that I am just another girl who has a right to girl talk and bottles of wine, even if I want to save the world. Life is fair like that.
Brought to you by the Vice President of Fantasyland
Yesterday, while running late to meet a friend, I had to buy metro tickets. After I asked for ten of them, I ran towards the train in a rush, but as soon as I sat down, it hit me. It hit me while I was buying metro tickets. Not when I said goodbye at work, not when I saw my Istanbul friends for the last time, and not even when I had an amazing four hour conversation with a great guy. An ugly pink paper card did it for me. I looked down at the ticket in my hand and I realized that I wouldn't need ten more rides. Funny how it's always the little things in life. Right now, I'm watching Kabhi Alvida naa Kehna while writing this because, frankly, that foul movie does not deserve even half of anyone's attention, but I still have to watch it. I am four months overdue, and besides, someone posted the whole thing on youtube. Ironically, Vandana is watching the DVD right now in Japan, and we are simultaneously making fun of Shah Rukh's bad acting and the matching extras walking all over Manhattan. It's a small piece of home that I am forever grateful for in my time away from you. Aydin is over, and to appease him for not spending time with him, I am making him watch Y tu Mama, Tambien in the next room. Right now, I don't want to talk to him because just looking at him makes me depressed – I will even miss our Jane/Tarzan conversations because there is nothing more fun than making friends with someone who doesn't speak the same language as you. Yet, we have somehow managed to cement a friendship, albeit the strangeness of it all. I guess what I am trying to say is that it has all been a strange time, but it has been most rejuvenating. I finally did it. 60 hours before my flight, I called the Airlines and asked when my flight was on Sunday. Yes, I know that sounds a bit ludicrous, seeing as I am leaving for another country, another life (because that is what I am really doing, right?), another chance, and yet, I still did not want to know. I think we've all realized that I am the best procrastinator out there…I bought my Turkey ticket 36 hours before I left. My dad just called me moments ago and he finally brought up the unsaid issue (maybe because my mom is visiting her brother in Florida and so someone isn't yelling at him every time we talk): me never being able to sit still. He asked me when I was going to be happy in one place, and we both laughed quietly, him as the understanding father and me as the lost wanderer, because neither of us wanted to acknowledge the unspoken but obvious answer. Yesterday, I met up with someone I don't know too well, he left town today to take some lawyer test, to say my goodbyes and to fill some chat time. Yet, we ended talking for four hours and I found myself telling him what I really think the world is like and how my mind really works, things that I have never told anyone else – sometimes all you need is a lucky connection. And then I compared some Turkish author to Hitler. Yes, I do have a way with good impressions. There I was pouring out my heart, thoughts, and frustrations to someone whom I maybe had spent a grand total of 20 hours with, but it felt perfect. Amidst the hum of Turkish chatter, talking to some guy who is practically a stranger (in logical terms only) made me realize that we definitely need to, as crude as this may be, screw boundaries. Countries, cities, languages – they mean nothing in terms of humanity. Ironically, this is coming from someone who is obsessed with the abrasive cultural implications of genocide and human rights, but hey, we can forget that for now. As you can see, the more I travel, the more naïve I become. I feel as if someday soon I am going to hand my soul over to the next person who speaks to me on a magical night under the snowfall just because it feels right. Aren't I supposed to become tougher and more cynical? Most of the time, though, I am content to walk out alone into the biting cold at night and walk past the clusters of people under the scattered lights of a small city and feel perfectly happy as the wind forces my hair –unattractively, may I add – into my face. It's just so perfect to be a bystander and feel as if you belong at the same time. Going soft is really not my style, but Turkey, of all the places in the world, has done me in. You would think it would have been Buenos Aires, Paris, or even Edinburgh, for the love of God, but here I am. Of course, there are repercussions; maybe that's why I guarded myself for so long. People always ask me how I can get off a plane and walk into a city with eyes practically closed, waiting for the first person to chop me up into little pieces and eat me. I guess I just believe that there are more good people than bad people out there in the world, and I have been lucky so far to find the very best in every place. I mean, look at my roommates here – I could not have asked for more perfect friendships, but I have told you this already. What I have learned, though, is that emotional robbery (as cheesy as that sounds please don't hate me. I am leaving, you know how I get) is far worse than any material loss. I really did leave my heart out on a silver platter this time, and it has come back to me like it was ravaged by the Donner family, Ok, fine, not really, but it sounds good, right? Right. Anyway, I, for the first time in my life, invited any person with half a brain and a smile into my life, as if I were an emotional welcome mat and warm apple pie that welcome the new neighbors. And I learned my lesson. I love it. No matter my current desire to pluck out someone's eyelashes one by one and then re-glue them with a hot glue gun, I really liked the liberating feeling for the past three months of just letting my guard down. The good memories (barely) outweigh the idiotic behavior. And I know that in a few weeks, I will trust this individual again, and we may be as good friends as I thought we would become.
As much as I think I have changed, I re-read an email to someone just two weeks before I left, and maybe I haven't changed that much. Or maybe I have and I've come back a full circle? Who knows. It is too early to tell, but I know that I have still salvaged the ME-ness that is Khushbu. Spanish pop, passion, diet coke, an insipid amount of optimism, inappropriate jokes, and just a little bit of crazy to keep me sane. Ciao, Turkey. Now, it is time to say goodbye to a country that I counted the days until I left for the first few weeks. Yet, I cannot remember where the time went in the last two and a half months. Sometime in between my whining and impatience, it started to feel like home. Maybe not Ankara because I categorize it as a cold city, but the warmness that emanates from people balances it out. There are friendships here that are so magnetic and real, that have formed in such a short time, and I do not want to let them go. The people are different; it is hard to explain, but everyone needs to experience Istanbul and Turkish hospitality once in their life so I will leave this up to you to decide what it is in the water here.
In the past three months, I haven't decided whether I was in the East or still in the West, how I feel about Turkish history, the EU issue, and the controversy surrounding the Armenian issue and Cyprus. What I do know, though, is that I am not the same Berkeley loon who believes everything written on Sproul right away anymore.
I don't feel as heartbroken to leave Ankara as I did Santiago, and maybe that says more about the changes in me than my experiences in each place. Instead of leaving my heart in each place, I am learning to take a little bit of each place with me. That's the magic of it all.
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