Happy Birthday India!

Happy Birthday India! 60 years old for the largest democracy in the world. Impressive. Stay strong.

Here are some final pictures of Delhi; I ran out of steam towards the end of my trip, but here are some final scenes from the capital of India.

The Taj

Yes, the Taj Mahal is as spectacular as everybody says it is.

No, it is not overrated.

Yes, it should be one of the wonders of the world.

And it is.

A man built the Taj for his lover.

Lucky woman.

Too bad she was dead.

At least we can enjoy it.

Homesick

This place finally broke me down. I leave Nicole, and I immediately become the typical American-stressed-out tourist.

I get excited when I see McDonald's and I crave it all day. I go there for dinner.

A manual rickshaa driver comes up to me and says, "Rickshaa? Rickshaa?" I say no. NO. He pipes in, "Where are you going? Where are you going?" I snap back annoyed, "I just told you NO. Its none of your business where I am going."

They ask everything twice here to be doubly irritating.

Immediately, another rickshaa driver hollers, "Hello? Hello?" I call back, "Goodbye."

Yesterday I jumped out of a rickshaa at a brief stop because he had no clue where I was going, even though he did the head nod when I asked him. He continued to ask three other people. He still had no clue. We happened to be two blocks away.

I chewed a driver out for trying to charge me 300 rupees for a 20 rupee ride. Nicole would be proud of me. I still had to pay 40.

As I walked into McDonald's, a semi-urban 20 something in a torquoise "flaming nylon" shirt stopped me, "Excuse me, excuse me, what country? Where you from?" With a clear answer of defeat, I respond, "America."

"I have a friend in America. What's it like?" I tell him coldly, "Just like this (as I point around McDonald's) except without being hassled. He didn't get the point and followed me in. He sat with me throughout the whole time I ate my Chicken McMaharaja Big Mac, with fries of course. He even had a friend that joined us. He had an uncle who had visited New York once.

Good for him.

Even the food is starting to smell like hospital food.

So I have escaped the chaos outside and sit in this basement restaurant drinking crappy Nescafe, eating stale and burnt toast, and writing my complaints on a fucking napkin (because my journal got drenched by the monsoon). And a baby mouse just came up to my toes. I'm dead serious. Classic.

All I want is a dark, rich espresso, toilet paper, hot shower, and a fork.

Home sweet home.

Khajuraho Magnificence

The most incredible temples I have ever seen: Enormous, intricate, erotic.

How can you beat that?

Asexual India?

“You, very beautiful. Very beautiful face,” one of the five girls tells me, as she excitedly giggles along with her friends. 13 or 14 year old girls on the train back from school in Kerala had asked me to come sit next to them. Of course, I obliged.

I asked them their names, and they nervously responded, adding a few more words in English to try and impress me. The girls laughed, all trying to capture my attention.

Like 13 or 14 year old girls do. Seemed normal to me. Endearing.

But it seemed very unusual to me in India. Girls approaching men and flirting. Sure nothing was going to happen between us, but you could sense the anxious sexuality of the situation.

Rarely in India did I notice public displays of affection—the way us Westerners define the phrase. Kissing, hugging, petting, holding hands; amongst lovers. But even the subtle flirtations are rare—at least in the way of smiles and eye contact. The flirtatiousness of a big smile is almost nonexistent.

But sex clearly runs rampant. The population tells it all—more than 1 billion people. That’s a lot of sex.

Muketu Sehtu in his book Maximum City calls Bombay “a city in heat.” He describes a sexual culture, albeit underground, which is dominated by sex—the money, power, and excitement that both drives and accompanies it. Sexual pleasure runs rampant.

But to the visual eye, India feels like the awkward middle school boy who wants to make out with his crush behind the baseball bleachers, but doesn’t know how to drag her out there. The sexual desire is there, but he is still uncomfortable with displaying these desires publicly.

I once joked with a friend of mine in college that the Indian girls in our class were “asexual porn.” Beautiful to look at, but for a white, college boy like me, nothing more. She slapped me. But there was some truth to the statement: in India, the subject of sex didn’t even cross into this public discussion, and I wouldn’t even know how to approach the subject. Asexual porn.

The girls on the train displayed the sexual innocence that seemed so lacking in the rest of my experience there. Perhaps it was their age: too young to have to worry about the prospects of marriage (and definitely too young to already feel the burden of it), but old enough to have gone through puberty and feel real sexual desires. They could display these emotions by flirting with me.

Perhaps not so asexual after all.

The Foreverness of Tea

"My family has been here for more than 36 years working at Happy Valley. My husband works in the factory and the rest of us have all done our fair share in the fields," our tea Dadi (Grandma) Kusum explained to us of her time living on this Darjeeling tea plantation. "I was born in Nepal but came over and have lived here ever since."

Farms, and this plantation was no exception, have always seemed to me to be the greatest source of family tradition. It is a culture, economy and livelihood which directly sprouts from the ground, and will always be a part of a farmer's life. Their world.

The vastness of the tea plantations is immediately felt, and it engulfs you in its still tranquility. All of a sudden, you begin speaking more quietly, thinking that everybody in the whole valley can hear you. Women busily pick away at the crops, and gather in groups with huge bundles of tea on their heads.

You can already taste the flavor of the tea.

Darjeeling Rain

Three hours up into the hills of West Bengal, sits the peaceful and beautiful hill station of Darjeeling. Known for its high quality tea, Darjeeling was a much needed rest from the rest of India. It has a heavy Tibetan and Nepali population, and has a strong Buddhist influence. Although it was raining the whole time we were there, and unfortunately could not see the Himalayas, it was a welcomed escape from the bustle of Kolkata. We visited a Tibetan refugee center, several Buddhist monasteries, and Happy Valley Tea Estate. After three days of non-stop rain, we were ready to leave.

A Personal Reflection

A lot of people go to India to “find themselves.” Nicole returned to her parent’s homeland to reclaim her Indian roots (or perhaps claim them for the first time). A friend of hers may come to the country after a recent divorce to “get back on track.” Another friend of mine wanted to “feel closer to her natural side” after a few years of monotonous office work. A couple I met earlier this year in Jamaica started their world travels in India after saving up all of their savings—they spent 6 months here, and thus began their new life.

Today at the New Vishnuanthi Temple, dozens of Hindus said their prayers. Students rang the prayer bell, women in their ornate saris and stoic faces placed flowers on the altars. A woman lit a candle in the corner and chanted “Om, Ram…” Over and over. Lost in prayer. But found.

I always feel a special silence in temples. A soothing relaxation that calms the humidity. Shoeless and worry-free.

But that is all. Even at my Jewish temples and synagogues. A relaxing still, but not much else. Pure appreciation of others, and the historical spirituality, but nothing within myself.

I flash back to the times I’ve been moved. At the Women’s Day Celebration in South Africa, honoring the freedom and rights that women have gained. But also celebrating ten years of democracy in the country. The Anti-Globalization march in Chile, filled with rowdy youth and passionate anger. A togetherness that was extremely powerful. And the Anti-War march in Washington D.C., seeking to get our voices heard in resistance to the Iraq War. These events are where I have teared up. Felt alive. Been moved.

I suppose it’s fitting that I will be pursuing my PhD in political science. To me, politics can be powerful, both ideologically but also personally. Almost like a faith. I’ve been giddy all day after receiving my assignment to be a Teacher’s Assistant for my first semester of grad school. Politics in a Multicultural Society. It just feels good.

I sit in one of the holiest cities in India, and struggle to feel the holiness. Not surprisingly, because I’m not Hindu. And not very religious. But it makes me think of what I’m supposed to find here in India. Myself? I feel the overwhelmingness and the frustration of the poverty. The sadness. But also the joy of the people. But perhaps not the political joy that has touched me in the past. That is my challenge. And perhaps I just need to look inside to recalibrate my own expectations first.

I am doing yoga tomorrow.

Holy Varanasi

I’m not quite sure if Varanasi is a city of life or death. Maybe that’s the point.

I sat on the long steps overlooking the Ganges River. The chai guys are out, alive and well. “Chai? Chai?” a man comes over and asks me. This chai even had fresh lemons that the man would squeeze into the cup. He sat down a few feet away on the holy steps and poured himself some tea. A few minutes later a young boy came up to me and asked me if I wanted some of his chai. I declined. The boy then sat next to the older man—the elder chai guy—and sold him a biscuit. He even poured him some of his chai.

Like father and son. It was their livelihood. They sat drinking their chais together overlooking the Ganges. You know an Indian city is alive and well when the chai guys are out.

In front of all of us, little children ran around in scant clothes. Some children were even naked. Two young boys were teasing a goat, as the animal stuck out its tongue and snarled. Everybody laughed. Tourists walked by and nervously snapped photos. Beggars immediately swarmed them. A group of younger kids, not yet ten, took turns carrying a little baby, and passing her around like a hot potato. Her butt was showing. She pretended to smile. Nicole asked a little friend we met who the baby was. “That’s the beggar baby,” he responded without hesitating.

They had the routine down.

The city was surely alive. Breathing at least.

Earlier in the day, we passed a cremation taking place along the “burning ghats.” The family of one of the bodies watched nearby, playing drums, and chaotically waiting. There were three bodies burning at once.

The bodies burned visibly to all, placed in the middle of what looked like a campfire. Except that the feet were slightly hanging off the side. Men dripping with sweat controlled the fire as they would a bonfire at a block party. I sat on the steps overlooking the scene with Nicole, wondering if those were really bodies burning.

One of the men tended to the fire. All of a sudden he flipped the body, and I could see the whole thing, half burning but still their. His skull. And torso.

Burning.

I recently saw the movie Saw 3 and had a flashback. It felt like a horror movie. Maybe I didn’t want to be cremated after all.

The man rearranged the wood so it was back burning normally. Like nothing had happened. Because nothing did. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It was a holy cremation, the way it’s done. The way it’s been done for centuries.

The city bustled around. The family was still praying, and the market was hopping a few meters away.

Completely alive.

An ascetic with dreadlocks and a biblical beard calmly rocked back and forth with his staff on a nearby step. Men digging ashes dumped them into the Ganges, as if they worked on a production line. The cows poked their heads into a pile of garbage for their afternoon snack.

“Why is it that cities this holy have this much poverty?” Nicole asked confused. It reminded me of Jerusalem where the beggars line up in front of each temple, waiting for an answer. Or food. Or the Vatican, where the ornate architecture and gold drown out the nearby poverty. My mom once complained after visiting the Vatican, “With all of these millions of dollars spent on these buildings, we could feed the world.” Perhaps she was right.

I’m not quite sure where Varanasi, one of the holiest cities in Hinduism, fits into this debate. Except that it breathed a deathly liveliness. Or a lively death.

Nicole said it best, “This place is full of either holiness or holy-shitness.”

And the stench. Burned bodies, sweaty bodies, feces, urine, holiness, garbage, pollution, all filling the humid air. A lively smell that could put you to death.

As we sat on the steps, a severely deformed man came up to me and asked me for money. His torso extended out of his back, and he was hunched over so he barely reached 4 feet tall. “Please, please. To eat.” He sat down next to me and told me the story of how ten years ago he had an accident with a bull. He used to be a businessman and was proud of his travels around India. He kept telling me about visiting Goa. We talked for more than ten minutes and I asked him what he thought of Varanasi. He responded, “It is so holy. It is home.”

Yesterday, a boat capsized in the Ganges. A few tourists I met told us the story, and we were mortified. 10 people died, including women and children. They asked a local about the accident.

The local man shrugged and responded, “Karma.”

Such is life.

Or death.

Pride of the Rickshaa

The woman sat above the city. Unmoved.

She breathed an air of calm and tranquility that strangely made its way through the surroundings. In a way that was noticed, but not acted upon by the driver, and all the others bustling about. But it was felt.

She was the charm of the rickshaa, the one who was being driven, the portrait of her city. Her clothes radiated and blinded all the passersby, like a laser in their windshield. Her smooth, soft face was the movie amidst a swerving reality.

The driver peddled intensely.

Cars swerved and honked madly.

A group of cows relieved themselves in the middle of the street, and continued eating the pile of garbage when they were done.

The Indian stench perfumed the air.

Screams. And more screams. And even more screams.

Thousands of people crossing the street.

People walking. And arguing. And being.

India.

But it was all a stilled landscape to the woman, who warmed the city with her untouchable smile.

A Favorite City?

“How can you like a place with that much poverty?” Nicole asked me clearly annoyed.

Hands down, Calcutta is my favorite city in India. From the moment I stepped foot in the city, there was a chaotic charm that engulfed me, as the rain poured outside and the city continued to buzz. It was dark, I was tired, I had no clue where the taxi driver was taking us, and I still stared out the window with that feeling of excitement that a youngster shows when his parents take him to Mount Rushmore for the first time. Welcome to Calcutta, which in new India is now called Kolkata.

But Nicole’s question kept nagging at me, as I felt guilty for liking this city. It was easy for me to appreciate only the good that the city offered: I could take up and leave anytime that I wanted to. I could escape to our homey flat and have Madan, the caretaker at where we stayed cook us up a feast. I could compartmentalize the real Kolkata as a mere “sight to see” or “city to experience,” without being forced to confront the life that millions of Bengalis suffer through each day.

But in many ways, that is what travel—especially to developing countries—is all about. Trying to find the gem amongst the rubble, as a guilty western conscience gnaws at me. Being confused, asking questions, seeing and uncomfortably feeling a different way that people live. And guiltily enjoying it.

I love Kolkata because it’s a city in motion. People are always on the move. And working. While other Indian cities to me revealed a sort of stagnant chaos—movement everywhere that seemed to keep everything standing still—Kolkata was constantly on the move, and getting somewhere (although I admit I have no clue where). Men buzzed around with huge sacks on their head, corner chefs fed the masses, rickshaa drivers busily pedaled, walked and drove, children danced through the streets, and the city embodied each movement. It is definitely not a static city.

The transportation represents all of these different types of movement. It is the only place left in the world with manual rickshaas (definitely seems feudal to me). Cycle and auto rickshaas complete the trio. There is an above ground tram, a subway Metro, plenty of busses, taxis, bikes, ferries, house boats, fishing boats, you name it. I saw individuals in makeshift wheelchairs, and I even saw a beggar with no legs slide across the street with a tiny board on wheels. Anything so as to not stay still.

And the architecture. Sure, it is run-down British colonial, once again making me feel guilty for liking something with such a European influence. But it still had the diversity of colors that will always be India to me. It looked like a city lost in time, kind of like Havana, Cuba, where buildings slowly grew weary and decrepit, but maintained the architectural allure that it always had. The buildings and neighborhoods were a not-so-distant escape from the hustle of the city, and the narrow back streets represented this serenity. There was some quiet in this city after all.

Finally, as a traveler, so much of your experience in a city is defined by where you stay and who you meet. There is no good way to get around this. Kolkata brought us Madan, the caretaker at where we stayed who would end up for me representing the prototypical Bengali: my symbol of Kolkata. I stayed at a friend’s late grandparents’ flat in an intellectual section of the city, tucked away just off of the lively action of Kolkata. It was the perfect refuge: thousands of aging books decorated the dining room, curtains blew in the air to the beat of the ceiling fan, and a canopy bed waited in which to fall asleep.

Madan has lived in this house for 40 years. He came here when he was twenty years old. The late owner was a lawyer, one of the best in Calcutta, Madan told us. He clearly took pride in his old boss, and his face displayed a subtle display of nostalgia. I noticed when he walked around the house the place just didn’t feel quite right without them. Madan loved to cook: he made us sautéed fish, chicken and vegetable curry and a beautiful roasted chicken. He made the best roti. He served the food with the charming Bengali arrogance: he knew it was good. For me, Kolkata would not be the same without him.

In two days, Kolkata entered my list of favorite cities. Along with Havana, La Paz, Santiago (Chile), and Rome. It intrigued me, confused me, saddened me, and moved me. I wondered if I could live there, and I tried to convince myself that I could. But the arrogance of traveling took shape and we had to leave.

And perhaps that is the real reason I could fall in love with the city after all: I could leave Kolkata after only two days.

A Sacred Cartoon

"Soooooooooo glad you made it to Hampi. How magical??? It's like some sort of Indiana Jones theme park that's been abandoned and gradually people have moved in or something. Yeah, sacred cartoon man! Ha ha ha!!!" my friend who had visited Hampi a few months ago recently wrote me.

Hampi is a sacred cartoon. Straight out of the Flintstones. Centuries old temples amidst enormous boulder fields. Ruins everywhere, with a new world trying to build itself around them. Take the bus station: an open parking lot that happens to have a 14th century wall around it. Crazy. People bathing in the river, and hanging their clothes to dry on a sunken temple. Women busily tending to the rice paddies that are growing in between random old ruins.

And monkeys everywhere.

Embarrassment

“It was the best purchase I have ever made in my entire life,” I told Nicole after I bought the young beggar a samosa at the New Jalipiguri train station. 3 rupees. Not even 10 cents.

“So you can feel good about yourself for having fed a hungry eight year old?” she answered questioningly.

It was worse than that. Really, I was happy because this little boy, who had come up to me at least five times would no longer bother me.

I bought off the bother, the annoyance.

Trickle Down Bangalore

Please don’t tell me the trickle down theory works. Just go to India.

Case in point: Bangalore.

More to come later...

India as a Train Station

The train stations of India act as a microcosm for the entire country. “Chai chai” lanky men hum as they carry around their pot of boiling tea. Women clothed in brightly colored saris struggle with their luggage, some carrying it on their heads, while others drag it along on the ground. Couples seem to be arguing with one another, endearingly showing their strength of love. Clearly, the love is strong in this country.

And the beggars. A teenage girl in rags carrying a sleeping body. Or a dead one. Boys in grey tatters, as if they are straight from a 1930s Depression photo stumble up to you, point to their stomach, and hold out their hand. They don’t say a word.

A family lies on the floor in the corner. In fact, many families. Babies, kids, teenagers, all lying, with transparent smiles. Joking with one another as flies buzz on their faces. They do not flinch. A baby boy in nothing but underwear climbs all over his mother, who is lying down soothing her other child. They must do this everyday.

All of a sudden a cow strolls onto the middle of the platform, casually walking and sniffing the ground. Only Vishnu knows how it got there.

In the corner a man twitches on a bench, clearly fucked up on brown sugar (the heroin version of crack cocaine that is popular in India). A cop walks over to him and yells at him to move; its past eight o’clock and he must move on. He doesn’t go anywhere, and the cop walks away.

Nicole walks over to make a phone call. A man with no eyes tells her that it is 2 rupees. He then watches her the whole time she is on the phone. Eyeless.

A young boy drags his mother through the station, as she continually falls over on him. A six year old keeping his mother up as she is fucked up on something. Perhaps she’s a prostitute. Perhaps mentally ill. She flashes her cell phone. As her six year old son begs for her. She laughs when she grabs a cracker from his hands and eats it. Is she stealing food from her son? Or life?

A middle class family enters the station with shopping bags and lots of luggage. Old school suitcases, the heavy ones that don’t have the easy-to-drag luxuries that are the standards back home. The three kids in their Western dress, jeans and a Quiksilver t-shirt, the mother in her beautifully bright sari and radiant shawl, and the father carrying a briefcase and a look of sureness. He is in a silent state of control.

“What are you staring at,” hisses Nicole to a group of twenty-something men, clearly bored of their surroundings. A beautiful Indian, American, or both walking with an American male with a backpack is clearly strange to them. They get the message after Nicole’s sneer.

The post office worker wheels out the mail, which is bundled together in label-less sacks. No uniform nor labels. Can barely tell its official mail. Maybe its not.

And the stench. The flavor of Indian food and spices mixed with the aroma of thousands of sweaty bodies, bodies that have been rolling around dirty floors, hustling through the overly polluted cities, and have rested little in recent memory.

It is go time. Time to move on to the next location, the next adventure, the next place. But moving on to the next sameness.

To another train station; but the same India.

A Backwater Adventure

When travelling, you often meet a person in a particular place who ends up defining that place for you. That person often is cemented in your mind as the symbol of that city, town, state, or country. Abu Babu became our Kerala.

Abu Babu took us on a Gilligan's Island-type escapade through the backwaters of Kerala. Known as the Venice of the East, the Kerala backwaters are a mix of large and small canals mixed with vast rice paddies and villages. Common mode of transportation? Canoes.

Abu Babu was barely five feet tall, and he moved around his boat like a chipmunk. Barefoot, and constantly crouching over, Abu Babu was a living Keralan compass: he knew the backwaters as though it were his livelihood. In fact, it was.

Although he didn't speak a word of English, Abu Babu communicated with us by pointing, laughing, and simply taking us where we needed to go. And by holding Nicole's hand--he seemed to enjoy this.

He navigated our boat through the backwaters--narrow lagoons and wide, river-like canals. He brought us to a restaurant for chai, in the middle of the canals and only accessible by boat, where an entire family immediately converged at the sight of foreigners and practiced the two words of English they knew. We awkwardly sat together drinking our chai and watched the Indian love story that was playing on the TV.

We stopped off where a man was up in a tree plucking fruit that is used for the village alcohol. Abu Babu showed us the rice paddies, and kept pointing about something; a nice lost-in-translation moment. We explored a little slab of land that was full of palm trees with bats' nests.

Because it was during the monsoon, the backwaters were flooded and houses were literally halfway underwater. But people didn't seemed to mind; they just made sure that they were in shorts when they exited their house. They were immediately bathing in water.

We passed churches and cemetaries, restaurants and billboards, all amidst this matrix of canals.

After our day-long boat ride, it was a little sad to say goodbye to "our little guy" Abu Babu. He was our backwater experience, and we decided to give him a significant tip to show our appreciation.

We left feeling good, and chatting about how we would always remember Abu Babu.

An hour later, we went to get lunch at a nearby restaurant. Abu Babu was there eating, so we went and sat at his table. After a minute of watching him messily eat his food and trying to comprehend his slurring speech, it was obvious: he was wasted.

So much for our generous tip and our innocent view of Abu Babu and Kerala.

Kerala by Train

Welcome to Kerala.

After flying into Mumbai, we immediately took a 27 hour train ride to the southwestern-most state in India. Kerala is known for its high literacy rate, which hovers around 91%; this is the highest rate of any state in India. According to Wikipedia, "Social reforms enacted in the late 19th century by Cochin and Travancore were expanded upon by post-Independence governments, making Kerala among the Third World's longest-lived, healthiest, most gender-equitable, and most literate regions. However, Kerala's suicide, alcoholism, and unemployment rates rank among India's highest. A survey conducted in 2005 by Transparency International ranked Kerala as the least corrupt state in the country."

I spent most of the train ride sleeping and recovering from jet lag. But I spent a few hours staring out the door of the train, hardly believing I was finally here in India.

Here are a few snaps from the train.

A Love-Hate Relationship

It would be unfair and pretentious of me to say I know India, but in the past month I have felt it. To me, India is the head nod. Yes. No. Maybe. Hell no. For sure. What? India is the chai guy. Always there, on time. Always 4 rupees. Just like India, always on time, always the same price. Yeah right!! I love what I hate about this place and I hate what I love about it.

India is a country of unbelievable colors: stunning sari clothed women all in their traditional style, bright flowers decorating the shrines in the temple, and a collage of different fruit feeding the streets. But it is also a country of grays: the soot-colored faces of the beggar children, the ragged clothes of the rickshaw drivers, and the layer of pollution in all the cities.

It is a country that makes me want to say, "I wanna come back." Even though I can't give you a good reason why. It's just so...intriguing. And perhaps...confusing.

It is a country that leaves me angry: Why are so many people living in abject poverty when the economy is growing 10% each year? Why does it seem that people don't respect the public spaces? Are there any functional systems? Why does it have to be like this?

But the chaos warms the place, and adds the not-so-subtle charm that made me want to come here in the first place. The charm that inspires me to travel, learn, experience, live, and hope.

The charm that makes me love India.

Welcome to India: My Trip-Shtick

Welcome to India.

I spent the past month traveling through India, a country that proved to outdo my bipolarity a million fold. Before my trip, I thought I knew what I was into: I had traveled many times before, and had been to South America, Africa, Asia, and Europe. I have been to rich countries and extremely poor countries. I thought I had this "travel thing" down. Until India. The country redefined all that I thought I knew, until I was left not being able to define anything at all. It is a country beyond confusion, and left me throwing up my hands in frustration.

This is my travel journal, an attempt to make sense of--or at least reflect on--my experience in India. It is a mix of a simple travel log, strange anecdotes, raw emotions, imaginary stories, reflection essays, photos, and other confused babble.

I spent the month with my friend Nicole, who had been working in India for the past year. Thank you Nicole for being such a great companion. For one month, we covered a lot of ground, and spent countless hours sleeping on trains and busses.

We started our travels in Mumbai, and immediately made our way down to the state of Kerala (see Kovalam), in the southwestern part of the country. In Kerala, we explored the strange city of Fort Cochin, explored the Kerala backwaters, took a safari and enjoyed the serenity of the tea plantations in Wayanad. We then headed North to Bangalore, where we explored the City Market and the lavish nightlife that the Bangalorean elite look forward to each weekend. Off to Hampi, the sacred Flinstones-esque town filled with ancient temples amidst enormous boulders. We then flew out of Hyderabad on our way East to Calcutta (now called Kolkata) where we witnessed the hustle and bustle of the cultural capital of India. There, our friend Madan took care of us and offered much needed refuge in this chaotic city. Then, we took off into the hills of Darjeeling and attempted to see the Himalayas, but it was raining for the entire three days and we were left settling for the incredible Happy Valley Tea Estate instead. As to ditch the rain, we headed back downland to Varanasi, one of the holiest cities in India. We then escaped to the incredibly preserved and beautiful 10th century temples of Khajuraho, where we added a third travel partner to our duo, an American named Ed. After escaping to Delhi, I finally got sick for the first time and struggled to enjoy the hectic charm of Old Delhi. Enter Rajastan, where I explored the palaces of the bountiful Maharajas. Finally, I made sure not to miss the Taj Mahal, which was as spectacular as it is made out to be. I made a quick return to Delhi, where I did away with my caveman beard and explored the train station with a former "street child." After an exhausting month, back to the U.S. Home sweet home.

So enjoy the commentaries, and as I slowly make more and more sense of my whole experience, or am inspired to jot down all that remains nonsensical, I will continue to add to my trip-schtik. But as for now, here is a start...

Home Sweet Home

“You fucking gringos drive me crazy sometime. Gringos, go home!”

A second ago, I bought this guy a beer at our neighborhood bar. He was having a bad week. Now he was screaming at me to go home. I looked back at him confused: I was up the street from where I live, the same place I refer to as my “living room.” I was home.

Juan was from Guatemala. He recently moved here and married an American girl who he fell in love with. She was volunteering in Guatemala after she graduated college when she met him. Recently, he just received his certificate to be a woodworker here in the U.S., and interviewed for a job. He was not hired.

“He didn’t hire me because I’m Guatemalteco. Not white.” Juan screamed at me as if I had the answers to his worries. “What is it with this place?” A second before that he was complaining to me that the bartender would not serve him a beer. “It’s because I am Hispanic.”

I tried to calm him down and told him that I think it was because she was busy, and because he was not ordering from behind the bar. Instead, he was waiting in the server’s area, the one place that pisses servers and bartenders off more than anything. Plus, the bartender was Filipina, the other bartender was black, the kitchen staff was a mix of Hispanics and blacks, the customers were mostly Puerto Rican, Mexican, black and white, and the music was some type of African rhythms. “I don’t think your ethnicity has anything to do with it,” I tried to reassure him.

Cultural misunderstanding, I guess.

So I bought Juan a beer.

“Can I ask you one thing?” Juan asked me harshly. “Why is it when you people come into my country, do you take pictures of poor people? It’s so humiliating.”

I thought about it for a second, and realized that he had a point. When I was in Italy, I took pictures of the Romanesque architecture. When I was in Chile, I took pictures of the micros (the busses) and of the street art. When I was in Cuba, I took pictures of the 1950s cars and the parks. In Jamaica, the beaches. But when I was in Swaziland and South Africa, I had hundreds of photos of the people. Ditto Bolivia. And Peru.

Why was it when we visit a country with an abundance of poor people, like countries in parts of Asia, Africa and South America, do we take pictures of the people? As Juan let me know again and again, “the poor people.”

“All the time, you American tourists come into my country and ask ‘Photo? Photo?’ Why do you want photos of us? To demean us?”

I tried to think of some answers. “You know Juan, I think it is because we are taking pictures of a people who look different from us. But more importantly, of a culture that is different from us. A culture that we are trying to understand, and we do this by taking photos. In most cases, we are taking pictures of the same emotions that we have here, and they are brought out in our photos: happiness, enjoyment, pain and suffering. It makes us feel closer to the people that we are visiting—closer to their country and culture, and closer to their lifestyle. It is easy to think that we are taking pictures of them because they are poor, but really we are documenting how similar they are to all of us. ”

“Whatever,” Juan responded, not buying into the explanation.

“Your country came into Guatemala and destroyed our lifestyle. Killed our people. My whole family was murdered by you Americans when you were supporting our dictatorship. Now you come into our country and take pictures like it is all just a game.”

I was stuck. There was nothing I could say to relieve these feelings of anger.

Thank god for the guy next to me. He chimed in, “I grew up in Romania, and my whole family was threatened by the Communists all the time. My uncle was shot in the head when I was 12. Boom. He lived, we fled, and I was able to get to America and grow up happily. Let’s take a shot,” He said to us as he ordered three shots of tequila. “I understand your anger, but you have to make a distinction between the American people and their government. I know that as a democracy, the government is supposed to be a direct representation of the people, but it doesn’t always work that way. Most of the people here are not evil, and probably do not even support the way your people were treated in Guatemala.”

“Fuck you gringos,” Juan yelled again, as if we were stuck in the middle of one, enormous cultural misunderstanding.

Juan’s anger would not seize, and he became irrational. But his feelings are no different than millions of people across the world. People hate the U.S., and unfortunately it is becoming harder and harder to separate U.S. citizens from their government. For normal, disenfranchised people in the world, the U.S. citizens and its government has become one in the same. Scary thought. And these feelings are arising everywhere, whether it is a cultural misunderstanding or not.

Finally, Juan left and went home to his American wife.

Take a Little Time

“It’s a beautiful day, no thoughts on my mind. We should have done this sooner,” James said to me as we shared an hour of our lives with one another.

We have lived in the same building for a year. James lives with his wife, who would smile at me when we walked out of the building together, but one of those smiles that you would not remember if you had to identify it in a police lineup. I smiled the same way back. James and I would at least say a few words, something like “How’s it going?” and “Have a good one.” Generic responses for generic conversation.

Until today.

We sat in the backyard and our 180 degree separation of lives and history converged. “You know, when I was growing up on the West Side of Chicago as a black man, we were just hoping to get to age 30. I’m not saying this for sympathy or for any dramatic effect. It was the motha fuckin truth. For a kid with no money, the first time we put our hands on that shit we finally felt like something. How old are you?”

I told him I am twenty three. His face dropped. “You’re only 23!! And you’re already in graduate school? Shit, I can’t believe it. I thought you at least were 30.”

“Maybe it’s my beard,” I told him, not exactly sure how to respond.

“Most 23 year olds are college dropouts where I’m from, if they are lucky. And you made it straight through. Damn, that’s good shit.” He could hardly believe it.

It was one of those humbling yet uncomfortable moments, where there was nothing to apologize for, but nothing that could really explain my situation either. “I was lucky, privileged, supported,” I responded, “I had no other issues to worry about except college. That was it. College was my only option.”

“We all got that shit, and not everybody gets through college like that.”

It is true—the majority of college students do not graduate in four years. In fact, only 28% of Americans hold a degree at all. But it was never a question for me. For whatever reason.

“You know, I had a different kind of schooling, and I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he told me, very proud of where he is at today. “I own a barber shop. Once I saw money for the first time, I wanted it. I graduated high school and started working at a bank. That’s the job. I started in the mail room, and before long I was a teller. You can move up in that business if you work a little at it. I could have been a personal banker in five years!”

“But I always loved cutting hair. It is like an art, and I guess I just had it. And my dad knew it. He saw how good I was at it, and he told me to go for it. It was hard for me to give up my banking job, but I knew I had to do it.”

James and I lived in the same apartment for a year, and I knew nothing about him. We left the same door, lived our own lives, and really, there was no reason that I should know him. Different ages, different upbringing, different friends.

Unless I need a haircut.

That’s how we think. What can my new friend do for me. What can I get out of him. I think it’s an American thing: new friends are people who can help you out in some way. Nothing more, nothing less.

So James could cut my hair.

“Being a barber is a special thing. We are everything: an artist, a businessman, a counselor,” he said to me. “I never know who is going to walk in that door and sit in my chair. It could be a man who just got out of prison, a gangbanger, or a prominent businessman. People tell me everything. They are looking for comfort. If their wife just cheated on them, if they robbed the shit out of a liquor store and have a search warrant against them, you name it. I’ve heard it.”

But he is there for them. Like he was there for me today, chatting it up, having a good time. Enjoying one another’s company. The same company that we could have enjoyed a year earlier, had we simply made the opportunity. As the cliché goes, “Life is full of missed opportunities.”

We grew up in different worlds, with what originally seemed different goals and options. And perhaps that is true. But throughout the whole conversation, we kept looking at each other and saying, “Why didn’t we do this a lot sooner.” We should have.

It’s true, if I need a haircut James could cut my hair. But if I need a friend, James is there for me as well.

Baseball Bangers

“If I got a hundred dollars for every time a teacher would tell me ‘if he doesn’t have baseball he would be a gangbanger,’ I would be a rich man.”

These words drove him crazy.

Its not often you have the chance to meet a man of honesty. A man who dedicates five years of his life to be a volunteer baseball coach, so that he could change lives. Change the game. Use baseball as a means to education.

“You know,” he would tell me. “If these kids want to play baseball, they can get a 2.5. It’s not that hard. You go to class, turn in your assignments, you will get a 2.5.” He sees this as a problem. He gets sick of having college coaches call him up. Ask him what the students grades are, and he tells them that the player is hovering around a 2.1. “Call me when he gets a 2.5,” says the college coach. And slams down the phone. And the conversation ends there. Along with the season.

Welcome to the Chicago innercity baseball league. A lesson of standards and respect.

I met this coach at a local bar. He lived baseball. The season is over, and this coach is still wearing his high school team’s baseball hat and jersey. You could smell the sweat of a long season, a season that ended with a loss. But with pride. Successful. Over.

Tomorrow, the White Sox invited his team to the game versus the Yankees. Front row seats, batting practice with the manager, a chance to meet their idols face to face. Three of these kids may even be there one day. The recent Chicago Magazine article even highlighted this success: three Division one players, staying close to home so that they can play in front of their families. Homegrown in West Chicago. Maybe they will even play for the White Sox one day.

The coach, my new friend, will never forget the legend, who loomed over this team for a devastatingly long 20 years. “I’ll never forget my first year as a coach with this team,” he told me with a subtle hint of nostalgia. “I had been an assistant coach for four games, and we were on the bus, and one of the players started mouthing off about the head coach. ‘This is bullshit,’ the player complained. Another player chimed in, ‘yeah, what the hell.’ The legend overheard, and was clearly annoyed. When the bus pulled up to the field, the team exited the bus. The legend told his assistants to stay put. The team exited the bus, and walked to the field, waiting for their coach—their leader—to lead them. He stayed put, along with his assistants. ‘If they think they know everything, let them coach. Fuck em.’ The team kept looking back, until they realized the coaches weren’t leaving. They were forced to make the lineup on their own. They kept looking back to the bus to see when their leader would finally give in and lead them. He stayed put. The game started, and they were still without a coach. Each inning, they looked back to the bus. Nothing. The game ended. They got killed. ‘I hope they learned their fucking lesson,’ the coach snarled.”

It was a lesson of respect. Of learning from those who know, of questioning an authority that is not supposed to be questioned.

The new coach, my friend, just laughed. “He sure was something,” he said of his old boss.

“I love baseball,” he told me. “I grew up playing the sport, watching it on tv, driving past ball fields and not being able to keep going. I had to stop and watch. It is a part of me. But it’s a game. These kids have to be accountable to their game, their passion, their sport. If I have a student with a 1.9 GPA who can throw, what good is it? They still won’t go to college. They probably won’t make the pros, and what then? We have baseball, we have leverage, and we must use it.”

And he told me the stories. Of how one of his players got an F in his English class. The student went the following day to his teacher, told her that he has a family problem, and she let him redo it. She changed the grade to a C. When my friend the baseball coach went and asked the teacher why she changed the grade, she responded, “He needs to play baseball. Its all he has. If he doesn’t have baseball, he will join a gang.”

He cringed. Again and again.

The coach just instituted a new policy: each player must receive a 2.5 or above to play on the team. The state’s rule is 2.0. There are just too many innercity kids who cannot reach a 2.5, and we don’t want to prevent them from playing baseball. That’s how he says the State sees it, and he’s sick of it. “If they really want to play baseball, they can get a 2.5,” he tells me. “We will help them, support them, but I know they can get a 2.5. These kids are not stupid.” And he had to fight for this rule. Hard. Nobody thought the players could do it.

The low standards drive him crazy. “We are telling these kids that they cannot do it, they cannot make it. Of course if you tell them that, and give them an out, they are not going to succeed. We have baseball, a game of respect. The highest standard they have ever had in their life. Lets use it.”

He tells the story of one of his players. The kid received two Fs in his latest classes and was suspended for the next game. At this game, the player’s father showed up. The father was a prominent preacher in the community. When his son did not take the field, the preacher asked the coach, “Why isn’t my son playing?” “Because he’s been suspended because he got two Fs in his classes,” the coach answered. “He did?” replied the preacher dumbfounded.

The legend built a program based on standards and respect. You didn’t question him, or you worried that he may not lead you and coach your team. So did the new coach, by using baseball as a means to promote higher educational standards and encourage the players to succeed in the classroom. You don’t meet the requirements, you don’t play. If you don’t respect yourself, you can’t lead yourself. Both are lessons in respect.

“Just please don’t tell me they’ll be gangbangers,” said the coach.

Immigration Reform: Saving American Politics

Immigration reform has the potential to save American politics.

Both the debate going on in America regarding immigration, and the reform bill itself are re-energizing U.S. politics in a transformative manner.

In the past year, thousands of people who have never been involved in politics have taken to the streets to demand for immigration reform. Restaurants closed, streets were blocked off, and businesses shortened their hours, all so that people in America could have their voices heard. Similarly, even anti-immigrant groups are strongly engaging themselves in the democratic process: going to the streets, writing their congressmen, and uniting together.



Everyone is affected.

For the past five years, the Iraq War has dominated our political minds. The war has depleted our economy, divided our nation (and our world), and created an atmosphere of cynicism. Although the beginning of the war saw many protests, these marches were largely ignored by politicians as a bunch of anti-war hippies who were looking to re-create the Vietnam era. Now, the Iraq War has become an inevitable disaster with no foreseeable end in sight.

That said, it would be easy to give up on American democracy today. But thank god for immigration reform.

I had the chance to hear Illinois Governor Blagojevich at a rally to mostly Hispanic immigrants this past weekend. At the rally, I had the same feeling I had in Pretoria, South Africa where I attended an event for National Women’s Day which turned into a grand celebration of freedom. Ditto the event in Santiago, Chile which honored the end of Chilean dictatorship. This rally reminded me of being in the midst of a youthful democracy.

Young democracies have the passion, hope and optimism that bring people out to the polls and choose inspiring candidates. Although they may not have the adequate institutions that a long-lived democracy has, it has the key to any democratic society: wide-spread, mass participation.

If the immigration reform does in fact pass, an estimated 12 million immigrants will join the U.S. political process. Not to mention all of the already documented immigrants who will be further encouraged to get involved in the political process. Not to mention all of the anti-immigrant activists who have been given a new cause to fight against. Not to mention various other minority groups that can ride some of this political steam.

At Governor Blagojevich’s rally, the Illinois Coalition of Immigrant and Refugee Rights brought their Mobile Action Campaign, which focuses on bringing electoral politics to the immigrant community of Illinois. The ICIRR sets up computers at mass political events, and encourages participants to write their congressmen and legislators. The ICIRR assists with all of the logistics. For most of these people, it is the first time they have ever had any influence in U.S. politics.

People care again.

But immigrants are not the only ones who have been re-inspired to get involved in American democracy. Even my Grandma cares. She recently emailed me, “This whole undocumented immigrant situation is sad. Everyone's ancestors were immigrants, documented & un. They should leave these people alone. Who should I write to? With what comments?” Seriously, my grandma wants to get involved!

But immigration reform also affects our institutionalized democracy. Our policy makers in Washington are directly affected. My friend who works for a Senator in Washington, told me that her phones were ringing off the hook when the immigration reform deal was announced. For the next few days.

Senator John McCain, who hasn’t raised a vote in the Senate in weeks, escaped the presidential campaign to announce the reform. For the first time yet, presidential candidates have actually had to take a stand for their beliefs on immigration, issuing statements, amendments, and potential votes that may even set them apart from candidates in their own party. This has not happened with the Iraq War, health care, or other social issues.

Immigration reform has the potential to bring a whole new kind of politics not only to Washington, but to America as a whole. It will bring a young new group of people energized in the political process, and it can help align the institutions in Washington with what is happening on the ground.

Al Gore writes in his soon-to-be-released book that “reason, logic and truth seem to play a sharply diminished role in the way America now makes important decisions” and that the country’s public discourse has become “less focused and clear, less reasoned.” As Michiko Kakutani assesses Gore’s book, she writes that “he diagnose [s] the ailing condition of America as a participatory democracy — low voter turnout, rampant voter cynicism, an often ill-informed electorate, political campaigns dominated by 30-second television ads, and an increasingly conglomerate-controlled media landscape.”

The immigration reform debate and potential legislation is already changing this.

I’ve been trying to think of ways to “American Idol-icize” U.S. politics—make politics as entertaining, widespread, and accessible as the TV show (more people vote for American Idol than they do for the United States presidency). The immigration debate and subsequent legislation may do just that.

Let's Play Ball!

A friend once told me an interesting story. When she was in high school, her teacher showed the class an aerial map of a major city. The map designated distinct ethnic groups in different colors. On the map, a large ethnic group lived in a big portion of the southern side of the city, with very little other groups. A large immigrant group lived on the west, along with distinct patches of a few others. The majority population lived in the North. The map showed a city that was incredibly segregated, with a significant amount of diversity, but almost no integration.

The teacher then asked the class what city they thought it was.

"Johannesburg," one student replied, as this was during the time of apartheid.

"Jerusalem," another student answered, remembering the intense schism between Jews and Palestinians.

A third student mentioned Delhi, because the class had just learned about the caste system in India.

"You are all wrong," said the teacher. "It is your very own Chicago.

The students could not believe it, but it was true.

------

This discussion clearly leads us to America’s pastime: baseball.

America's pastime can still bring out the best—and worst, of our country. Today, interleague play begins, reminding us that winter is over, climate change still has a ways to go before it destroys a good game, and Americans still care more about a silly sport than they do about the war in Iraq.

And ironically, a professional baseball team can tell us a lot about our cities and states. Take the Yankees: striving to be perfect, and willing to spend anything to get there and be dominant. Sounds like New York to me. The Minnesota Twins: a smart team which grows homegrown talent that comes back to impress its fans, but has had trouble breaking through in the playoffs recently. A little like Minneapolis: a city that is “up there,” but still often considered flyover country by many. The Milwaukee Brewers: their name says it all. Kansas City: they have a team?

And that brings us to Chicago, which has two teams. The Chicago White Sox head up the Red Line this afternoon to take on their inner-city rivals, the Cubs at Wrigley Field. The trash-talking has begun, those adorning different jerseys jaw throughout the city, and the wind has even picked up to remind us that we do live in the Windy City, regardless of who we cheer for.

But while Chicago has two teams, they could very well have two distinct cities as well, differentiated by the geographic—and thus ethnic, socioeconomic, and racial differences that set the Cubs and the White Sox apart. The South Side versus the North Side. Black versus white. Developed versus underdeveloped. Yuppie versus blue collar. Highly publicized versus the forgotten. And we could go on and on…

Clearly this is oversimplifying the issue, and the complexities of Chicago run far deeper than a black and white divide. But the city has yet to merge the differences between the North and the South sides, and it remains incredibly segregated, just like the aerial map that the teacher alluded to in my introductory story.

Take the education system. This year, 27 Chicago Public School students have been killed. 20 out of the 27 students attended school on the South Side, whereas only 5 on the North Side (2 attended school on the divide). The Chicago Public Schools remain very segregated, especially when you exclude magnet schools. In many ways, the South Side remains a different world from the rest of Chicago, as these deaths show. Gang violence is more common, schools under perform, and poverty is a much larger problem.

When somebody tells me that Mayor Daley is doing great things for the city of Chicago, I ask them, “Which Chicago?”

Yesterday I went to a baseball game between two CPS high school teams. It was played on a neutral field, near downtown, but one team was fully Hispanic, while the other was all African American. It was great to see parents coming out to support their children, and how a game of baseball could bring communities together.

But during the whole game, I could not stop thinking about how it was two teams—albeit ethnic groups—against each other. Like in any game, the fans rallied around their particular team, the teammates supported one another on their own team, and people had a good time. But there was little, if no interaction between the two teams.

And this represents Chicago as a whole today. The Windy City is abuzz with the White Sox-Cubs rivalry, and finally fans from both sides are integrated in the same space. But as I overheard a Cubs fan saying today, “I just hope I don’t have to sit next to a Sox Fan!”

Med School Motivation

I met a beautiful girl the other day. Cool, smart, great smile, finishing up her second year of med school. Perfect for me.

She’s getting married in two weeks.

I kind of expected it, and in fact was very happy for her. We were chatting at a party with a few other friends, and we started laughing when she told us about the guy she was marrying. Third year med student, good-looking, hard worker, go-getter. Perfect couple. Power couple; all of the good ones seem to marry each other!

A friend, who is a teacher at the Chicago Public Schools, and I laughed about how the doctors were marrying each other. “What the hell, I need my rich doctor!” I joked as we admitted to ourselves that we would have to end up with one another, living a life with salaries that amounted to the doctors’ income tax refund. Oh well, at least we would be happy.

But this recent trend of higher income professionals marrying one another is actually one of the contributors to the rising inequality of the past 20 years. In her great analysis of this phenomenon, Annie Murphy Paul wrote in the New York Times Magazine a few months ago, “Once, it was commonplace for doctors to marry nurses and executives to marry secretaries. Now the wedding pages are stocked with matched sets, men and women who share a tax bracket and even an alma mater.” This prompted economist Gary Burtless’s 2003 analysis which found that a rising correlation of husband-and-wife earnings accounted for 13 percent of the considerable growth in economic inequality between 1979 and 1996.

Another buddy of mine joined our conversation, and we mentioned to him that our friend was getting married. He quickly commented, “Nice! You have such great child-bearing hips.” She smacked him.

I laughed at my friend’s irreverence, wondering if we were really in 2007. I then asked the soon-to-be doctor what kind of doctor she wanted to be when she was all done with school. “Oh, I don’t want to practice medicine. It’s not conducive to raising a family,” she replied. So what do you want to do? “Go into business, or something,” She responded.

What?!! I agree, that being a doctor may not be conducive to being a mother (although I think there are definitely ways to still be a great mother and doctor), and am very sympathetic to these feelings she has. But why are you going to med school then? To meet your husband? And to just casually brush off med school already…?

I know tons of kids who have dreams of being doctors. They enter college, put themselves through pre-med misery, and slave for hours over the MCATs. Because they want to be doctors so they can practice medicine. And they still may not get into med school. I still think being a physician is one of the few true “careers” left, where you can make a life of being a doctor. And to have someone who really doesn’t care about the profession simply do it to do it bothers me, especially when we are in desperate need of passionate doctors.

I admit that I don’t know her true motivation for going to med school, so I may be completely wrong. And I don’t know the pressures that she may have upon her. And I do not know what its like to have the pressures of making a career and being a mother. Plus, I guess this phenomenon is true of any profession out there, and America is a free country. She can do what she wants.

And I suppose she does have great child-bearing hips.

My grandmother thinks that women should not be in med school, because they take a spot of a male doctor. I disagree with her. But med school students, who already know that they will not be doctors, take the place of much-needed physicians.

Northwestern Assault: Bridging the Gap

I am extremely saddened and upset about last night’s news that a 22-year old woman was sexually assaulted two blocks from Northwestern University. This hit close to home. Not only because I lived within blocks from this assault for two years and attended Northwestern, but also because it reminds me that no matter where you are in the world, it may not be safe.

But this event shows that we as part of the Northwestern community must move beyond viewing Northwestern as a bubble—the safe, elite, academic world that does not exist in connection with its immediate surroundings.

Most Northwestern students have walked through this neighborhood several times, either drunk or sober, without paying any attention to what’s around. For many of us, the only time we even noticed our Evanston neighbors was when we pissed on their lawns—clearly not truly noticing them at all. When students heard Evanston residents complain about the disrespect of college students, the overwhelming response was always, “What did you expect? You are living right next to a college campus. Don’t move here if you don’t like it.”

Northwestern is a bubble, and we like it that way. But this sexual assault highlights a larger problem that is true of Northwestern and many elite colleges across our country: isolationism and unwillingness to be part of the surrounding community.

The Duke lacrosse case is an extreme example of the dangers of a college remaining too isolated from its surrounding community. In this case Duke, the elite university, was immediately placed in direct opposition to the city of Durham when a woman accused three Duke lacrosse players of raping her. An us-versus-them attitude took hold in the city itself, but also across the world where those following the story took sides. The results of the case are now infamous, as the accuser’s allegations failed to prove that a rape took place, but the divisiveness between the school and the community have yet to be healed.

It takes a major story like the Duke lacrosse case or the Northwestern sexual assault to highlight these divisions, but it will take a much longer and sustained effort by the schools and surrounding communities to bridge the gap.

But bridge the gap we must.

Fostering a closer relationship between a college and its surrounding community not only will help prevent these incidents from occurring in the future, but also to educate the students of what is actually happening around them. Another world exists out there!

And communities will certainly benefit by having the college students and institutions engage them: by enhancing research, adding valuable resources, and offering an intellectual atmosphere (and I could go on and on).

Bridging the gap between colleges and their surrounding community may not directly stop rapes and violence. We still need better policing, provide women with the proper resources, and even create more campus housing. But it will awaken us to the realities of the real world, which happens to be only a few blocks away.

Engagement of the Disengaged

The recent news that 6 men have been arrested in a terror plot against Fort Dix, a military base in the United States is certainly discouraging and potentially dangerous. The men are Muslim, had Jihadist influence, and are immigrants from various parts of the world. Because of these factors, this event has immediately been framed as part of “The War on Terror” by the American media, law enforcement officials, and politicians.

For example, United States Attorney Christopher J. Christie commented, “This is a new brand of terrorism where a small cell of people can bring enormous devastation.” J. P. Weiss, special agent in charge of the F.B.I.’s Philadelphia office added: “We had a group that was forming a platoon to take on an army. They identified their target, they did their reconnaissance. They had maps. And they were in the process of buying weapons. Luckily, we were able to stop that.”

Clearly, we are at war.

But wait. As the story unfolds, it becomes more and more clear that these 6 people had no foreign connections to Al Qaeda or any other terrorist organization. Tony Snow acknowledged this at a press conference this morning. In fact, they had been in the United States for quite some time, and went to public school in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

To me, Cherry Hill sounds a lot like Littleton, Colorado, where 2 students are infamous for their attack on Columbine High School. In fact, the tapes of the alleged attackers sound very similar to the tapes released of Seung-Hui Cho: angry (specifically towards American society), isolated, and strange. But the Columbine attack and the Virginia Tech “massacre” were not framed within “The War on Terror,” although many may argue that school shootings are a scary form of domestic terrorism.

Nonetheless, whether we are talking about foreign terrorists or domestic school killers, both share a common feature: they are disengaged from their surrounding society and will do whatever it takes to harm it. This is clearly a challenge that needs to be addressed, but it does not fit within the current context of “The War on Terror.”

Framing our challenges solely in the context of “The War on Terror” does not address the crux of the problem of which we are talking: disengagement from American society.

Instead let us start a new mission: “Engagement of the Disengaged.”

A little conversation, please?

I called a high school college counselor today to notify her of a scholarship opportunity. She proceeded to tell me her school’s procedure for scholarships: 1) they post it on some website, 2) Students are expected to come into the office to pick up applications if they are interested, 3) They have copies of applications in the office (behind some door).

I asked her if they would like a representative from the scholarship organization to speak to her students, and she said no. I asked her if she would distribute the applications to the proper students (the students who would be most interested and were certainly eligible), and she told me "that's not what we do here." I asked her if the foundation could send applications to students or make sure they get them, same answer.

I then asked her if she has ever talked to her students and if she cares about them, and she responded "I'm underpaid." Just kidding, I did not go there. But I could imagine the answer as I frustratingly hung up the phone.

God bless the Online Revolution. Google has become our legos, while Youtube is our Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Entertainment that becomes so much a part of our lives, that it is no longer merely entertainment. It is a way of life (as I sit here and write on my blog). Not only is it the way we do things, but it is the way things are done.

For some people.

We are becoming too reliant on the web for explanations, and much too often simply refer others to “the website.” Many people have a simple question that would take 45 minutes to find on the FAQ section of the website. But most importantly, many people—and I use students at lower-achieving high schools (like the one I called) as an example—simply do not seek out information on a website, especially when they have no clue that information exists there. People need face to face communication, and they need others to reach out to. They also need to reach out to others, and learn the proper ways to do so.

The web can be a great means to an ends—a helpful tool to get somewhere—but it is not the only means, and it is certainly not the ends itself.

Ishmael Beah, Child Soldiers, and Us

Meet Ishmael Beah. Sierra Leonean, American, political science major, humanist, hip-hop lover, witty, funny, good-looking, one of the guys. Oh, and he also used to be a child soldier. Now he is the author of the book, A Long Way Gone: memoirs of a boy soldier.” It is definitely a book worth reading, to gain an inside understanding of what it’s like to live in the thick of a civil war, and then end up fighting in it.

Beah brings a personal dimension to war, which is often overlooked by the structural problems of the world and of the incredible violence that is reported. When I typically think about soldiers in a war, the following questions quickly pop to the top of my head: Who is he fighting for? Who is he fighting against? Why is he fighting? Then I think about the reasons for the war: Is it for money? Nationalism? Religion? Tribalism? All of these questions are important.

But Beah transcends these questions and brings war to a very simple level. Beah fights because he was placed in a war-torn circumstance. He doesn’t fight for money, or for his country. Not for diamonds or for his tribe. He fights because that is what he had to do to survive at that particular moment. When reading this book, I got the sense that Beah could have been anybody.

I had the chance to recently hear Beah speak. In the discussion that followed, a professor in the audience commented that we had child soldiers in the United States, but that they go by the name of Vicelords, Crips, Bloods, GDs, etc. He was right. And they are just normal kids like all of us.

Which brings me to a funny story that sums all this up. When I went to hear Beah speak, I jumped on the elevator and a beautiful girl walked in after me. We began talking, and we immediately hit it off; we were both going to hear Beah speak. After the discussion, we began speaking again. She asked me what I do, and then she told me that she was an actress. My face dropped. She even said to me, “I am so glad I met you.” This was my lucky day. Finally, we were waiting outside the elevators in one of those awkward “how do we say goodbye moments” and Beah walked by. Beah got on the elevator, and asked her, “You coming?” (They had obviously known each other, or had planned to go out afterwards). The elevator closed and I was left there alone.

Not only is he a normal man like all of us. But he is a stud too.

One Acre Fund

The One Acre Fund (www.oneacrefund.org) supports local farmers in Africa by providing the essential materials and education to farm successfully in Africa. They subsequently assist with finding a market for the farmers’ crops. In a community in which families are harmed by perpetual hunger, the One Acre Fund empowers the chronically hungry to pull themselves out of poverty. While the One Acre Fund is a non-profit organization, it uses a business model to invest in the families it supports. It sets itself apart from microfinance institutions because it does not hold the families in debt. Instead, it takes a cut of the profits from each harvest and reinvests into other harvests. If a harvest fails, the family is not left in debt; if the harvest succeeds, farmers and the One Acre Fund both benefit. This will create a completely sustainable model in the long term.

Sounds great on paper, right? So how is the One Acre Fund able to succeed with a foreign business model in the local community politics of Africa? According to Youn, “We have actually had a very easy time with local political leaders. This is primarily because we have a contact in the area who grew up in the area and basically went to high school with half the political leadership in the area. We always look for links like this, and will continue to try to find those “key connectors,” and so far have not had any issues.” That said, this promises to be a considerable challenge as the One Acre Fund expands to other communities, and must deal with the political struggles of corruption that plague Kenya as a whole, especially at the local level.

A mixed view of Kellogg

Someone told me once that there are only two values that are true of all cultures—incest with one’s mother is wrong, and it is essential to bury or dispose of the dead in some honorable way. Let’s add another: when you are done lifting weights at a gym, put your weights back on the rack. My professor in college has traveled everywhere in the world—the Caucasus, everywhere in Africa, Latin America, Australia, and everywhere else—and he said that in all those places, people clean up after themselves at the gym by re-racking their weights. One exception: at Northwestern University, where the Kellogg students leave their weights on the floor for the people who lift after them to clean up.

This is always how I’ve viewed Kellogg students: too arrogant and into themselves to feel they need to clean up after themselves. But over the past year, I have been extremely impressed with Kellogg's willingness to make a difference in the Chicago community and in the world. At the Illinois Education Foundation’s (www.iledfoundation.org), mentoring program, there are 8 Kellogg grads serving as mentors. Yesterday I had the chance to attend the Town Hall meeting of an incredible organization, the One Acre Fund (www.oneacrefund.org), founded by Kellogg alum Andrew Youn. Their Board of Directors consists of all Kellogg students, and their investment council is predominantly Kellogg grads as well. Impressive.

Welcome to Universalism is Dead?

This blog is inspired by the most challenging and pressing question of our time: where do the global and the local interact?

We are not in a grand clash of civilizations as Samuel Huntington would lead us to believe, nor in a fight of good versus evil as many of our leaders suggest. This is not us versus them. While Thomas Friedman argues that the world is flat, at the same time, the world has never been so rocky. Instead, we are in an era where the local affects the global, and vice versa, like never before.

Global warming, terrorism, poverty, and globalization are all global phenomena, yet they affect local communities and cultures in a dangerous way. Similarly, terrorism no longer terrorizes only its immediate victims, greenhouse emissions do not pollute simply its direct atmosphere, and poverty does not just threaten the poverty-stricken individuals.

Just after the Cold War, it seemed our world was undergoing a swift move towards universalism: a social, political, and cultural—albeit global—order which could be conceived as being true in all possible contexts without creating a contradiction. Democracy won out, the free market globalized, human rights gained momentum, and it was up to the leaders of our nations to push these universal values forward. Clearly, it was not that simple, and framing these issues in this context does no good today. Instead, today’s world poses a stunning predicament: Is Universalism dead?

This blog will explore global issues, which play out in our local communities. It will investigate local activity, which can not be understood without a global understanding. Most importantly, it will grapple with the global and local phenomena that can not be clearly defined as either or.

In third grade, my teacher tried to drill the motto “Think globally, act locally” into the minds of my classmates and myself. It didn’t make sense to me then. But today, you can’t do one without the other.