Wanderlust and Tea: Fueling my World Trip

Gaza on Our Minds...

2008-03-24T06:57:00.001-07:00

March 4, 2008

"Genocide in Gaza"

The Israeli Ministry of Defense has warned of a "holocaust" if the homemade Qassam rockets that are fired into southern Israel do not stop.

Why was that statement not reported on the vast majority of news stations? Why are the Gazans immediately – and always -- referred to as militants? And why is the international community remaining silent in times of a humanitarian crisis?

In the last four days, 91 one Palestinians have been killed. At least 12 are women and 18 are children. The youngest casualty last reported on Al Jazeera's Arabic channel was a two-day old child. More than 250 have been severely injured. People are climbing on to the roofs of their homes to create human shields so that the Israeli Army won't attack.

It hasn't worked so far.

What's worst, though, is that the government is divided in two over this issue. Over here in the West Bank, the Fatah-controlled government blames Hamas for bringing this on to its people and Hamas blames Fatah for not offering support. This is a time when the Palestinian people must – MUST – show solidarity and a will to come together. It is not about one party's ideals versus another, but the fact that Israel is aiming for genocide.

The Qassam rockets are not a good selling point; however, this conflict is not one-sided. If Apache helicopters are shooting people down every moment, what does Israel expect? Yet, Hamas's leader should not have stated that the Qassam rockets will never stop.

Strikes have begun in the West Bank. Meaning, cities like Ramallah, Bethlehem, and Nablus have closed their shops, restaurants, cafes, supermarkets in solidarity with the Gazan people.

A friend of mine took me for a drive around Ramallah yesterday because we were curious just how fast people would react to the horrifying news (Keep in mind all of this news is in Arabic – I am not even going to start with the crap that the English channels put on. Pure mindless garbage.). Within moments, most of the city had shut down. I went with him and his friends afterwards to do some shopping and everywhere, people were fixated on Gaza.

Last night, that very same evening, we were having dinner at a friend's place and what was supposed to bea relaxing night before I came back to Nablus turned out to be a horrific, bloody mess. At first, because half of us were foreigners and the other half Palestinian, we started off with Al Jazeera International. Yet, only the Arabic Al jazeera truly covered the complexity of the situation. What is frustrating about this is that the people outside of the region need to learn and understand the situation more than the people within the conflict. We're an emotionally invsted group here, we know the facts, the numbers, the background. All the guys could only curse as we watched Minister after Preseident after Political Leader blame one another. After hearing what they were saying without recognizing the true problem, I couldn't blame my friends.

Curse away.

It's only a short distance away, and yet, it feels like another country, maybe even another world. Gaza is the world's biggest prison, with 1.5 million people living in those few kilometers. And to shoot at them under already horrid circumstances of limited electricity, food, and supplies – might as well herd them around like cattle and shoot them dead.

Just a few weeks ago, the last catastrophe, when Gaza blacked out for days, seems like a simple little problem, in retrospect.

People are saying that Nablus is next. I don't think that is the case, but things are a bit off in the West Bank in general. As I came home this morning from Ramallah, more Israeli jeeps were around than usual. We were shot at this morning around 9 a.m., but I was the only one who flinched, and all I could think was, "If anyone gets shot, they get shot. So what?" Every time I looked out of the window, an M-16 was pointed in our direction.

Israel starts a new war, and the Palestinians are in danger.

At this very moment, there is an official strike for the next few hours and no one is allowed to work at the University. I have to go because we are showing solidarity with the Gazans, and almost everything in the West Bank has shut down.

Everything is Acceptable in Palestine

2008-03-24T06:52:00.000-07:00

January 25, 2008

"The Gazans can walk They don't need oil."

Too bad they don't show this kind of family fun telivision in English and in the Western Media. That gem of a quote is from a press conference by the Israeli governement this morning.

This time, I wanted to send you a cheerful, cheesy email that would give you insight into anything besides conflict and occupation. Unfortunately, daily life infringes on the humor of random conversations and the culture of romance via text messages and coffee.

Another time, another time.

After my first three day experience of Israeli incursion – the evening incursions occur every eveingin in the Old City – it remains difficult to keep a level concept of human rights and justice. Also, I never thought I was such an angry person.

Karam comes in to tell me that two students have dropped the class. Before I can think of what I have done wrong, she says, "They've been arrested and don't know when they'll be let out. Some of their friends will take their places."

The worst realization comes when the information does not affect me, and I give her a "what can you do?" look and walk back into the classroom. Only later, when I am alone, I have to force myself into understanding that, no, this is daily life in Palestine, but it is not normal.

Not for any country, territory, or people.

After the curfew is lifted and the Israeli tanks have left Nablus in its psuedo-peace, the numbers and stories come out. Saed's friend, a man on his way to Friday prayer, has been shot in the back of his three times. All I can think is how are the Israeli soldiers going to defend themselves in this situation? Shooting a man in a non-curfew street and in the back of the head, too. Even some of the Israeli newspapers have picked up the story, and while it is not justice, it's something.

At this point, I've figured out that this is the best Palestine can hope for. Something.

I can't imagine living my life every single hour, every single day, every single year this way. Strangers and friends laud Maria and me for living in Nablus – aka the Gaza of the West Bank – but we're nobody. We're outsiders, hoping for a glimpse, hoping for that one moment of frustration to show solidarity. But I think that is shallow, and I refuse to pretend that I have experienced something or that I am one of them. I don't think that I wille ver be as great as any single Palestinian.

Yet, as I watch an 80 year old man being shoved by a nineteen year old teenage soldier, the tears begin to fall. First, make him wait an hour to leave his city, when he gets to the front of the line, tell him he must go somewhere else to wait, and then shove him when he is slow because he is tired and cold. Then you wonder why the foreigner with he American passport looks like all she wants to do is give you a swift kick where it hurts the most.

"You from America? Go back to America!" The aformetioned teenager tells me as he sees me wiping away the tears. And then he throws my passport at me, as if that will hurt my feeling and I will leave.

Shows how much that rug rat knows.

Anotehr day, because I am reading a book in English and I look Palestinian, I am summoned off the servis. The Ethiopian-Israeli female soldier starts snapping questions me in horrid Arabic, I decide to play her game. I laugh at her and tell her I don't understand a word. She grabs me and starts grabbing my body and my clothes.

"What is this? What is this?" She says as she grabs my side and the bow on my shirt. The angler bubbles up now and I want to tell ehr where she can take her acne-ridden face and shove it, but instead, I look at one of the male soldiers and ask if they speak English.

After a few moments where the female soldier stands in bewilderment, the guys wish me a nice trip and allow me to enter the servis again. I apologize to my fellow passengers and laugh hystericallyas the vehicle leaves the checkpoint because I am sure this is the first time a foreighner has been the reason for a stop.

I'll stop with the hideous bashing here because I don't want you to see this situation as completely black and white. This is what has started the whole Occupation and sixty year conflict.

Every time I cross paths with an Israeli soldier or Israeli, I try my best to put myself in his or her position. At the age of eighteen, you are forced into two or three (depending on whether you are a female or a male) year military service. Most of the soldiers, therefore are in the 18-20 age range.Imagine, on New year's Eve, you are standing in the biting cold, checking identification in the West Bank,when you could be in Tel Aviv with your friends and partying like a rockstar. Or, you are allowed contact with girls for the first time in days, and even if they are Palestinian and/or Pro-Palestinian foreigners, you can't help but flirt or try to extend the conversation a bit.

Ostensibly, not all Israelis are bad, just as all Palestinians are not good people. However, my dear, dear Israel, how do you expect me to feel sympathy for you?

I've spent an evening walking through the cemetary with two dozen men while they light candles for the martyrs. I've met parents who have sent their sons away to Ireland as they have no hope for happiness here. My friends have been beaten and harrassed. My friends cannot come with me to visit Jerusalem, their capital, nor can they even come to a party of mine in Ramallah.

What do you want me to say to you? That, as an American, of course we're friends!

Get real.

Right now, at this very moment, 1.5 million Palestinians are sitting in Gaza without water, oil. electricity, a shortage of food, and heat. Hospitals incubators are being shut off and newborns are dying by the minute. There is no medicine, and no one is allowed to leave or come in. Meaning, there is no chance of food or supplies.

Last night, I had received messages from my friends in the Arab World whileI had taken my four minute shower. We have to strategically plan our baths in our flat because there is no hot water for longer than four minutes in every hour, and I was thinking to myself, "Gosh, I am such a saint not to complain."

As I checked my phone, I had four messages. All of them were asking me what I thought of the situation in Gaza. As I let the air out of self-righteousness, I couldn't describe my emotions. What was that feeling?

Did I feel...guilty?

Of course I felt guilty. We're in the same country, and I have hot water. The sewage and dirty water is not flooding the city. I can eat bread without hoarding it. Best of all, Israeli neighbor is not (tonight, anyway) shooting at me in the dark, hoping to wipe out a million people.

Anger is exhausting, but so is pain. So much for a carefree email

As a friend of mine says,"Everything is acceptable in Palestine."

----

January 5, 2008

It's nearly midnight on the third, and hopefully, final day of the current curfew on Nablus. Three days only and there's a quiet desperation in the flat.

The pair of us is itching to get out, rejoin this patient society that has been locked up while the Israeli army searches the city and its inhabitants for whatever it is that they need to find. Some of the longest curfews have lasted three months. As neither of us is close to fluent in Arabic, the only snippets of information that we have gathered in the past seventy-two hours are from friends we have called to check up on and vice versa.

And the ten second news headlines on Al Jazeera and occasionally, the BBC or CNN.

What has to happen in the West Bank so that the rest of the world sits up and listens? Is it that we expect horrible things to happen in this region that when it does, it is not newsworthy any more? Has suffering become the norm?

Three days with constant attention on the news strikes the sudden realization of how little we in the West are given insight into the world. Sure, I'm just as glad as any youthful Democrat that Obama breezed through the Iowa caucuses, but three days coverage of only that and Kenya's unrest? For shame, Al Jazeera. I had more hope for you than that.

Most importantly, this region is real. It is not solely war, casualties, and the military. There is a life here besides conflict, and it matters. It does, it does. It must.

Feeling for these people is out of the question because first, people must see, read, listen -- learn. The same information of "One child shot and ten injured in the West Bank during Israeli incursion" has been the only source of English information the first two days. And it's not correct. Someone was shot, but it was not a child. A man, on his was to Friday prayer on a
street outside of the curfew, was shot in the head three times. Today, even when the Israelis have supposedly left, as friends have called in to explain, Al Jazeera flashes the bottom of its news page with " Nablus under curfew as Israeli incursion continues."

Too late, Al Jazeera. Too late.

Eight hours until freedom is the only thought that passes through my mind. What a strange concept that is: freedom. Freedom for me means that I am once again to traipse through the West Bank at ease because I am a foreigner, uninhibited by the officials, restrictions, wall, and checkpoints. For the Palestinian, freedom is the cautious passage of day to day, night to night until another outsider tells him to turn back, to live life within a boundary defined by someone who has no right to impose a lifestyle on another human being.

You want freedom, you Palestinian?

Fine, line up at the checkpoint with the eighty year old man next to you, the pregnant woman in front of you, and the toddler that weaves between legs, impatient and unaware of the life that she will lead. Let a 19 year-old Israeli Occupation Soldier bark through the window of your servis Taxi in broken Arabic and demand to know where you are from and where you have the right to travel within your territory. Have another soldier physically assault a man that looks like your grandfather, and then reach for a Western passport and smile flirtatiously at some girl as he asks why she would ever, ever consider visiting a city like Nablus. I live here, you spineless man, she fumes over as she fights the urge to scream obscenities in his naïve face. Watch the construction of a wall that destroys your economy, job opportunities, and the right to a successful and normal life. While you're at it, usher in the tanks and jeeps from the occupier to shoot at restless children throwing pebbles at you who have been confined to their homes and know no other life. Of course it is fair to crush cars and invade home in the middle of the night, threatening and imposing intentions of security.

No need for food, diapers or toilet paper. You didn't stock up "just in case" there might be an invasion?

Too bad, Palestine .

On the first day of the curfew, I remain blissfully unaware as I wake up on the first day of the weekend and stretch languidly as my phone rings. M. has woken up just an hour before and has gone to one of the University campuses to do some personal things that cannot be finished during work schedules. She calls to tell me of the jeeps and tanks that she passed and warns me to be careful because she knows I have similar plans to wander the streets and finish some work.

Of course, I throw on some clothes and run out to see the Israelis.

As I waive down one of the few taxis on the street, I tried to downplay my excitement as the driver remains unshaken by the sudden invasion. I think I am annoying him with my barrage of questions, and instead, turn to the window and wonder which alternate route he will take since most of the streets seemed to be shut down. I wonder if we will even be able to reach the University without being told to turn back.

As he is about to drop me off, he looks at me and asks if I am Khushbu. Surprised, I answer yes, and he tells me that his daughter is always talking about me. He refuses to take my money, but his daughter's voices floats through my head, recounting her father's daily wages and I am almost violent in my demands that he take the money. I want to give him more than the usual, but I know that will insult him. As I step out of the back, he warns, "Remain careful. Allah Maak."

God be with you.

Even during a time like this, the people are humble and kind.

No wonder the need for God is so great. What else is there to believe in? Every living generation in this territory knows no other life than one of occupation, invasion, submission, and the restriction of life.

I don't want this to be a political message, but one of humanity. Of course, for me and for the millions of refugees, displaced, and occupied populations, there is an obvious direction that this frustration is angled toward, but for today, I want you to think in terms of humanity. Make your own decisions, form your opinions, but try and learn more of the situation before forming that final conclusion.

A mother on Christmas Day speaks of watching her sons be bullied from adolescence to adulthood. As single tears roll down her cheeks, she speaks of multiple times that she has had to stand in the way of soldiers and her sons because she knows they are less likely to harm a woman. She sneaks through cities, across the Israeli-Palestinian border because the Israelis will not give her permission, even though she needs to, no, she must visit the Irish Embassy in Tel Aviv for her son's visa and has every right to enter Israel.

Days and nights of fear and hope culminate into a mother's resignation to the fact that she must "sneak" her child around checkpoints, through valleys, and into fields so that he may find a way out of this life. As her husband refills tea cups, she sighs into the silence before she continues. Of course no mother wants to know that her country, their country, cannot keep her children happy and alive.

However, as her oldest son went blind from trauma and shock during the second intifadah, and was cured miraculously in his first few days in Ireland, what is a mother to do?

A little boy of two or three runs in and out of the line at Huwara while his mother holds their place in line. He laughs as he waves to people in the line up, and runs father and farther away from the organized procession as his restlessness grows. I watch him zig zag his way out of his mother's reach and laugh as he brings back universal recollections of childhood and dodging parents.

As the line shuffles forward, the laughter catches in my throat. There is nothing universal or remotely normal about this. Yet, this child will grow up to think that this is a standard, a way of life. When his mother finally makes a successful grab for him, I shudder and look away. Hopefully, he will enjoy a few more years of innocence.

Some think that the lone sound of the ehzaan from the mosque in the middle of the night sounds eerie and lonely. I beg to differ. Tonight, in all its still calm, Nablus sounds eerie to me. No gunshots, no bombs, no drone of the plane. A few straying lights flash but to the unconscious observer it is any other city waiting for its inhabitants to wake.

I wonder how Palestine will feel once only memories of snipers, tanks, and the drone remain. In a matter of months, it has become a way of life. Just imagine lifetimes of the same.

What a sad, sad realization.

There must be phases of this situation that newbies go through. First, I was appalled, shocked, outraged, angry. On New Year's Eve, after going through an empty Huwara to reach the Ramallah servis, I laughed in the face of a soldier at the second checkpoint. Everyone turned to look at me, but I couldn't stop my giggling, no matte how embarrassing or threatening to someone's life.

Hatred is not the sole definition of my relationship with the IOF and their country. I consider myself too informed and realistic to be one of those that only see the situation as black and white. Pity resonates through the past few months, as well. What else can I feel when watching ten kids throwing stones and insulting two dozen soldiers standing guard and suddenly attacking these boys with tear gas? Is this what your life is? Is this how you define life and the patriotic defense of your country: Shooting a child in the head with a rubber bullet as he utilizes the only means of coping with a stranger on his territory?

We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope -- Mahmoud Darwish

2008-03-24T06:50:00.000-07:00

December 10, 2007

I'm woozy by the time we reach Bethlehem and I can tell my green-tinted friends feel the same. However, the beautiful Old City and the huge chunk of religious history better known as the Nativity Church remedy the nausea.

Palestine has been a surprise for me; a newfound passion, really. History, religion, culture, language: in essence, everything that fuels conflict, politics, and individuality.

No need to be jealous, though. My time here isn't as exciting as most of you think it is. Mostly, it is loads of thinking mixed in with tiny bits of experiencing, observing, and an array of emotions that makes me feel schizophrenic at times.

My visa ends January 24, and I have to make a decision (something I'm not terribly good at doing). Either I can extend my visa through a consulate in the West Bank, which by the way, most of us never knew existed, or I can risk leaving the country and trying to return. I prefer the latter, although I am pretty sure I might be rejected, mostly because I would like to go back to Jordan for a few days and see some people. As horrible as this is, a little part of me hopes that I may be rejected so that I can head off to Morocco for a month to visit someone and spend a languid, lazy month in Rabat before finally heading home.

As usual, nothing will be decided until January 23.

Anyway, I am writing to let you know that I am OK, and I have been the worst at keeping in touch these last 7 weeks, and will be even worse the next two weeks. I am going to Ramallah this weekend so that a couple of friends and I will be able to go to Qalqilia (one of the most 'dangerous' cities in the West Bank) and get a good look at the hideous wall and concrete zoo. Saturday, I will go to my second Palestinian wedding, and Eid Al-Adha begins in about a week and a half.

We're going to Jerusalem on a tour with a man who speaks twelve languages and ending the day with dinner in a cave. The next day, half a dozen of us will head off to Bethlehem and spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day there. Maria and I are still debating if we will join the others for Mass on Christmas Eve, which begins at midnight and lasts until 3 or 4 a.m.

Even Jesus can't hold my interest that long.

To end our holiday, Deirdre, Aline, Maria, and plan to take a road trip through Tel Aviv, Haifa, Akka, and Golan Heights. Mostly, I'd like to the territory Israel captured from Syria – the Golan Heights – and life in Haifa 18 months after the 2006 war. The damage, socially and physically, probably wanes in comparison to southern Lebanon and the southern suburbs of Beirut.

As for work, let's see. I work on a University campus, with a Human Rights campaign fueled through the Public Relations department of An-Najah National University (aka the "University of Terror"), located in Nablus (aka the "City of Terror").

When I am not writing reports, entertaining foreigners, giving presentations, running a long-term workshop on journalism and editing, and teaching diplomatic forms of rhetoric to a group of students that plan to travel abroad, I talk.

I talk to girls in niqaabs, flocks of students in hijaabs, the rebel boys in flashy clothes, the select few students that have been outside of Palestine. Actually, I listen. Never have I experienced so much of life through words. Words of frustration, anger, hope, and resignation.

The highlight of my time is the interaction with these students, people who are not much younger than me, but who have been stunted from expanding their knowledge and maturity, literally, by a wall. And occupation. And checkpoints. And raids. And gunshots. And curfews.

Picture Nablus: one of the oldest cities (and the most dangerous) in the West Bank cut off from the rest of the West Bank, let alone Israel, by three checkpoints, nightly Israeli raids in the old city and clashes in the refugee camps. Can you imagine not having the right to travel within your own country? Having to hear about cities in
your country from foreigners? They can't even go to Jerusalem, the city that should be their capital (By the way, Google Earth is wrong. The official Israeli capital is Tel Aviv). Checkpoints to go to school every single day, hours and hours of interrogation, and worrying because you are in Nablus with a Jerusalem ID card.

Yet, somehow, the students let me forget. When I am in the office, they stop by to say hi, ask if I'd like to take a walk, and chat. The girls tell me about problems with their parents, love interests, and how their aunt just called because some decent man would like to marry her. A guy walks in late to my rhetoric class and when I give him 'the nasty teacher' look, he merely grins and hands me a cup of coffee. The guys are all wannabe Casanovas, and I love every single one of them.

Then there is life outside of Nablus and the University. Maria and I spend most of the weekends with the girls in Ramallah, either by staying in the city or traveling to Jerusalem, Hebron, and Bethlehem, thus far. Sometimes, they come visit us and we walk around the old City and eat kanafah. Aline has an Arabic teacher, Ahmed, who is our age, and usually, we end up going out with him and half a dozen of his best friends when we stay in Ramallah. These are the moments, sitting around a table with six Palestinian men and our new friends, laughing and joking, and hopefully, they are able to forget.

Even if it is just for a few hours.

Maria turns to me on one of these nights and whispers, "You're right. I'm glad we don't live here. I would forget where I was if we did this every weekend or every night."

It's true. Ramallah, although encased in a shabby shell, has all the comforts and internationals of any other major city. I prefer Nablus.

I don't know what made me feel guilty, but all of a sudden, I turned to Ahmed and blurted out, "Don't you feel bad that we are here doing this," pointing to the smoke-filled room and laughing crowds, "When all of that is going on out there?"

Instantly, I slap my forehead. What a stupid and shallow question to ask!

But Ahmed has always been my favorite, and since the first moment we met, we get along smashingly. He just smiles and says, "Khushbu, I've mourned my whole life. I've mourned the last seven years [since the intifada]. I've learned that if I don't enjoy my time, I might die. Just die."

Then Kilany asks me to go dance to some Amr Diab, and that pathetic question is forgotten amidst the laughter as I try to convince Mohammed that he will regret this decision.

---
It's been nearly seven weeks since Pedro and I sat on the steps on the Damascus Gate in East Jerusalem and then wandered over to the Wailing Wall. My aforementioned Portuguese friend has been traveling the world for three years, and we met in a chance encounter on the bus from the Jordanian border to the Israeli border. We both waited four hours at the security checkpoint, him because he had been to Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, and Jordan. I had to wait because I had been to Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon.

While my list was not nearly as long or as 'complicated' as his, we waited the same amount of time because 1) honestly, he doesn't look Arab (and supposedly, I do) and 2) the IDF soldiers, who are all girls, at the border, could not get over his ridiculous good looks.

I just pretend that the girls wanted to help the good looking Latin man because the discrimination from that day still haunts me. It's only one thousandth of what happens to Palestinians on a daily basis, and I can barely think on that day without my blood boiling.

I don't how to end this, and honestly, I am telling you this because I don't know what perception I want you all to have of Palestine. Resignation? Hope? Curiosity?

I hope that it's the last one. I want you all to learn about the wall that 'separates' Palestine from Israel. I want you to know that there is a University (Al Quds University) that is separated by that very same wall. Imagine not being able to go to a class because it is on one side of a wall that your occupiers have built for 'safety' purposes. Instead, imagine a stifled economy and incomprehensible poverty. If all I can do for you all over there at this time is one thing, I would want it to be to make you think. Just think.

More Anger at the Checkpoints

2007-12-04T05:27:00.000-08:00

I'm dressed for a checkpoint – i.e., my most American outfit. Boots, leggings, and a dress. I am covered from neck to toe, but I want to make sure there is no doubt of my Americanness. Hence, the flashy outfit.

As I approach the front of the line, the woman behind me watches me pull out my camera and encourages me to take pictures so that I can show people back home. However, the soldier is keeping an eye on me and I am unable to gather the courage to take a snap of the wires, fence, and crowd of IDF soldiers searching a taxi on the other side of the barbed wire.

Finally, it is my turn. I hand over my passport to the soldier, who could easily be my younger brother. He mutters, "So, you're American."

He then asks, "Where are you from?"

I look at him as if he is crazy. Did he not just state to himself where I was from?

"The U.S.," I respond. That is all he needs to know.

The kid looks at me again and smiles. He asks me if I enjoyed my time in Nablus. I try to unclench my teeth so that one syllable to respond to his ludicrous question may come out.

After a moment of silent stares, he lets me pass. Infuriated, I mumble my way to the taxis towards Ramallah. How dare he treat the eighty year old man in front of me as if he is worthless or going to blow up the checkpoint, and try to be my friend? Does he think I am ignorant or naive?

I'm afraid that one day I won't be able to control my rage and that I will slap one of those soldiers.

Men: Palestinian Fury

2007-12-04T05:22:00.000-08:00

Nablus, West Bank

L. pops into the office on the old campus today and asks if I would like to come with her as she speaks to the Director about the harassment she, M., and I face on a daily basis. I ponder all the times I have been stalked, harassed, and felt too uncomfortable to walk on campus without practically sprinting.

"Hell, yeah!" I tell L.

We walk into the office and the Director is all ears; he is horrified, in fact. Within half an hour, L. calls me and tells me to jot down two numbers: the head of security at each campus.

Finally, as we are about to hang up, she tells me to tell A., the man in charge of the internationals. As I begin to tell him, his face seems to cloud over, but I don’t understand why. After I finish my explanation, his tirade begins.

He tells me that all internationals face this and that I should have read the guide (I did, you jackass). I tell him that I have lived in a half dozen countries and I know that this is the norm, but we are on a University campus. It is a different circumstance and these 'boys' are educated. They have no excuse to yell vulgar slurs at us.

He doesn't seem to understand.

A. tells me that instead of looking for a 'cure', it might be better to start with 'prevention'. I ask him what he means by that, but I already know. He looks at me and says, "Well, today you are dressed OK."

I know I am dressed more than OK; I am the epitome of respect. Every single day, I wear a combination of clothing that shows nothing more than my hands, my face, and my hair. Every single day. How dare he imply that I deserve this treatment.

Following this insult, he explains that a Swedish volunteer used the word 'haraam' to deal with these guys. I want to yell at him, slap him and tell him not to patronize me. I know very well how to use 'Haraam aalek', thank you. I just think it is not proactive enough.

---
Not all the men are like this. Most of them are very respectful, especially some of the younger ones that I have been in contact with. One of my students who is my age, he brought me coffee to class. Others are suck ups – wannabe Casanovas – but always respectful. I am just completely insulted by the fact that the man who deals with internationals is such a sexist hypocrite.

Checking Frustrations at the Checkpoint

2007-11-17T03:39:00.000-08:00

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).

Q and the Man with the 'Doodlys'

2007-11-13T03:38:00.000-08:00

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.

In Memory of Abu Ammar

2007-11-12T04:21:00.000-08:00

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.

The Human Investment and Peace Talks

2007-11-10T23:14:00.000-08:00

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.

Tales from Palestine # 8

2007-11-08T04:24:00.000-08:00

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.

Tales from Palestine # 7

2007-11-08T03:03:00.000-08:00

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.

Tales from Palestine # 3,4,5,6

2007-11-05T03:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Tales from palestine # 2

2007-11-05T03:55:00.000-08:00

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.

Tales from Palestine # 1

2007-11-05T03:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Chris Hedges is Overrated

2007-11-05T03:50:00.000-08:00

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.

Expats: Mean Girls Re-Created?

2007-11-05T03:44:00.001-08:00

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.

The World is Flat

2007-11-05T03:29:00.000-08:00

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

Familiar Stranger

2007-11-05T03:25:00.000-08:00

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.

The Times of India SUCKS

2007-11-05T03:20:00.000-08:00

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?

Irreplaceable

2007-11-05T03:16:00.000-08:00

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.

"We need men who can dream of things that never were."-- JFK

2007-11-05T03:13:00.000-08:00

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.

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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.

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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!).

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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.

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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

2007-11-05T03:10:00.000-08:00

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?"

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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.

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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

2007-11-05T03:05:00.000-08:00

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

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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...

2007-11-05T03:03:00.000-08:00

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.

Embarassed to Read this Now!

2007-11-05T03:00:00.000-08:00

October 16, 2006
Ankara, Turkey

The perfect kinds of nights are the ones you fight hard to remember months after they fade away from memory. The ones that are not so magical, but quite normal, and in the end, they are what make you happy. I am thinking of a few of these nights, ones that I will probably disengage from my happy recollections even weeks from now, but at this moment in time, they make me content. A few of Benan's friends are regulars at the apartment and one in particular is one of my favorites. He so theatre it's alarming; He is always the center of attention, always singing, or being a ham. On nights that he stays over, the four of us sit in the kitchen with the window open so that the cool breeze can flow in while we watch the guys eat. Last night, I took out my contacts so all I could see were three blurry images. While listening to the Turkish swirling around me, I tried hard to acknowledge the fact that I was in Turkey. Turkey, Khushbu. Maybe it will finally hit me once I leave. Anyway, here we are when Aydin, the friend, starts singing Turkish traditional art music, just as he always does. A few minutes earlier it had started raining slightly, and it was the most wonderful feeling – his singing, the soft rain, and the vagueness of it all.
________________

I wrote this three weeks ago and I still feel the same way. Ankara doesn't depress me anymore; now I wonder if I ever truly hated it. I know I will always look back on this experience as the most important because it has taught me so much about myself. It is the first time I have done something without a silver spoon in my mouth. I think I've always lived in a dream, wished for dreams, and searched for dreams. The first weeks of this trip were the antithesis of every hope and desire that I have ever had, and looking back on those days, it pains me to realize how close I was to giving up. I tried in the first days to label the rough times as "reality," but let's be honest; this is too cushioned to be real life. Yet, it is not a dream. While this may not be an epiphany for the rest of you, it was for me. Nothing has to be either perfect or a harsh reality because most of the time it is a blissful mix of both. When this first hit me, I remember sitting in silence for a few moments and feeling an uncanny out-of-body experience like I was watching myself grow up.

The same problems that I face in Santiago are popping up in Ankara, and a little part of me always guessed they would but I secretly hoped they wouldn't. For this reason, I was grateful to think that I only have about two more weeks before I can move on to the next leg of my trip, but a few days ago my professor summoned me into his room. He put me in charge of the organization of the book I told you all about, and then asked when I was going to leave. When I told him, he said that I could not leave under so soon, and asked me to stay a little late. Then I can travel until mid November and go to Budapest a bit later, which is not a problem because I will be there for five months and a couple weeks will not make a difference. I thought about this change for a few hours, and I think it would be pretty stupid for me to pass up this book opportunity, and besides, I am beginning to like it here. A lot.

So those problems – people. My parents always warned me that I was too sensitive and an emotionally attached person even when I was a little kid. A week trip here, a month there, and I decided that I didn't want to come back. India and Chile are tough examples of this, and I didn't want to make Turkey one of those, too. Honestly, I never thought it would be, but it is, and I find myself many times a day smiling at the great days and then willing to push these too-happy-thoughts away. Closing my eyes with my fists clenched and secretly saying to myself, " Khushbu, relax. Khushbu, you will never be able to keep doing this if you make everyone this important to you. Khushbu, try not to be so darned sensitive, besides, they're just people. There are 6 billion others you can be friends with and meet in this lifetime ."

And you all know I am probably the most sensitive person to grace most parts of the earth – let's not forget embarrassing video screenings where I end up bawling, movies where people have to tell me shhhhh!, and the worst – reading an article in the library during finals and crying silently while the guys across from me watch me in horror. ISRO really is like a family; a strangely tight-knit group of people that are so pure-hearted it makes me feel like the Wicked Witch of the West a little too often. I don't think that I will ever have such an opportunity to be around such innocence and security again for quite a while, or ever again. I wish I could show you even 1% of this feel-goodness because they cynic in me never thought such a lollipop guild could exist (like my Oz references?).

Home is even worse because it is like being surrounded by perfection in the form of siblings who I don't think have ever done a bad thing in their lives. It's kind of like being stuck in a Turkish version of the Brady Bunch, but with dirty jokes, cigarettes, and lots of cola. Relish these situations I do, but I have an odd feeling that I am being strangely spoiled by the karma Gods for something I did not do.

So there you have it. In Chile, it was the city. In India, it was my culture. Here, it is the people.

A Little Bit of Everything

2007-11-05T02:56:00.000-08:00

September 15, 2006
Ankara, Turkey

I got my first batch of hate mail today (if you exclude the evil letters form two very angry Indian girls last November, right, Rad?), but I think it is from the same person because he/she used a news agency to send me an article and added a note. You know how you can email an article to a friend, or whatever? Well, he/she sent it from me to myself. I think he/she is a complete sissy, but it makes me feel famous. Or that someone took the time out to get mad at me. Let me show you: "Read you idiot...

I think your choice of language in describing the LTTE as a terror unit betrays your superficial understanding of the situation in Sri Lanka. Generally you seem to be a person of little intelligence, which is why you are writing for a journal in Turkey??Obviously everything that has an opinion and contradicts state led terrorism is the real terror to greedy malevolent people like you. Why not go and get a real job…do what Guju's do best make money out of other people's misery…ooops I forget…that is what you are doing." "erm doubt if u r a real Hindu but try and read the Mahabharata or even Gita to enhance your lack of understanding." So what I said in my comments was that 1) that the Tamil Tigers used terrorist tactics, but that they might be justified to a small degree because of the historical context of injustice and lack of change provided to them, 2) that there is never a one side right and wrong, i.e. in the case of India and Pakistan, and 3) that you cannot side with any particular agenda based on national or ethnic justification solely. Anyway, I think the person is Indian, probably Tamil, because he knew from my name that I was Gujarati and Hindu. Also, I don't see why he had to insult Turkey. Ignorant people really piss me off.

Ok, back to the good stuff. I am getting published in a book, and I am the only one who does not have a M.A. or a Ph.D. I am so grateful that they trust me enough to contribute a real article in a real book, and this time it is so different than what I did for Dave Eggers and Lola Vollen. I feel much more like a peer, and someone who will be taken seriously. Besides, being published in a book like this is good for my professional life, too, you know.

Also, I might add Bosnia as a leg of my journey because I am so close, and most of you know that it is the one place in the world that I want to go to more than anywhere else. I am looking for internships, jobs, whatever right now, so we will see how that goes. Like I said, if you want to read my controversial words, go here:
http://www.turkishweekly.net/comments.php

Don't you hate it when the parentals are right? My dad always says everything happens for a reason (I think I've told you all this before), and I know I wrinkle my nose and sigh in boredom every time he tells me this, but man, is he right. Noyan really is a caring person, someone who is very considerate, and is turning out to be bearable. Even more brilliant is his sister, Benan. She came back from vacation about three weeks ago, and it is surprising how fast we have become so close. I think it scares Noyan. She's a theatre student—I think I have an affinity for theatre majors as some of my best friends love theatre – and she is so amazing. So are her friends. Most of them don't speak much English, but I have hung out with many of them on a number of occasions, and we can talk for hours on end about anything with a little bit of translating. The entrance system for theatre students is very arduous here, and so I went along to watch, meet her friends, and have some fun watching people be nervous. Out of 600 people, her school took 12. More importantly, I love her friends: They are so nice to me, and they have promised me all sorts of things – nights out, food, drinking, stories…everyone tells me I am so lucky. A few of them, by Rabia, have been dubbed "Khushbu's pets" because somehow they always sit in a circle around me and try to teach me things, tell me stories, or get my attention even though our communication is not always so fabulous.

Çağrı and Ezgi have left, and while I talk to Çağrı still, Ezgi and I really don't speak anymore. However, new interns have come and we are having a fun time. Everything is well and almost perfect.

The biggest compliment comes from Baris because he is one of those guys that is severely disillusioned, very macho and tough, and hates women. Seriously, I wish you could meet him. He's only a few years older than me, but he always talks about how old he is, and the fun time in life is over. Mr. Laciner told us that because his IQ is something ridiculous that he cannot control what he says, and that he says some pretty awkward things. Yet, we were out last Friday and he turned to everyone and he said, "You know, I think you are our favorite intern. We will really miss you when you leave." From him, it is the most important compliments because we rarely hear him compliment people. I think it will be hard to leave the people, if not the city.

My Cake Boy aka Mr. Khushbu Shah is just a fun thing to look at and you know me when I think someone is cute. I refuse to talk to him or go near him. The guys love calling him cake boy, and when he says hi to me, they think it's even funnier that I blush and ignore him. Yet somehow we girls get free dessert every day. I like to pretend he is the one who sends it to us, but it has to be our waiter, the one we have had for weeks. Fantasy is always more fun than reality.

Hopefully you can tell that I am enjoying my life, for the most part. I have a hard time with the men, but I am learning to be more stoic, fierce, and tough. My biggest barrier, though, in loving the city, is the language. It kills me that I cannot understand the majority of conversations, or that I might be missing out on friendships because of this wall.

I hope that this was enough of a mix of the old Khushbu and the new Khushbu for you all this time. I got some complaints last time telling me I sound too formal and rigid, so here I am! I think I have found a good balance for right now, but I can tell I am changing. Sometimes it is not such a good change because I do not feel so shy or humble when people compliment me. I don't blush as much anymore, and I am so outgoing that I even scare myself sometimes. I don't exactly know where I am going with this or in the future, but hopefully, it will be a good change. I should go now because a bunch of Turkish guys are taking me to a football game!

The Tougher Parts...

2007-11-05T02:47:00.000-08:00

August 28, 2006
Ankara, Turkey

The toughest part of a trip is never the beginning or the end ; I guess that leaves the middle. The first part is always filled with questions and hope, and the end is filled with stories to tell to the life that has been waiting for you thousands of miles away. In between are the days that you settle into, surrounded by new and intriguing people, where forever seems plausible. Except for that one letter you get that throws you off. I never cried in Santiago, but it wasn't because I didn't miss home; I just knew I would always come back and things wouldn't have changed.

Besides, I wasn't ending anything quite yet. Just now I read Macaire's email, and there was nothing superfluous or dramatic telling me how much she missed me, but I started crying-- the first tears in a long time. Our friendship is far too developed for emotional emails like that, yet the part that got to me was her conversational email telling me about her trip to Europe, the new car, looking for a job…things that always grace our chats. For the first time, I have realized that this time is so different. No more Berkeley, no more childhood, no more Thanksgiving/Christmas/Easter at the Kilkenny's in the coming months; I almost threw up. How will I not see my best friends for one year? How will I leave these people in two months for Budapest? What takes the most courage is starting new things and ending them before they even start, really. I almost want to push people away because I cannot stand to care for yet another person and think for one moment that I will never see him or her again. How many people can fit into your heart so that it bursts like a firecracker with one beautiful moment of memories before its gone forever? There's always a catch to adventures.

---------- This was written a few weeks ago, and while I might not feel the same way at this very moment, a fleeting emotion always says something about a person's character.

You know what the worst feeling in the world is? Forgetting that you miss something so much that when you are finally reminded of it, your heart jumps down into your feet and the only way to get it back where it should be is by barfing. I mean, it can be anything: your favorite t-shirt, the beach, that amazing pad thai, heck, even another person (but let's be honest, I'm not developed enough as a human being to miss another person quite yet in that way). Of course, I'm in love with something that can't tell me whether it loves me back, and that's really OK with me because I'd rather imagine how much this thing misses me incredibly. Most of you will probably roll your eyes when I tell you what it is because you probably have already guessed and you heard about it continuously for what seems like a lifetime. So, for those that have little patience with my sentimental state, I urge you to scroll far down into the abyss of my horror stories that comes after my gushing.

Santiago. I'm sorry, I can't help it. I forgot all about it for almost a month, but today, when I saw pictures, I came two seconds short of licking the computer screen – what can I say? Gut reaction, literally? Cloudy skies, the Andes, that South American look, and the idea of being able to comprehend the blasted language all seem almost too good to be true. It also doesn't help that I found my REIK song collection (don't laugh; everyone deserves their guilty pleasures of pop and boy bands). Maybe if I go back I'll remember how much I hated the combination of no gutters and a foot of rain, no vegetarian food, and the three months of constant prodding, poking, and being called la hindu. Who am I kidding? I'll take the rain and that old cramped AI office if I could live a lifetime in Bellas Artes, walk Providencia with Nathan, spend an infinite amount of time with Javier, and get drunk off of piscola and have deep conversations with Sebastian every night. Wait, I just said I didn't miss actual people; man, am I full of crap…right? Nah, I think I'd still love that ugly beauty of a city, but these guys are a definite bonus to my fond memories.

Do you think I'm crazy? Crazy for being so attached to a place that I can't even stand other people discovering it? I think I have possession issues over cities, but feel free to steal my theoretical boy toy. I'm hoping I'll feel this way about Ankara, but I seriously doubt it. Honestly, it has to do with the language barrier, and so you'll be happy to know I've quit my whining and that I am adding a sixth -- or is it seventh? I've lost count – language to my list. Turkish, the seventh most popular language in the world is adding one more person to its aficionado list.

I think I feel insanely better now that I've let this off my chest because carrying around this missing feeling was seriously wearing me down. Really, I don't understand how people can feel this way for a whole person; it would drive me crazy. Ok, ok, I know this isn't time for Khushbu's opinion on everything under the sun, so I'll limit my five page email (you know you love it) to stories. Kind of.

_________

This time last year, I was traveling to Valpo with Nathan and Javier, oblivious to the fact that I had hit the friendship lottery and had won myself two more soul mates (there's your shout out Rad, Cbad girls (don't make me list you, you know who you are), Annie, Dayna, Cin/Neha/Phonia, Shalu/Vandu, Lety). It has taken me a year to understand that friendships like that rarely come around, and even lesser ones slip out of reach. In both the former and latter cases, we are infinitely lucky, even if we realize the repercussions a year later. In regards to N&J, they gave me faith in strangers, in new places, and in destiny. Those that I have "lost" almost a year ago, I realize now that I have gained much more in their exchange – less questioning my character, faith in the goodness of others rather than casting stones at outsiders, and most importantly, courage. Courage to let go of the simple, easy, shallow and what will always seem the easiest to keep close. However, I cannot say that those short-lived relationships did not involve some of the best laughs, jokes, and closeness in exchange for their minimal life spans. For this, I am eternally grateful, and mostly this is what I will remember (tossed in with a tiny does of contempt, naturally).

Where was I? Oh, yeah, the guys. How lucky was I? This time, not so much, but I think that I have found a little bit more of myself rather than others in this journey. Maybe, just like the good and bad of last year, I won't appreciate this time of solitude at this very moment, but I am certain of its positive reinforcements in the future.

This is not to say that I am lonely – quite far from it, actually. I spend most of my time surrounded by people, laughter, and discoveries, but it's different somehow. It's my first time without close friends, and I realize that this is the first time all I have with me is my semi-euphoric, semi-ludicrous optimism. Maybe it's meant to be, and in the ever-so-cheesy way, I will get to know the one person I have never truly gotten to know – myself.

Should I ease myself out of this introspective phase? For those of you still reading, and not jabbing out your eyes a la Oedipus style, be forewarned. You need to know names and there are more than a few.

Ezgi and Charğı: We 've all been interns since day 1 together, all around the same age, and so naturally, I feel closest to them. I have nightmares about them leaving me in a week because most internships in Turkey are for one month only, but no one ever wants to study ethnic conflict and terrorism so I got a longer time. Both are beautiful and handsome, respectively; completely ridiculous.

Emre: The guy who I corresponded with, who wrote that grammatically awful email about being a girl/guy, and the one we tore a new asshole – remember, Annie? – because his English was so bad. Well, guess what? His English is even better than mine; it must have been a fluke. We work in the same room, and I love it because we talk about things like his little brother who is hitting puberty.

Bahadır: I like to call him "Mr. Flower" in my purely sarcastic way because he once explained to my not-having-it-rolling-of the-eyes self that he pays for lunch, opens doors, etc. and does cheesy, chivalrous things because "women are like flowers." And to think, we're in the same age group. Strangely enough, I think he means it. Don't ask me if he was dropped on his head at birth, probably. We also argue over Arabic, Spanish, and he makes me feel stupid when we practice for the GREs. But secretly, he's my favorite. I feel another Javier (but straight) coming my way.

Noyan: Best friend and best nig brother in the world. Enough said.

Sebla: Sweet, awesome, hysterical girl who likes to make fun of the other nerdy presentations at work with me and talk about her Polish boyfriend that she met in the Czech Republic during study abroad. How international is that? I love it.

Selma: Spunky, short, lived in the U.S. for two years, and utterly awesome in terms of her craziness and generosity. She took me around the real Kizilay on Saturday, and out to the suburbs to meet her equally awesome friend.

I try on a daily basis not to be home before 10 p.m., which is becoming difficult as it gets darker earlier. I usually walk around Kizilay (the city center), sit in a café, write, watch people, shop, go to a bookstore, or study for the GREs or try and improve my Turkish capabilities and generally try to avoid any kind of eye contact. Never works.

First of all, there are always more men than women out on the streets, especially individual women. After a certain time, it is virtually impossible to spot a woman on the streets, but when have I ever followed the crowd? Also, as is usual t the places I visit/live in, there is not one person that looks remotely like me. You would think that since the goddamned Ottoman Empire spanned continents, I would get lucky here, but no. In this melting pot of olive complexions, blond hair, pale skin, jet black haired people, the cheese (your truly, in this case) stands alone.

Let's start with Zafer. Wait, no, let me lay out a few things that you should already assume. First of all, let me just say, for the record, that I do not instigate any of this. Second, why cannot any of these idiots realize that if they don't speak English and I don't speak Turkish, this will be a doomed relationship? Lastly, WHY, oh, why can I not meet normal (not to be deemphasized), SANE men who speak English (Even a little bit. I'm not asking for much). Back to Zafer. So after an aimless amble through Kizilay, I decided to come home, but didn't feel like sharing air with the crazy roommate, so I walked to the park 20 feet behind our building. Now, park is an understatement. It has a Ferris wheel, a few other brightly-colored rides, statues, dozens of benches, and my favorite – a huge lake with an equally huge fountain in the middle. And to think, it's in the worst neighborhood in Ankara. Knowing I looked extremely out of place (like I said, women do not go out alone after dark, especially in such a sketch neighborhood), did not deter me from walking head on into a crowd of families , couples, and oily guys. I looked for a place to sit, and almost robotically stuck my ear buds in place. For half an hour, I was left alone, mostly, except for the few leers from the typical skeezes. Finally, one guy sat down next to me and asked me a question. I took a stab at the meaning and shook my head. A few minutes passed by and he asked me if I wanted a smoke. No, thanks. Finally, he started talking to me, and that's when I had to tell him I didn't understand anything he was saying to me, but that didn't deter him. Oh, no. He asked me a few more things, but I shook my head apologetically and tried to look for a way out of this horrible, one-sided question and answer session. I felt kind of bad, though, and when he asked for a kitaap (almost like kitaab in Arabic), I almost shoved my phrasebook in his face in relief – thanks Holly! Good to know it's being used for something, right? Unfortunately, this launched an hour of questions and my responses to questions like, "How old are you? Where are you from? Where do you live? Do you have a boyfriend…" and a laundry list of responses from him in return. I felt cornered until I thought to whip out my cell phone, point at the time, and apologetically whisper sorry. After finding see you later in the phrasebook and pointing at it, I hoped to get out of there as soon as possible. Too bad the sucker took it too literally; he took my phone and put his number in and called himself. Fabulous.

So the next day, while the Ambassador from Saudia Arabia was visiting, I had five missed calls. Come on, buddy, let's take a look at the situation: we could barely communicate with a book in front of us, how do you expect us to talk through a phone? Needless, to say, I did not call him back, and the guys in the office like to ask about boyfriend #1, Zafer.

A few days later, I went to Su Cafe to sit and read and observe people, so, pretty much for some peace and quiet. Instead, the waiter was so excited to practice English and in his sympathy for the poor Indian girl all alone in Ankara, he attracted quite a bit of attention to my table. As I was leaving, I noticed some guy ask for the check as well in a rush, but I figured he was in a hurry. I forgot about it, and started walking around, and within minutes, got lost. I eventually wandered back to an area I knew fairly well, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the same guy who asked for his check. That was 45 minutes ago. He came up to me and practically begged for me to have a cup of tea or coffee. Over and over, until I had to stop saying, "That's Ok. No, no, thank you." In that moment it hit me that he had followed me for 45 minutes because there could have been no way that he would have ended up in that same exact place unless he had walked behind me. Let me tell you how creepy that is. And all of this happens because of the ever growing Indian obsession.

One of the worst stories is one of the scariest ones. Selma and I had gone to see a Spanish film in Kizilay at the Metropol, and after a round of drinks we were walking to the bus stop (for her) and the metro (for me). On our way out, some guy yelled, "Are you Indian? Come here. Come here!" Selma was ticked off because guys had followed us all day while singing about big eyes and dark skin or making dirty comments, and she had had it. I didn't really understand or care enough for confrontation since all these creeps deserve is a rolling of the eyes and a smirk. But she was thoroughly pissed, and she did not hesitate to go back to him, yell at him, and then walk away like the tough girl that she is. I was kind of shocked and really proud of her. Except that they followed us down the street and they argued for a few more minutes. Then he turned to me and apologized. I thought this was all over so I said bye to Selma, and was hoping to walk a block down to the metro. On my short crossing of the street, even though she told him not to follow me, he did. She didn't know this and my phone was not working. In case something happened, I couldn't reach anyone. He asked me if I wanted to have coffee – at 10:30 in Ankara, this is unacceptable on the weekdays because the streets are virtually abandoned, I shook my head, said it was OK, and kept walking. He asked me where home was, and he could take me. I said No, and lied, and told him I lived very close so it was OK. He wouldn't leave, so I kept circling the streets, some times into dark alleys, where he kept trying to force a coffee or something out of me. When he tried to hold my hand, I gave him one of the bitchiest looks I have ever given someone – and I know I give damn bitchy looks. I still wasn't scared until I tried to run and ran into a cab, and the stupid cab driver would not drive even though I told him to go, and that it didn't matter where he went as long as we got the hell out of there. However, the idiot man stopped for Halil (aka the guy who would not take no for an answer), and Halil got into the cab, and I got right out. So did he. By this time I was ready for him to drink his coffee so I could get out of this situation. I caved in, but right when I did, he took it for a yes to whatever else he wanted, and the second he called me "baby," I lost it. No one calls me baby, except for Vandana or Rad in their shady men impersonations. In the middle of Kizilay, I started yelling at him, but he didn't understand. I started yelling for help, especially when he cornered me somewhere and I had to hold his head away and tell him to get away from me. When I was about to approach the police, I think he got the picture that he needed to bounce. By this time, it was 11:45 and the metro stopped running in 15 minutes. As harshly as I could, I told the idiot that if I missed the metro, he would pay for my cab ride home, and no, that did not mean he was coming with me. On my way to the metro, with the jerk in tow, he followed me and kept mumbling that all Indian women were like this, this is what he should have expected, and that I was crazy. Excuse me? If I had not been shaking with laughter – from fear – I would have let him have it, but I wanted to just get home. When I finally reached the metro, I let him know that if he followed me, I would rip in him half. He asked for my number.

These are just a few examples from the last month of a myriad of greasy men that surround the city in search of fresh meat, and Çağrı said I was overreacting and that all this was impossible. Then one day, we were walking to a café with his girlfriend, and he admitted he had never seen such a crazy circus. I told you. When the guys in the office found out, they decided that the needed to get me a bodyguard, and they were so angry that I go out alone. It was cute, but seriously, I could be their bodyguards. Now, they call me on a regular basis to find out where I am, and to see if I need some one to walk me to my next destination. Maybe I'm a fate snob, and I only want my destiny to include decent men, and so this is karma in revenge, but for God's sake, give me a little luck here.

And if you want or have time, you can read my artcles in the Journal of Turkish Weekly, it'll help get my ratings up! http://www.turkishweekly.net/comments.php Not to sound cocky or anything (brushing my shoulders off), but I beat out the president of ISRO for the most popular comments both times I published them. Holla! Ok, I am so cocky. I apologize.

Henrike is a Girl and Every other Misconception

2007-11-05T02:46:00.000-08:00

August 14, 2006
Ankara, Turkey

If I were to list every misconception about Turkey that I had, this would be a book instead of a letter. There is no way to describe Ankara without failing to capture its true essence. Not because I have fallen in love with (far from it, actually), but these last two weeks have taught me many things. People, no matter who you are, are intense and caring beings. Every single building, café, food dish, concept, and life is a testament to the complexity of the city, if not the country. I don't know if I will ever love this city as much as I loved Santiago, but I think that of all my humble travels that have gone and that are to come, this will be the most invested, difficult learning experience.

Language is the essence of culture; social interactions practically demand that you be able to communicate. Obviously, you all say. Well, I've taken my languages for granted, until the second I stepped out of a plane into the breezy, cow-horse-goat smelling air two weeks ago. Let me tell you how difficult it is to live somewhere where you know you will never be able to communicate with the majority of the people whole- heartedly. But it doesn't matter; it will never matter in Ankara. I've met people here in the past two weeks that surpass any kind of sincerity and kindness from anywhere in the world. No words can describe them. They take it upon themselves to make sure I am happy, comfortable, and they laugh along with me as the dumb foreigner who cannot speak Turkish. I thought of taking Turkish, but because I will travel in October, eight weeks of lessons will not do me any good. Rather, I will take Hungarian because Budapest will be too tough to handle for five months without any background. I've picked up a few necessary words – i.e. food and beer – to get me through my days. I don't need anything else because I work six days a week.

Yes, I said six days a week. It's not so bad, actually. I love working at a think tank, and being around such brilliant people. Really, I've never been around people who know so much, always are ready to answer my million questions (once again I'm the little kid among grown ups), and are so passionate about what they do. It's incredible and so humbling, at the same time. They also do half days on Saturdays, just like India (blegh). I get to write, write, write all day about whatever I want, and if you know me at all, it's my dream.

Ok, so Ankara. It's no Istanbul, as every sing Turkish person has told me, but it's something different. Ankara is mainly a city filled with civil servants and students, and a very secular city at that. The best way to describe Ankara is with this image: I was ambling around in this blasted heat, and I wanted to see the biggest mosque in the city. As I walked past it, I noticed a small shopping center underneath the mosque, and a café on the side. I took out my ear buds because I thought I heard something strange coming from the café, and I was right. It was one of 50 cent's songs. At first, I didn't know what to do; I mean, did people NOT see the irony/hilarity of the situation? I almost died from laughter, but no one even thought to question this strange image of 50 cent and a mosque. But that's pretty much the essence of Ankara.

When a few people took me to the big tower overlooking the city, it looks like any other city in Europe, except that there are minstrels interspersed with big buildings that allude to Islam. I don't really know what I was expecting, but I'll admit it. Part of me saw camels and dirt roads – I know, I know, very absurd and very uneducated. Ankara is nothing like that, but then again it's not really like the West, either. There is no single place that it belongs to, and that's what I think makes it so special. Ankara is mostly a calm city, busy in the usual locations, and if nothing, I've gained patience and a newfound respect for new places.

Now my favorite part: the people. I don't think it is possible for me to explain the concept of friendliness that is a part of Ankara's lifestyle. Physically, these people are absolutely gorgeous, yes, but emotionally just a beautiful. I've never had to go without anything. The guys at work are so nice – one bought my SIM card, demanded they install it ASAP, took me around town, and puts up with all my insipid questions. Another took me to do some illegal buying yesterday, helped me find some books in English to pass my time, and when I insisted that he didn't have to help me, he said, "No, you are my guest. I want to make sure you are happy." Technically, I am not his guest, I told him. He gave me his usual grin that pretty much tells me I'm a moron (this is pretty much our relationship) and says, "Not literally, but a guest in my country." Another is letting me stay at his place, and refuses to let me pay (but I don't know how long I will stay there. He is a bit of a homebody and a bit boring) but ınsatıably nice. It's so different here, and so hard to explain. Not that many girls are here, but the few that are here on occasion are just as sweet. One showed me her college hostel because I need a more social home environment and we searched all week for a better place for me. Another took me to meet her friends so I can expand my friend group; in that sense, Ankara could not be better. Yet, I don't think I will be able to love this city with the same intensity as some of my other travels. For one thing, the last two weeks (just my luck!) have brought record breaking heat. It's about 100 degrees today and I think it has cooled down from last week. Hopefully, by September, the weather will calm down.

Everything so far is an adventure for me, even if it is grocery shopping, walking around, having a cup of coffee, buying a metro ticket, or shopping because it takes a million hand gestures, tons of patience, and a lot of laughs.

I know I sound kind of all over the place, but I'm doing this secretly at work as I don't have internet at home at this moment, and they will make fun of me for not doing work if the other interns see this.

From the Devil's Daughter, With love

2007-11-05T02:39:00.000-08:00

August 5, 2005

So, yes, I know it´s been a month, but we all know you needed a breather from my 5 page emails. However, it is time for some more insight and for some god forsaken reason, this only happens when I transcribe my e-musings.

Last month´s hiatus from everything turned out to be amazing in the sense that I really got to know Santiago, people, and of course, cheesily above all, myself. However, while I can see that this experience has been full blown insanity and total awesomeness, I´m ready to be done in some ways. Well, done so that I can begin other adventures. The last eight weeks have consistently reminded me just how much I need, or rather, everyone needs, adventure, time to find their spirit and just what it is that they are after. Even thought it´s only been two months, and working for AI and living here alone has taught me more than any other two months of my life, I´m ready leave this all as a memory. Actually, as a starting point for other things.

One thing that I hate the most about this city is the people I have to leave behind. It´s insane how we cling to people when they are all we have. When they have been your life for three months, it is hard to let go. All of a sudden, at times, I think about how it will feel to walk around Berkeley and Carlsbad, and know that they were the most important life support for three months, and at the same time, when am I ever going to see them again? Never, probably. That´s probably how it is meant to be. At times like these, I think of my dad, when he would talk about destiny and tell me that you meet people for a reason. The reasons they enter and leave your life to chnge you, tie up some unfinished business, or even, leave some ends loose.

But besides that, I´ve done everything that any foreignor would do. The boys and I went to Valparaiso, Viña del Mar, Cóncon, and Recaña about two weeks ago. I´ve decided that once I get old I have to live in one of the hills in Valpo. Those houses and streets have to be the most amazing things that i have ever seen. it´s like a whole different world. Javi took us to see the typical stuff, the beaches, people, and then his favorite, all the poplar food places for the Chileans. Since we were in the gastronomical capital of Chile...mmmm...mmm. Javi and Nathan and I have been spending a ton of time together and Alvaro and Rodrigo do NOT understand why I could go days and just hang out with two ´´alternative´´ guys. Well, let´s see.. They let me be an absolute diva and pick out clothes for me. Ok, that´s not why I like them (or the only reason). More importantly, J. took us to Tablao, a Spanish/Flamenco restaurant that is hidden on a corner somewhere that has to be seriously lifted out of Spain. The ambience, dancers, and singers were PERFECT. It reminded me of the night of the baby and flameco in Barcelona with Dayna, and how transfixed we were with the dancing. Then, we went to see Mayumana, which is something along the lines fo STOMP! but 100x better. it´s a hebrew troup, and you guys, I swear, when they perform in the US, we have to go see them. Javier called us to let s know he actually got tickets and we were like WHATEVER. That is, until we found out the show sold out in 20 minutes and it was almost impossible to get them. He´s definitely magic. It´s going to be hard to let go of them for a while, but we´ve decided to all rendezvous in the Dominican Republic for a long weekend.

Other than weekend trips, Nathan and I have had to spend some extra time in the office on weekends for the photo exhibition. We had the inauguration this past Monday and it is such a flipping relief to have it done. Nathan did a pretty decent job even though kept telling him a 6th grader could do better. Right now, AI- Chile is trying to get out there and know what the people want from an NGO like Amnistía Internacional. So, there were all these weekend metings, lat nighters and what they came up with is going put on the streets and doing something called diólogo directo. From that, everything that we plan after will have people´s best interest in mind, I suppose. So my last activity/protest/god kno´ws what is on August 30th and we jsut have to wait for the thumbs up from this new team. Should be special. Well, besides that, I´m making a website for the Comisión Ética as I am the youngest by at least 30 years. Also, I´ll send you guys some pictures from stuff we´ve been doing, like the event in Plaza de Constitución for the 119 desaparecidos, Equipo Colombia´s protest for women and children, etc.

Although I´m here and trying the hardest I can to fit in I thought that would never happen in a million years. And in some ways, duuh, I won´t. I hated meeting people at first especially when I told them I was American (they treat you like a queen if you tell them you are from India, they´re obsessed with that place here). I met this French/Chilean guy about three weeks ago who snorted at me when I told him I was from the good ol´ US of A. Now, I know we don´t have the best reputation,. but EXCUSE ME, I am NOT my country. Do you think I would be here if I didn´t give a rat´s ass about the rest of the world? Well, let me just tell you, I think I ripped him a new one (or well, Alexi told me I did). And this last Wednesday, I met a Chilean, a Mexican, and a Columbian (No, it is not the beginning to some dumb bar joke).

At first the Chilean brushed me off because I saw Sandra and of course being the Californian from S.D., I yell out, ´´HEYYY! What´s up?´´ without thinking. But then, for no reason, I switch back to Spanish and the Chilean guy stops, turns around, and just stares like I´m the prize winnig martian. Now, I know my Spanish doesn´t sound too hot, but give me a BREAK! Ok, actually he said I sounded pretty good and not like a gringa. Also, even though everyone says that if you can understand Chileans, you can understand any Spanish from any country, I seriosuly have gotten used to the spanish here. When i was talking to the guy from Mexico, I seriously wanted to bang my head. Every other word was, huey, chinga, or bendeja, and I thought he spoke so strangely. The same with the Colombian (his spanish wasn´t as enunciated as the rest of the Colombians, hew wasn´t from Cali). It so strange then, isn´t it, that you can get used to something so quickly? The rest of the night, I kept getting confused for types of latin americans and never an American or an Indian (YESS!!). It´s probably because Sebastian and I have been hanging out so much. he corrects me, he makes me talk to him about difficult topics in spanish, and now, I can pretty much talk the same rate in Spanish as I can in English. When I come back, I want people to talk to, so, Lety and Diego, be prepared! I think I´m pretty comfortable with the language now, and even though I am nowhere close to perfection, I want to start other languages. This trip has definitely shown me that I do not want to sit around at a desk all day or stick to one job the rest of my life. I really want to learn Arabic (or start to learn it) next year so that i can go live in the Middle East the year after we graduate. I know that seems like it came out of nowhere, but you know, the best ideas come from the weirdest days or lightbulbs that go off in your head. I know that I only have a little less than a month, and so I am trying to make the best of it. We´re going to Mendoza next weekend for the long weekend, and there´s a masquerade ball in the castle at Cerro Santa Lucia which Sebastian got invitations for, I´m going to spend all the time I can with J. and N. and the rest of the guys before it is the end. It´s so frustrating that it takes two months to get used to a place where you finally begin to fit in, make friends, enjoy life, and BAM, it´s all over before it actually started. I think I may even miss the smog...ok, I lie, but still.

Everyday I love it here more and more. I think it´s the combination of the dreary weather, the Andes mountains, the skyscrapers, dingy buildings, the smog, the culture, the ugly mix of european culture and american. it´s just do ugly and amazing at the same time that it feels so overwhelming to be in a place that is so isolated and at the end of the world

Pisco, Piolas, y Pololos

2007-11-05T02:35:00.000-08:00

July 6, 2005

Unfortunately, for all of you, the insane and windy e-mail writer has returned.

You can all blame my fast recovery from the super sized combo of pinkeye and a lung infection at the same time. Then again, a weekend in paradise – well, compared to the heavy blanket of smog anyway - can cure anything. First, though, I have a weird observation. I don't know if I'm the only one, but when I live or travel to a place with a metro system, I always have a dominant or preferred line. In Barcelona, London, etc. Here, too. I hate getting off the red line. Anyway, just an observation.

So, after a certain Californian passed on pinkeye to me, I still couldn't get over the lung infection for about two weeks. So, Sandra suggested that the roommates go to La Serena, Coquimbo, La Valle de Elqui, and Cochiguaz for the weekend to relax. Since Sebastian had a car at hand and a friend's bungalow on the beach, hell, why not? So the half of it is that I've been in a huge city for the last six weeks, and the other half is the noise, pollution, and the people. And even after a decade of living right on the beach, practically, for one brief moment, Coquimbo looked amazingly like paradise. I've never seen water so blue and for once it was warm enough to wear a t-shirt (until about 3p.m., but, eh). The 5 hour drive was definitely worth it, and we went to the Valley where they supposedly make some of the best pisco (tequila: Mexico, pisco: Chile), and the lady eventually conceded to 12 bottles for 20 Lucas . If only I were 21, what great presents would that make… Anyway, the sun and the semi-warm weather was the perfect solution. Coquimbo is also famous for its fish, and so, everywhere it was fish, fish, and well, more fish. It was a weekend of cheese empanadas and coca light for me. The crazy Chileans eat anything, I swear. Sebastian kept getting antsy, and when I found out why, I think I gagged. He wanted to eat the raw sexual organs of some round, spiky sea animal. I wish I could send you the pictures and I wish I could have taken pictures of some of the places.

Cochiguaz is this small little area on top of the mountains and OH MY GOD was the night sky amazing. I've never seen anything like it in my life, and if only my janky little digital could take pictures like that in the night, I would die to show you that place.

Not that Santiago is horrible at all, but when Chile has a population of 14 million and 5 million live in the city, it is nice to get away. Even the air felt lighter in the northern area. Not to say, though, that Santiago isn't magical; you just have to look for it and venture off the Alameda.

While the Chileans know how to party like animals, their dancing to club music, is, uh, special. However, some of them are amazing reggaeton and salsa dancers (even though it's not really a Chilean thing). After a night with three men who are some of the best damn dancers I've ever seen, I've started salsa lessons with an insane Cuban man. I'm too Indian to be suave yet, but let me tell you, two semesters with Heena Patel have braced me enough for an eccentric professional dancer who lives to yell, "¡de nuevo! ¡Uno, dos, tres, cuatro!" And reggaton? Party at our place when I get back!

.Sometimes, still, I'm just walking aimlessly; I'll find new barrios and see the city from a whole new perspective. Almost everyday when it's clear enough to see the Andes in the backdrop of the city, and I just have to sop for five minutes and stare. It's like a dream, and finally, we're going skiing. If I come back with a few broken bones, at least you'll know why.

So the feria finally happened. There are a bunch of seminars that we go to, marches, strikes, etc, and all in all, just one of those things that puts you in the most uncomfortable position of your life. It's the best. Amnesty International was a decent attraction in the human rights fair, and my campaign is attracting a fair amount of attention. Not to make it sound whimsical because the tactical campaign against torture by the US is not very calm like saving starving children.

Even Nathan who loves to hate Santiago knows deep down inside that he likes it here. He's crazy and I think Tiff would love to sock him one, but there's something about him. Besides, go figure that the cockiest human ever is my closest friend here.

More Bumbling

2007-11-05T02:32:00.000-08:00

June 23, 2005

Tomorrow, well for you all, is Sebastian's birthday, and as we are planning it, I'm being the party pooper and writing this to you all because when I think of partying, I think of my crazy Berkeley drunks. Well, mostly the guys because here, when someone asks you, "Aye, copa de vino?," I'm still used to absently saying, "Eh…no, gracias." Heads pop up again and they say, "Khushbu, copa de vino? Copa de vino?" They're difficult people here. Well, I had to write because I though you all would appreciate the diversity of this apartment. I'm staring out of the living room window at Cerro Santa Lucia and I can see the huge statue of la virgen, Sandra's watching Lord of the Rings, Sebastian is guzzling wine, and Parker is chatting on AIM.

Well, tons of things have happened since the last time I wrote. It's been a month. A bloody month. I only have two months left. NO. FAIR. I feel like throwing a tantrum. Ok, well, maybe after I write this. Anyway, I went to the Chile v. Venezuela, and let me tell you, it is an EXPERIENCE. ¡Chi-Chi-Chi Le-Le-Le. Vi-Va Chi-Le!

The weather is sporadic and sometimes it is freezing, sometimes it is raining, but mostly, it is just smoggy. However, today, as the first day of winter, was the best day I've seen since I've been here. The sun was so bright that Nathan and I went all the way to the Plaza de Armas for lunch. Sebastian took Sandra and me to one of the clubs in Las Condes by the edge of the mountains a few weeks back, and let me just say that I love having someone who works for tv production as a roommate. For the first time, no 80s music (well, not solely). There was actual hip-hop, and of course, the required reggaeton. Speaking of reggaeton, Astrid, Sonja and I met the reggaeton boys ( the cover band for daddy yankee – gasolina and lo que paso, paso guy). The thing with famous people here is that they aren't celebrities. They're just neighbors. We've walked by soap stars, seen the "Chilean Idol" perform at Blondie's…But yeah. Sorry if this isn't too eloquent. I can't think of words in English anymore and I am distracted by tomorrow's planning.

Also, since it's been a month, I've been thinking of people. Strangely, I think of Berkeley quite often. Not that I don't miss the beaches of Carlsbad, but Berkeley has become home. More than anything, it is the friends. My psychotic and amazing roommate calls, probably hoping to talk, but instead, has to listen to me babble and tell her everything that I've done, eaten, and seen in the last 48 hours. Then Da-VEEK-a calls between her busy schedule of spilling chocolate milk and watching 5 hour long videos on the fun stuff that smart people do, and I can't wait to see her. And I remember the emails I got from the Berkeley people (AND Parool and Brian) asking me if I was OK after the earthquake, and I know, I just know that I miss you all a ton. You know when Joe emails you to see if you're still alive, then wow, it must be a big deal. Good thing Iquique is about as far from Santiago as SD is from Berkeley. But yes, thanks. It's nice to know your friends think of you when you might be dead. Funny how Lalani was first to check in. ;-) I was actually watching the videos today of the Boys' Bhangra (deadpan voice: yeah, jaaaaaaaaaaames), Mira's Raas, and Annie's rendition to "I will always love you" when I started to feel guilty. Whenever something happens or I see something, I either call or email Dayna or Berkeley people. I think I am not thinking of the girls from home so much because I haven't seen them for a while, and because of the certain issues. Yet, as I watched Annie singing in her opera voice to some Whitney Houston hit, I know why I try not to think of them. I haven't seen my best friend in six months, and when we used to spend summers together, it's really tough. I keep comparing people I meet to her, Macaire, Heather, and Jewelie. Damn childhood friends. Damn childhood.

Every time someone asked me what I wanted to be when I was five, I always said, "president." There was never talk of doctors, astronauts, sailors, and princesses. If there was one thing I was sure of, this was pretty much it. Over the course of the next decade and a half, I pretty much forgot about that idea, except to fight with Sean about which one of us would win in the 2020 election (Let's not kid ourselves, but I mean…*cough*). Then, Sergio, my boss and executive director of AI in Chile, reminded me at the end of the day on Tuesday. We were talking about what I had to do before June 26th – International Day to commemorate victims of torture—and to go along with the tactical campaign against torture against the US holding facilities (which is one of the teams I'm running). After he told me the tone that my letter to the US embassy had to be in, which other NGOs I had to contact, and the testimonies I had to gather, he turned away only to turn back to me. Now, Sergio is very amable (I use the Spanish word because I feel the English version just isn't the same), but he rarely jokes. I mean, who can joke when we have 20 teams working with human rights and everyday someone who has been abused, tortured, or victimized shows up at the door and asks for help? Anyway, he turns back to me to tell me that I'm going to be the contact name for all of this, the press, etc.; Of course, I'm very proud and nod my head with a "oh yeah, I'm so good" look.

All of a sudden, I hear him laugh. Then, "Olvidale de ser presidente."

Today, the Comision Etica Contra la Tortura turned in an informe against the Infome Valech in front of the Palacio de la Moneda – Where Lagos works/lives (I think lives, not too sure, though). I put on one of those sacks that said Tortura Nunca Mas and shamelessly passed out flyers the way I've learned from three years on Sproul. Random people would stop, take one, and turn back to say to me, "You know what? I was tortured." About half the people that walked by, told me they were tortured once in their lives. People I would have never guessed, people who blended into the "cowards" as one man called the people of Santiago because they pretended to ignore Pato as he gave his speech. One man showed me his arm and the remnants of his hand, while telling me that he had hoped for so much more in Lagos, but not much has changed, except that the rich keep getting richer.

Second Week Ramblings

2007-11-05T02:29:00.000-08:00

June 8, 2005

It's been about a week and a half. It feels like a lifetime. Not in a bad way, though. In a way that makes me think that I could get used to life here, and that I could live here. It's strange that places feel like home so fast. I think that it may because most of us are college students and the last three or four years have been everywhere and nowhere. Upheavals, changes, and well...more change.

Santiago isn't very different than the states. As we took the metro to the escuela militar and then the bus to Las Condes to one of themillion malls, we could have been anywhere in the world. And thatreally bothers me. I want to live in a place unscarred by the monstersof the so-called cosmpolitization and globalization. It's quitedisturbing stepping off a bus and diving head first into a side of amall filled with a Starbucks, Tony Roma´s, TGI Fridays, Dunkin´Donuts, and a 8 screen move theatre. For people who are insanelyprotective and proud of their culture, history, and lives, that sightwas insanely disappointing. At times, it seems that Santiago has beenhit even harder than Europe. Not seems. It is true.

However, the people make up for it. I've finally found a departamento,and I love it. I'm gad I waited it out because it is right in the CentroCentro of Providencia. I know that makes little sense but if you lookat a map of the city, it's split up into four major parts --el Centro(the old Centro), Providenca, Las Condes, and Vitacura. The latter twoare more residential, and the ´´new rich. ´´ Providencia hold thebusiness center, most of the shops, tons of buildings, andrestaurants. That's where most students and foreigners stay. No manypeople from Las Condes or Vitacura venture into the old Centro, but Inever know why. There's a gorgeous park, cerro Santa Lucia, plaza dearmas, museum of fine arts, and it has an actual ´´Santiago´´ feel toit. I love going there at night, sitting in a cafe, drinking some kindof leche de fruta (banana milk is AMAZING) and watching people. Forpeople here though, they think I'm strange. Like I've said,togetherness is a very large part f the culture, a large part of life.Every time I go into a cafe, and just sit down, no one ever comes overto give me the menu, and I always get upset because I think that it isbecause I am a foreigner. But that isn't the reason; I should havemore faith in people. It's because they think that I am waiting forsomeone because no one ever goes anywhere here alone. Well, hardly.This should say so much about people because they never want anyone tobe alone. Solitude is a sign of...something very un-Chilean. (note:never say ´´chilayan´´ like we do. The real way you're supposed to sayit is ´´chile-een´´)
Obviously, I'm very ´´un-chile-een.¨´ However, I've been able to getaway with it many times, and the times I don't I've learned a greatanswer to the question asking me where I am from. I always say ¿quepiensas? because the answer ´´estados´´ doesn't generate too great ofa response. however, the great thing for me is that no one believes mewhen I say that. Every single person I meet insists that I amBrazilian. I've quit arguing; why argue with something that gets mefree cab rides, jewelry, and food? I really enjoy being Brazilian.I'm actually thinking I may change nationalities if this is a precursor to the real deal.

Of course, I could never do that. Why, you ask? Well, I was greatlyreminded of why exactly I love India when I went out for Indian foodwith a few people. If I couldn't be directly connected to Indian food, I would die. Naan n Curry could learn a few things from this place. Of course, it wasn't good as Mom's cooking ( shout out to my momma–actually, only in theory. I would never send this to my mom). I mean, I was a little disturbed about the Chilean woman walking around in a Punjabi and putting chanlos on all the girls, but hey, that aboutsums up our culture, right? My favorite part, though, was the music.They had mostly old stuff, which of course, reminded me of the timeswhen I was little and used to wake up to my dad serenading my mom inthe kitchen. When I started to get sad though, Lagaan{s soundtrackcame on and ´´Radha Kaise Na Jhale´´ blasted from old crusty speakersand I thought of my little Radha. (insert: awwwwwwwww).

I haven't been feeling homesick at all because of the constant floodof emails, regular calls form the parentals, and of course, phonecalls from Rad and Devika, which make my day. There{s no time to thinkabout being homesick because I{m in the office til 5 or 6 everyday andthen life continues. Tonight, a few people are taking me to a nationalgame between Chile and Venezuela. Fútbol. Is. HUGE. More so thanEurope or even England. Forget Arsenal and Chelsea. While it's nothingcompared to Brazil, ¡Viva Chile!

I know I haven't spoken much about work, but that´ because I don'tknow exactly what to tell you. Do I tell you that working on campaignswith comision etica contra tortura is mind-boggling? Do I tell youthat attending press conferences makes me even more excited to be ajournalist? Do I tell you that some get to see things people willnever imagine or hope to see in their whole lives? For example, theintern from Holland is going to la Colonia tonight with a senator. LaColonia is a German community in the south that is closed off toanyone who is not a part of the community. During the Pinochet regime,backpackers, travels, etc were known to disappear around the area.Also, the leader of the cult, Paul Schafer, used to abuse and torturelittle kids in the community. However, La Colonia was left alonemostly because political dissidents we re tortured and killed there.Also, they had a hospital that was funded by the community government,and for that reason mostly, no one bothered them. It still thrives tothis day even though Schafer was captured in Argentina (I think) a fewmonths back after being on the run for seven years. No one is allowednear there without special permission, so I am insanely envious.Nathan is working on a photo ad music exposition that, if theofficials approve it, will be displayed in the metro. Within twoweeks, his photo exposition about gun control will be seen by over amillion people. The opportunities we have are amazing. I{m trying toput together a special report on torture after the end of thedictatorship for government and human rights officials.

Well, when we're not doing that, we are going to go to the Andes for aski trip in two weeks. This weekend, we might be going to Valparaisowith Javier and his friends. I barely get to sleep because when wecome home, people are going out and so I end up going out at 3:00 A.M.and don{t get in on the weekends till about 8 or 9 A.M., which,insanely is normal (and a bit early) time to get in. I love going out,but what I miss the most is having girl friends. All the friends I'vemade so far are guys and it{s a bit strange to go out with six guys toa bar on Saturday night. However, it is not polite to say no when youare invited out ( I learned the hard way and made an enemy). So lastweekend, Tim, Charlie, Nick, Matt, Gonzolo, Francisco and went out andoh, boy, was it special. Drinking a pisco sour with six rambling guysis interesting. And when they try to talk to you and spill your drink over your purse (TWICE), life is grand. But no, they are nice people.

The hectic running around has finally wound down as I moved in to myapartment yesterday before work and I love my apartment. It's a fourbedroom with a DVD, TV, computer, fully furnished living room,kitchen, washer, dryer, books, artwork, etc. The owner does not livethere, but instead there are the four of us. All students: Parker isfrom Santa Cruz, Sandra is from Germany, and Sebastian is from Chile.There are no rules, everything is paid for in the $115 a month that Ipay and someone comes to clean every week. We go out together, party,and just watch the telly like one big happy family.

Although, if it hasn't been noticed, I spend my time in a bubble awayfrom the reality of Santiago. I hate being a foreigner and living alife so different to most of these people. I hate walking down thestreet when I am in the old Centro and seeing a man that looks like mygrandfather in a bright orange suit sweeping leaves off the sidewalk.Or I hate seeing men that look like my father or my uncle cleaning outthe trash bins. It's not fair that I get to experience more of theircountry than they do. It physically makes me ill to see them pickingup my trash and waving goodbye telling me tat they'll be heretomorrow. This is the one time in the world I really wish for thetacky world peace, just like a Miss Universe.

Toma la Cachita de Goma

2007-11-05T02:24:00.000-08:00

May 31, 2005

In the last four days I've gone to the strangest club that I've everheard of, celebrated Kylie Minogue´s birthday, yelled at a snappycashier, befriended a taxi driver, walked home at 5 A.M. behind a´´neo-Nazi tribe´´ with the most charming man that I have ever met,met a load of australian\german\irish treavelers, eaten the bestempanadas ever, danced to spice girls, sang along to Madonna with ahoard of gay men, been tempted to --and have-- succumbed to eatingseafood in lieu of damned chips aka greasy fries and grilled cheese,seen the most beautiful mountains ever, and wandered aimlessly througha city that can never be described with justice in word or pictures.

So many times I have heard that Santiago is not the typical beauty ofa city that you hope to find while traveling, especially not likeEdinburgh, London, Barcelona, or even New Delhi. It took me whole fourdays to understand. Just when I was losing all hope, I decided totravel up to one of the many famous cerros (hills) that Santiago isknow for. Cerro San Cristobal is the hill right behind the hostel thatheld up the church where the huge statue of la virgen raises her armsto the city. While frantically holding on to the rickety box thatclimbed the side of the hill, I hoped that this ´´near death´´experience was going to be worth it. Sooner than later, I found outthat yes, indeed, it is so much more than that. Stepping onto the sideof the hill was an experience within itself. Just as we made it to thetop, every building, every peak, every cloud hit your eye at once.Every part of the city was brought together in a way that I hopeveryone gets to experience beauty. The gorgeous Andes encompassevery part of the city, it seems, while the ruddy parts and modernparts of the city hit its horizons. And to top it all off, the layerof smog settles in between the sky and the city almost as a blanket sothat you see every part of the city separately. It was amazing to seethe city in its full contrast, and that is exactly what makes Santiagomarvelous.

I didn´t take pictures of it quite yet because I wanted to experienceit for myself, quite selfishly, and capture the true essence of what Iwas seeing, as corny as that may sound. So many times, it seems thattourists take pictures, capture videos of places, but have no ideawhat they are seeing. As they proudly hold out pictures or send themback home, there is nothing majestic to what they experienced. It isjust another tick off their list. Santiago won´t be another tick offmy list.
I really haven´t experienced Santiago in my four days here, really, atall, in the ambience that I´ve set myself up in. I´ve decided thathostels are some kind of waiting ground (for me, anyway) between beinga tourist and a member of this city. An inferno, at its best, really.I haven´t spoken Spanish too many times, except to translate for a fewtravelers or to ask for ¨coca light¨ in the markets. Hopefully, thiswill change once I find a depto (room).
Nathan actually may be helping me with that, and I owe so much to him.I probably won't take his offer to move into the apartment with himand all these exchange students because they all seem to hate thecity, and they're too American with their qualms – it´s dirty, notlike Buenos Aires, too expensive, blah blah blah… Besides, they neverspeak Spanish, it seems. Nathan also met me at a metro stop and helpedme buy my phone. An angel, although a bit cocky about his clothes,where he lives, how many places he's been, and the such. However, Iknow as Devika and Rad are thinking, oooooh, Nathan, I must set them(and you all) straight. Rather a bad choice for a word in a moment,but yes, you've guessed it, he's gay. This works quite to my benefitas the guy he´s seeing, Javier (Dayna, why must I always be charmed out of my wits by gay latin men named Javier?)

There are no words to describe this man. He is a gem, and I knowJavier and I will be amazing friends. He's marvelous. I just cannotexplain it. We get along better than Nathan and he do, most times. Butmore about that later.

I really haven´t been in a rush to see the city because I know I haveso much time, so it is quite strange to stay in a place where everyonewakes up at the crack of dawn to explore. I rise at about noon or oneand travel alone. It is better this way because I hate being labeledas a foreigner or a tourist. Yet, my blasted eyes always get me introuble and I am not deaf to the cries of ´´Miran! Los ojos!´´ Thesame old obnoxious story.

However, this is the city for the couple. Everywhere I've been: thecastle where they filmed part of the Amazing race, San Cristobal, etc.I have never seen more couples. As many Chilean men have tried toexplain to me, Chileans are extremely, uh, ´´amorous.´´ Well, I couldhave never figured that out. I love that about this city. Thetogetherness is almost overwhelming.
That is why I trust so much in Javier in just two days. He took twotourists to Blondie, one of the strangest places to take foreigners.He wasn't ashamed, nor did he think that he would scare us. I live inBellavista, the mainstream party place for everyone on this side ofthe frontera (the imaginary border where most people of either sidenever cross), and we could have stayed there, but no. We headed intothe dodgy end to celebrate Kylie´s birthday. As we took a dark anddeserted bus at 1:00 A.M. near the centro, he explaine how he is a´´piolo -- low-profile (aka low key about his sexuality). Chile is90 percent Catholic, and while Blondie´s was bumpin´, religion comesfirst.

Blondie´s is an old theater that has been renovated into three storiesof magic. People of all ages and all parts of Santiago congregate andparty to music from the 80s and 90s as if they will never live to seetomorrow. As I saw a couple that looked like my mom and dad, Javiertold me that he saw his uncle there last time. Bugger. As we walkedhome at 4:30 in the morning behind a group of punk neo-Nazis, hebecame my own personal tour guide and explained the marvel of thecity, the history, the bullet holes in bank buildings, and theoriginal September 11th.
That is all I can say now as the hostel man needs the computer. I willleave you on that, and hope to hear from you very soon.