We Left Visthar

As Shafi escorted us out of Visthar, very afraid for us that we'd be late for our train, we shouted out the windows, "Bye Visthar!" "Bye School of Peace!" "Bye Bandhavi!" and we were returned with one, "Bye Aunty!" and then we drove out of the gates. It was hard to leave Visthar a second time. It was hard to leave the first time, but this time it was on our own terms, which makes it both easier, and harder

Before I left Visthar in 2001 I hugged a coconut tree, because Raj, our reiki teacher, told us they are an especially good source of energy. It was also one of the last things I did this time. However, unlike in 2001, we didn't have a few days to gravely walk the campus, feeling our loss. This time we were immersed in work, in friendships...in laundry, packing cleaning. We had a little good-bye ceremony at tea break, and both Ambryn and I started to cry. We have been so graciously welcomed, immediately invited into circles of family and friends, and it's hard to just walk away. But this is what we do. Rhati translated for us as we said good-bye to the Bandhavi girls, just minutes before we left. They looked at us sadly, saying, "Aunty, no." I held open my freshly mendhied palm and the held it in their hands, stroked it, and kissed it. It was hard to say good-bye.

We also were able to spend a last night on the town with our friends Robi, Vinay and Giddeon, and of course Edison, our friend and co-worker Lyola's husband. (See motorcyle photos.) We've connected with these guys so easily, they are an absolute riot, and we've already missed them so much!

So, after a long train ride to Trivandrum (in which a mouse crawled across my foot in the first few minutes and shortly before we got off we shared our berth with three police officers and two men handcuffed together) and about 24 hours in Trivandrum in which we bathed about 6 times each due to the heat, we boarded a few different local buses for the beach town of Varkala.

It's quite easy to be happy here, as the Indian ocean is absolutely stunning, and most of the services here are on these breath-taking coconut-lined cliff tops. We're also staying at a state run (and incredibly cheap) guest house (Kerala continually democratically elects a socialist government...it's so interesting to see Hammer and Sicle flags every where...and to take note of the communist/socialist influences...Sometimes I fee like I'm in Moscow again.) in a former maharaja's palace! I'm sure my mother is saying, "Two girls from rural Minnesota..."

So, we're transitioning from having a home, having a community, having work...in Bangalore, and being on the open road. This seems like a pretty good place to do it. I've purchased a pair of green "Ali Baba" pants, so here we are, touring. And, it's interesting to grapple with this role of the tourist. After the Bandhavi girls repeatedly pointed at other white people saying, "Aunty! Same!" Ambryn and I have come to refer to all other white tourists as "Sames." It's easier. It is kind of hard to be inVarkala, where, as white tourists, we're regarded first as consumers, and second as people (or at least, at its worst, this is how it feels). At the same time, I love soaking up the warm sun, and then cooling off in powerful waves of the Indian ocean. I don't love that large groups of men spend all afternoon staring at the white tourists, motorcyle helmets under their arms. Though, according to our guidebook, swimming is considered eccentric. Growing up with Minnesota lakes everywhere (and swimming my way through childhood), that's hard for me to understand, but here, I'm always trying to understand.

Soon, we will board an early morning bus for Neyyar Dam, and begin our weeklong "yoga vacation" at the Sivananda Ashram. I am currently experiencing some mild "ashram anxiety" as I've come to call it. On the beach we met a middle-aged European man (he asked us to watch his things while he swam) who had just returned from two and a half months at Amma's Ashram. (Amma is the "hugging mother." She visited Tacoma when I lived there. Her ashram is nearby. Her ministrying is hugging people, all day, every day. The yogi who founded the Sivananda centers is known as "the flying guru.") He was an odd man. He seemed somewhat unstable, and he looked me in the eye, pulling on his cigarette, and said, "Ashram life is hard." Ambryn and I have maintained a good sense of humor about our upcoming ashram visit, so I quickly turned to her with mock fright. I have a hard time with any philosophy that is touted as "the way" for everyone. I also have some serious questions as to why garlic and onions are forbidden from the menu. But, I like yoga. And, this place has a very good, international, reputation. When in Rome...

So, we'll join the ranks of The Beatles and other spiritual nourishment seekers and be Westerners spending time at an Ashram in India. I have to admit that the part of me that seeks order and discipline is quite excited. There is also the possibility that I'll come out a little healthier. Mostly, I don't know what to expect, and I'm excited for the adventure.

Then and Now...

Ambryn and I spent a few hours last week listening to a retired general of the Indian army (turned social justice activist and PhD) speak to us (and specifically, the School of Peace) about the role of police and military in a democracy, and the Military Industrial Complex. The facts were very interesting, but the concepts were not new. We know corporations are greedy, that the WTO has a significant role in the demise of the world, and that the United State’s military spending can be described as nothing less than sinful (especially in comparison to the rest of the world…absolutely atrocious). We may know these facts, but the other people here don’t necessarily know that we know that. We were two of three Americans in the room (the third being Max, a Mennonite peace activist who hasn’t lived in the U.S. for decades) and even though I have never been directly asked by a legislator for budget advice, write to my legislators sporadically, have never voted Republican, try to educate myself, and try to consume ethically…I still benefit. During the discussion section of the last session a question was raised as to who was supporting various tyrannical regimes around the world (the home countries of several of the School of Peace students) and the answer was a resounding, “U.S.!” while several people stood up and pointed at us. And then the sessions ended because our presenter needed to catch a train.

When we were students in 2001 we soaked all this knowledge up, nodding all the while and leaving the classroom with our heads hung low. But now, six and a half years later, we don’t feel as culpable. I know Father Gary Smith and the dozens of people who have poured their heart and soul into the work at Nativity House over the last almost-thirty years, and the Catholic workers at Guadalupe House, and the good people of Holden Village, and Paul Wellstone, and my friends, and people who are good parents...I also firmly believe that living in poverty is not compulsory for being a “good person.” I’ve been thinking a lot about something Mother Theresa is credited with saying, “You cannot do great things, only small things with great love.” What else is there to aspire to than to treat people in your life…your closest family and friends or the person who scans your groceries…with kindness? I believe that is enough.

We know that our country has done and continues to do horrible things all over the world (and at home). But we also know that we as human being are not representatives of George W. Bush only. Good things happen in the United States every day, just like good things happen every where every day. It’s easier to be traveling in India now, at the dawn of a presidential election, with clear hopes for change. (It was not as easy to be traveling here in 2001 after W. was “elected” the first time and then began to bomb Afghanistan while spewing nationalistic rhetoric.) It’s also easier because we’re not earnest college students willing to grovel for our nation’s faults. We’re still young, but we’ve been around the block enough to know that it’s not that simple.

I was intending to pass along some of the sobering (and some of the inspiring) information that I learned in that session, but most of the people who are reading this probably know all that: problems cannot be solved by force, the James Madison quotation, “If tyranny and oppression come to this land it will be in the guise of fighting a foreign enemy.” U.S. corporations (Coke, IBM) supplied the Nazis during World War II. So, Ambryn and I are trying to take ourselves less seriously. We can’t take on the world, but we (and the various identities we carry with us) can work to be good human beings in the relationships we’re forming here and now. I hope we’re not pointed at with accusatory fingers throughout our travels, but in the end all we can do is try to be as kind, and be as easy on ourselves as we'd like other people to be on us.

Happy Ugadi!

Over the course of the last week we've been learning about the holiday, Ugadi. Ugadi is a Hindu holiday, but it also seems to be a cultural Indian holiday, because our Christian and Muslim friends honor it. It is essentially a new year's celebration. One tradition on Ugadi is the consumption of neem and jaggery. Neems trees are medicinal and considered auspicious; their taste is very bitter. Jaggery is raw sugar. The symbolism is quite beautiful: In life the struggle, the sadness, the despair, is intrinsically connected to the joy, the sweet, the happiness. In honoring the passing of one year and ushering in the next, we pause to celebrate both what is difficult, and what is pleasurable, and their connection to one another.

Ambryn and I took the day off of work and went into the city. It seems that most trips into Bangalore present jaggery and neem. Just when we've had it with gaping men and endless questions of whether we want to buy a map of India or take a ridiculously priced auto-rickshaw, the man who sells us our pineapple juice will exude quiet kindness, or trustworthy strangers will emerge from the crowds at the bus terminal informing us how the 295 differs from the 295B, and will in fact tell us exactly which stop is closest to our destination. These moments of sweetness usually happen when I'm at my most sour. You have to take it all together.

We also celebrated the new year with the School of Peace students. The same day is celebrated in Nepal, Cambodia, Laos, Burma, Thailand and Indonesia. At breakfast we were met with a plate of rice, flowers, and sweets, and we were given a blessing from the Nepalese women. Near dusk we all gathered around a a floral creation and a big bucket of "green water", water with flowers. One by one, the young people honored the elder, who happened to be Max, their teacher. They all bowed before him, some prostrated themselves, and they thanked him. They presented him with money (symbolically) and poured the green water on him, until he was drenched. It was very moving. Then, one by one, we all came back to Max and this time he tied a bracelet on our wrist and blessed us. There were laughter and tears, while tinny music played and cameras snapped. Then, the seriousness abruplty ended as the remaining water was poured onto everyone in reachable distance. The festivities did not end until every person was doused, and even then it continued a little longer.

Work

If anyone is wondering more about what we’re actually doing here, I thought I’d write a little about work.

After the International Women’s Day celebration in Koppal, the girls returned home with their families for a couple of weeks for a summer vacation. (This time is always a little tense because there is always the possibility that some of the girls will be dedicated to the goddess and become devadasis while they are home. The teachers spent several days with their families in their villages answering questions, and working with the parents. Apparently some of the girls called the director, Nazer, and pleaded with him to come to their homes because their parents didn't want them to go back.) Ambryn and I were sad to see them go, and sad to have less time to work with them. Still, it’s exciting for them to be able to reconnect with their families and home villages.

And here at Visthar there is always plenty to do. May 11th brings the annual Festival of Just Peace. This is an annual mela (carnival) celebrating the joy that comes out of struggle. There will be local artisans demonstrating traditional crafts like handlooms, bamboo work, etc. People will be selling their wares. There will be traditional foods and emphasis on local, organic, etc. The plates will be made out of leaves (this is traditional here). There will be art exhibitions, photo exhibitions, dance, theatre, children’s activities, as well as stalls for local NGOs. It sounds like a really beautiful day.

Unfortunately, we cannot be in two places at the same time, and Ambryn and I need to hit the open road by the end of April in order to see all of the places we want to see before we leave India in June. We're on a train for Trivandrum (Kerala) on April 23rd!

Still, we’re able to be involved by helping to coordinate and facilitate some summer workshops for youth (ages 12-16) that will serve as a prelude to the actual festival day. This week we’re going to facilitate “creative movement” workshops. Ambryn is the dancer, so I’m mostly just assisting. I’m really excited for the opportunity to move, and for what I’ll learn. In the last two weeks I've traveled all over Bangalore with our co-worker and friend Lyola speaking with principals from area private high schools, visiting churches, community centers, etc.. It was very interesting. I don’t know if I could’ve survived the pressure that Indian children go through with their exams. It’s exam season and tensions are high.

So, the rest of this month will see Ambryn and I body-mapping, flocking, weight sharing, and moving through space with students and teachers from Bangalore.

On one last work-related note, here I am with two co-workers: Steven from the paper unit and Shafi. We were three of five people in the backseat of the Qualis (a Toyota SUV thing) with 10 people total in the vehicle. I'm really going to miss the people at Visthar!

International Women's Day: Koppal

Riding home on the bus from Hampi the phrase “character building” came to mind (while sweating, tired, and immobilized by rice pot and limbs of small children). I was reminded of how often I thought this phrase in my teens and early twenties, as I always was trying to prove something to myself. (I can climb up this mountain. I can survive in this difficult place. I can get an A on this paper without any sleep.) Ambryn and I have spoken a lot about our lack of necessity to prove something to ourselves on this trip. I think our time in Koppal was our test.

Shortly after returning from Hampi, the girls’ mothers began to arrive. From the wedding hall that would be home for the next two days, we could see them walking down the street, streams of colorful sarees. They each clutched one small bag. Some of the girls were ecstatic. Some were apprehensive. Some stood by themselves and told us, “Aunty, Mommy, no.” We knew of some girls whose mothers had recently died, and we knew that some were not sure if their mother would come. Bittersweet. Soon there were circles of women all over the floor. The girls weaved in and out of them, introducing friends, talking to mothers of their friends, translating. Ambryn and I made some appearances in some circles and at one point were called upon to sing a song. (Thankfully we had been practicing because we knew this day would come. Because we both have sung “Closer to Fine” about a million times, it’s our best hope.) Around 11:00 we trekked home with our Visthar companions, over the railroad tracks and through very some muddy roads. (Ambryn received a reprimand from our Indian friends because to avoid mud she stepped into the rice patty…filled with snakes.)

Our alarms were set for 6:00 the next morning and we woke up absolutely exhausted. We peeled our tired bodies off the floor and tried (unsuccessfully) to muster up some celebratory feelings. Thankfully, Radha, the Kannada teacher, was there to get us into our sarees (purchased for this very day). With sleepy faces, sarees on, and borrowed gold chains around our necks (an absolute must to complete the outfit, we’ve been told) we stepped into our sandals and again took off down the muddy road. Upon arrival at the hall we experienced the “celebrity status” our professor Doug cautioned us of in our 2001 trip. Our white skin was one thing, the saris another, and Ambryn’s eyebrow ring the final straw. It was beautiful to see the girls with their mothers…singing, dancing, drumming, speaking eloquently…and all the while it was absolutely exhausting to be surrounded by hundreds of people (many of whom wanted to touch us, stare at us, speak loudly to us in Kannada) in intense heat, wrapped in 5 meters of cloth. I literally did not know my body could produce so much sweat. Thankfully, due to my childhood lessons on the importance of natural, breathable fibers (instilled in me by my mother) I chose a (high-maintenance, that’s the trade-off) cotton sari. Still, it took so much energy just to keep ourselves hydrated. There wasn’t much left for explaining over and over our names, where we were from, if we were or were not students, and why we were not married.

It could have been due to the heat, but our emotions ran deep. I felt so much as I hugged the girls good-bye, or saw them with their mothers, or without their mothers…But I also felt such intense frustration at all of the attention that we were drawing. The days were (so) not about us, and we had no idea how to re-direct all that gawking, all of questions. I’d like to say that I was always gracious, but several times I just had to ignore the throngs (literally) of children jumping and screaming, “Aunty! Aunty!” (Not Bandhavi girls, but local children we did not know.) At one point I was trying to say good-bye and several of them had a firm grip on my arm and wouldn’t let me go. I was literally trapped on several occasions. Even though they were really cute little kids, my instincts kicked in. Being trapped is not a good feeling. Everything became a production. While waiting for the toilet I was surrounded and couldn’t even get into the bathroom. It was an awful feeling to lose the ability to have time to ourselves. We couldn’t walk down the streets without gangs of schoolchildren following us, or random adults stopping to stare and ask questions. At the hall we were always surrounded, no matter which corner we tried to find. I was bewildered at the predicament. I wanted to be able to blend in both because I wanted the attention on the girls and the mothers, but also because I just needed my space. Is this selfish? I don’t know.

The program itself was very inspiring. (Our difficulties came during the “free times.”) Even with the intense heat and lack of sari-wearing history I was deeply moved by what we saw and heard. The program was entirely in Kannada, but the spirit was easily conveyed without common spoken language. The girls took charge, with Renuka as the master of ceremonies. There was drumming, singing, and dancing with a spiritual element infused throughout. One by one, the girls were called onto the stage and presented their mothers with a flower and a card, and honored them. There were tears, from the girls and their mothers, but also from those of us in the crowd. (Unfortunately Ambryn and I missed most of this because we were taking a trip to see land Visthar is about to purchase to began another Bandhavi program in this area, closer to where the girls are actually from.) The interesting thing is, the girls who did not have mothers present chose to honor various people from Visthar…their teachers and coordinators of the Bandhavi program.

The entire event culminated in a march to the government building and presenting a list of demands to the governor. Ambryn and I were encouraged to hop (aka be pulled) into the lorry and ride with the women. We pushed our way (literally…Sham was telling us, “Push! Push! Otherwise we’ll never get in!”) to the front to stand next to someone familiar, the theatre teacher, Shivashankar. He turned out to be an excellent rally leader and initiated call and response. Ambryn and I were invited in and soon Ambryn and I were shouting (to the non-English speakers):

Us: What do we want?!

Women and girls: Justice!

Us: When do we want it?!

Women and girls: Justice!

We decided that was pretty good. After arriving safely and jumping out of the lorry (and the requisite waiting for who-knows-what for about half an hour in the sun) we began our march. All of my frustrations from the days began to fall away. It felt so good to be engaged in something meaningful with these women. Here was something we could actually DO. We could march with them in solidarity. We could try our best to repeat the Kannada calls for justice while they giggled at our butchering attempts. On the steps of the government building we were met with a group of men with arms crossed at their chests, and police officers on either side. Ambryn and I were ushered to the front by some of the NGO workers from Koppal, even though we really wanted to be in the back. The women continued singing, then one woman read the demands. Next, the (arrogant) government official told the crowd that the NGOs were exploiting them and representing them in ways they don’t understand (most of the women are illiterate). Unfortunately, the male NGO employees from Koppal became very defensive: standing up, and shouting. Ambryn and I continually muttered, “Let the women speak.” We grew uncomfortable as tensions escaled, and I re-located myself to the back of the crowd. Eventually some of the women stood up and set the man straight. Sham, dear benevolent Sham, approached the officer gently and demanded he apologize. Eventually he did, and he walked away. Then, it was all over. The women began to walk away. I stood, stunned. I found Mercy to try to get some sort of a translation and analysis of what just happened. She told me there was some speculation that the government officials thought Ambryn and I were from a donor agency and therefore the NGOs were trying to impress us. This news hit hard. The thought that our presence could have taken away from this event was almost too much to bear. However, this is only speculation (this is what I’m holding on to) and Mercy (a tireless activist) told us she actually thinks it’s a good thing that the government official was oppositional, because it adds fuel to the women’s fire. This is my hope.

This is the lorry that transported we protestors to the government building:

Here we are in it:

p.s. The events made the local paper both days. On the second day one photos is of Ambryn and me, which is kind of interesting.