Merry Christmas Everyone!!

Since we can't be with all of you for Christmas, we decided to take our break and go to Thailand to live on a boat and scuba dive all day for 12 days straight!! I think it works out to about 45 dives. We'll be departing from the island of Phuket (careful how you pronounce that).

We'll be sure to post lots of stories and pictures when we get back. For now, here is as much as we know:
http://www.sunrisediving.net/index.php?option=com_gallery2&Itemid=57&Itemid=44

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
-Brad & Elizabeth

My Form of Racism

I’ve noticed something about myself since being in India that has come as a complete surprise. I’ve spent my whole life thinking that I’m colorblind when it comes to skin. I’ve had friends of all races throughout my life, even marrying a Pakistani. So when I found myself saying to a white man the other day, “I was so excited to tell my husband that there was another white person at work!” I was shocked and appalled at my own behavior.

The towns that grew up in, Oakland New Jersey and New Fairfield Connecticut, are rather homogeneous. There was always the requisite black kid, maybe a few Indians, possibly a Korean or Japanese kid. But for the most part, we were white. I then moved to New York to become a world famous actress (see how well I’m doing!), where the diversity both in my school and in my life, increased dramatically. Working at JPMorgan, it seemed I was at a model UN, with all nations represented.

Spending my whole life within two hours of New York City, I was always aware that foreigners stuck together. How could I not be? Chinatown, Little Italy, the Indian section of Jackson Heights, Spanish Harlem. There’s even a block in Manhattan (Lexington Avenue between 27th and 28th) that is predominantly Pakistani. Then there are the parades: Cuban Day, Columbus Day, St. Patty’s Day. Anyone who requests it seems to be given the right to march down 5th Avenue with their country’s flag streaming through the air, even if they weren’t born in that other country. It always seemed a little weird to me that people would trek halfway around the world to remain within their own group of people. I was always naïve enough to think that the melting pot of the US was not meant to be a theory, but a matter of practice. We should melt into one people. That’s what was great about the US.

I rarely see white people in India. I’ve seen a total of two other people driving here, not counting Brad. When we go to the mall, there are at least a dozen white people, which I always find comforting. I inevitably make eye contact with someone and we share a moment that I’ve never experienced before living here. That moment of understanding precisely what it means to be a white face in this sea of brown.

I still don’t think I’m a racist. I have nothing against Indians, nor any other race. But I now understand why, when individuals make the great leap of faith that is leaving your comfort zone to relocate to the US, immigrants have the tendency to stick together. It is safe. There are no possibilities for foibles that occur so often when you’re talking to someone who is from your host culture. That other white face, when I see it, is one of the few people in the world who knows what it means to be an outsider in this culture. And the knowledge that there is someone out there who gets it, who knows what I’m going through, offers me more comfort that I thought possible from a complete stranger.

While I am going to do my best to try not to think of my world here in racial terms, I’m glad at least that I’m aware of my new tendency to categorize people based on race. It’s apparently so easy to slip into a mindset where you can justify thinking of people based on their race. I hope that in my case, it remains a superficial task rather than a justification to judge and oppress people. And when I do move back to the US, I'll try to be that native face who is friendly and open to the people who have chosen to live within our culture. Because I can say for certain that it is one of the scariest things that person will ever do.

A Great Gift

Yesterday was my birthday and it was lovely so see and hear the messages I got today. One of them, however, stood out. My friend Kristin and her husband Andy are in Disney (the Florida one) and they sent me the best picture. I had to share.

And speaking of my birthday, on November 11, 2011, I'm turning 33. That's right, my 33th is on 11/11/11. Being a girl who loves mathematical puzzles and quirks, I've decided that I have to have a party to celebrate. Seriously, how many people can celebrate their birthday on the day that the digits of the month, day and year of their birthday add up to the number of years they've been alive. So great. Therefore, I request that you all put it on your calendars now and start saving up. I don't know where it will be, but I do know that I want everyone to come. And it's on a Friday, so NO EXCUSES!

And now, the wonder that is Kwib.

When can I see you again???

Well, we’ve now been here for 6 and 4 months respectively. We’re getting the lay of the land and finding how, precisely, we fit into this society. So here’s my question for you. When are you coming to visit us? There were some suggestions, before we left, that some of you may come in January or February. If you are thinking of coming soon, let us know so that we can make sure that we’re available to show you India. And please, if you are coming, let us know where you’d like to go and what you’d like to do in South India so we can make arrangements. Travel is so easy on the train and we have a car, so the sky’s the limit!

National Friendship Week

When I opened my inbox this evening, there was an e-mailing waiting to be read from Miss Penelope. It's a lovely little story about friendship, with instructions to forward it to everyone who you consider a friend. I thought I'd one up that and just post it here. The story is sappy and sentimental, but you'll just have to deal with it! If you're reading this blog, YOU'RE MY FRIEND!! WHEEE!!

One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school. His name was Kyle. It looked like he was carrying all of his books. I thought to myself, "Why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd."

I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friends tomorrow afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on. As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him. They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes. My heart went out to him. So, I jogged over to him and as he crawled around looking for his glasses, and I saw a tear in his eye.
As I handed him his glasses, I said, "Those guys are jerks. They really should get lives. “
He looked at me and said, "Hey thanks!" There was a big smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude.

I helped him pick up his books, and asked him where he lived. As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before. He said he had gone to private school before now. I would have never hung out with a private school kid before. We talked all the he way home, and I carried some of his books. He turned out to be a pretty cool kid.

I asked him if he wanted to play a little football with my friends. He said yes. We hung out all weekend and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him, and my friends thought the same of him.

Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again. I stopped him and said, "Boy, you are gonna really build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!" He just laughed and handed me half the books.

Over the next four years, Kyle and I became best friends. When we were seniors, we began to think about college. Kyle decided on Georgetown, and I was going to Duke. I knew that we would always be friends, that the miles would never be a problem. He was going to be a doctor, and I was going for business on a football scholarship.
Kyle was valedictorian of our class. I teased him all the time about being a nerd. He had to prepare a speech for graduation. I was so glad it wasn't me having to get up there and speak. Graduation day, I saw Kyle. He looked great. He was one of those guys that really found himself during high school. He filled out and actually looked good in glasses. He had more dates than I had and all the girls loved him. Boy, sometimes I was jealous. Today was one of those days.

I could see that he was nervous about his speech. So, I smacked him on the back and said, "Hey, big guy, you'll be great!"

He looked at me with one of those looks (the really grateful one) and smiled. "Thanks," he said.

As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began "Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach...but mostly your friends...I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them. I am going to tell you a story."

I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of the first ay we met. He had planned to kill himself over the weekend. He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker so his Mom wouldn't have to do it later and was carrying his stuff home.

He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile. "Thankfully, I was saved.” I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment. I saw his Mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same grateful smile. Not until that moment did I realize it's depth.

Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture you can change a person's life.

I told you it was cheezy...

Sphota

Every once in a while, I do something that most of you would probably never expect me to do… I write poetry. I am not a good poet and I don’t pretend to be, but since I don’t use my saxophone to express my emotions as often as I used to, I suppose that creativity struggles to come out in different ways – sometimes as poetry. I’ve decided to take a big risk and open myself up to snickers (mmmm, Snickers), and post one of my recent poems here. The title is called “sphota” (pronounced like "I'm sphota study but I'm blogging instead"). Sphota is a sanskrit word that means “bursting forth/bursting through,” but the real meaning is much deeper than that. It is the Original Word, the one spoken by God at creation. It carries a very similar meaning to the word “Logos” in Christianity (John 1:1). Anyway, here is my paltry poem:

Sphota

Have we any idea
Bursting forth from behind
The wailing wall of words
Menacing, meddlesome, magical words
Behind the veil, the meanings are lost
The meanings and mean of meaning
Averaging out the meaning of our lives
Of relativity and relations
“Family, friends, neighbors, and strangers”
Simple words veiling the meanings which
Long to burst forth and shed their sheaths
Have we this idea or that?
Can this bursting forth be
Caputured once again?
Bursting forth from Thou to I
From mind to mind
From idea to idea
Or, menacingly and magically,
From Word to word

Another excursion

This weekend, Brad and I are going to an ashram here in Bangalore called Fireflies. Brad met one of the directors when he was at the World Council of Churches conference in Brazil last February. We happened across him here at a meeting and again in Madurai at the last ahimsa conference, where he invited us to participate this weekend. The topic is using peaceful means to enact change, specifically in regards the struggle humanitarian aids groups have with governmental resources. If you want to learn more about Fireflies, there is a link to the right. ----->

We'll let you know how it goes!

The myths of war and violence

This started out as a response to a response in a different thread, but I decided to post it here, instead. My hope is that we can all work to find common ground or, at the very least, hear out one another's opinions. Everyone has a right and opportunity and invitation to post their opinions in full on this blog. It is an open forum and you are invited to disagree. You are also invited to offer compromises and common ground in addition to polemics. With that preface, here is my opinion on the war in Iraq and violence in general:

You can't bomb people into democracy. You can't point a gun at someone and say, "Act free, damnit!" You can't violently force a country into peace. You certainly can't torture them into taking the moral high ground. How can we compare life under one evil tyrant to life under a dozen violent warlords clammoring for power? And what would be the point of such a comparison? As I said before the war started in dozens of peace rallies that I attended... Are we truly so incapable of creative thought that war is the only "solution" we can think of? Is that the model that we think Jesus has left for us? Jesus was a simple Jewish carpenter who undermined the Roman Empire without using violence. Ghandi was a simple Hindu who overturned the British Empire without using violence. Rev. King brought greater equality to the US without using violence. Nixon averted war with China and Russia through something called “international diplomacy” (I’m not sure what that is, but maybe there is an encyclopedia article out there describing it.) Carter brought home captives from Iran without raising a gun. Reagan ended the cold war without firing a missle. That seems to be when our Presidents ran out of ideas...

Bush killed tens of thousands when he invaded Iraq 10 years ago. Clinton sat and watched while Bosnia erupted in Holocaust. He did nothing again when it happened in Rwanda. GWBush actually criticized Clinton for doing nothing when the holocaust began in the Darfur region of Sudan. It is 6 years later and the violence has escalated and spread all over Sudan and all over the surrounding regions, and still Bush has done nothing… not one thing.

Sitting idly by and doing nothing to save someone from evil and oppression is as sinful and reprehensible as performing those actions ourself. Certainly, we would criticize Bush for not acting against Hussein just as we do criticize him for not caring about the hundreds of thousands (a recent estimate said over a million) of people that have died during his administration in Sudan. However, responding to violence with violence is not a solution and it certainly isn't the only option.

If you want an example of someone who is offering peaceful solutions and nonviolent actions in the hopes of: ending the conflict in Iraq, intervening in Sudan, building bridges instead of bombing them, curtailing abortion, ending state-sanctioned execution, and uniting people to curtail death by poverty… and also happens to be an evangelical Christian minister, check out Jim Wallis’ organization: http://www.sojourners.com/

I genuinely hope that this inspires some open, fruitful dialogue and mutually mindful efforts to build common ground. It is not a place to attack people for their beliefs, but a place to share them in a way that we can all grow together. I don't know if I have done that with my post, but that was my intention.
Shanti, Peace, Shalom,
Brad

Happy News

Namaste,

I know that I have fallen way behind in my blogs, especially compared to Elizabeth. But I thought I would take a few minutes and update anyone who reads this on my life.

I spent the weekend in Chennai at a conference of Indian Christian Philosophers. It turned out to be a bit different than I had imagined, but it was good nonetheless and I heard several very good papers presented and was inspired to do some deeper research in my field.

When I returned home yesterday and read my email, I got an incredible letter from one of my professors. 2 weeks ago, my class presented and defended papers that we had written on ethics. My topic was on the Ethics of Vedanta from Radhakrishnan’s perspective. The professor told us at the beginning of the course that if our papers were strong enough, he would publish them in a book. The email that he sent me said that he is waiting for most of the students to rewrite and resubmit their papers, but he does not sound confident that the book will be published. However, he wrote that if the book does not happen, he would like to publish my paper as an article in the upcoming issue of the Journal of Dharma! That would be my first academic publication! So, either way, it looks like the article will be published – either in the book or in the journal (which is quite widely read).

What is more is that I learned that a paper that I wrote in February about the World Council of Churches is also being published, thanks to Dr. Ariarajah. That one is very exciting, as well, but it is not, strictly speaking, an academic publication.

I have one final day of “vacation” tomorrow (Thursday). Elizabeth and I have been invited to a conference for the weekend. This will be my 3rd conference in the last month and 2nd one in a week! Then classes start on Monday and I have 3 papers due. Two are nearly finished but one has not even been started.

I hope to hear from all of you soon. Please let us know that someone is out there reading!

God Bless,
Brad

My thoughts today

Since arriving in Bangalore, I've become an avid podcast listener. At first, I downloaded only programs that supported my personal views. There's nothing better than driving through the city on my scooter listening to someone who is, in effect, preaching to the choir. However, I've become increasingly aware, particularly after our ahimsa conference, of the importance of understanding the "other". There is so much that bonds us together on this earth, yet we fill our lives with vitriol and hatred by finding the little things that make us different. So with that thought in mind, I've tried to expand my listening.

Ever since 9-11, I've been a bit of a news junkie. If you look at the news links posted on our blog, we have quite a diverse list. BBCNews is a western based source that is traditionally looked at as being balanced. The Times of India is one of the largest papers here and is the paper that is delivered to our doorstep every morning. Al-Jazeera is the largest Middle Eastern news source, one which I find to be opinionated but not irrational in it's critique and commentary. In addition, there are two small town papers which represent the perspective of our formative years: Brad's in Spartanburg and mine in New Fairfield. My podcasts are similarly diverse. I listen to Democracy Now!, which is an independent news source out of New York City. I listen to a few science podcasts which update solely on scientific news. Lastly, I listen to James Dobson's Focus on the Family and Point of Inquiry. FotF represents one segment of the Christian population while PoI represents the agnostic/atheist crowd. I find both programs to be both insightful and infuriating.

One thing I find interesting, however, is that both the Evangelical Christians and the Materialists claim to be attacked by the media. FotF states that the media is doing everything it can to ensure that "values" voters (one of the most offensive and self-righteous descriptions that Christians have come up with to date) stay home during the election because the media is a liberal sea where the "chosen" are rejected and ridiculed. Meanwhile, PoI points to a bias where the media ignores facts for statements that will sell their newspapers. They say that the media and the country at large reject them as immoral demons and therefore push them to the side without consideration.

The problem that I have with both sides is not that there isn't an aspect of truth to what they are stating, it's more the gross generalizations that their claims make. The whole of the country is not against Christianity, in fact recent polls show otherwise. And while there are those who feel it is their right to judge others, there are large segments of the population that don't care what you believe as long as you act decently.

It's extraordinary to me how intelligent individuals can become so illogical so easily. I understand why emotion comes into play. If you attack what I believe, I'm going to be hurt and strike back. But we've gotten to the point where we are so quickly offended that we never take the time to question the intent of the other party. Or, we expand the thoughts and words of a few as a representation of the entire group. In our supposedly enlightened society, we end up sitting in the corner, being petulant children.

My greatest wish for our country is for us to get back to the ideals where we started: equality, liberty. The right of the many over the right of the few. I know how I translate this in my mind: healthcare, education, housing, job security. Instead of squabbling over things such as gay rights or the use of the word "God" in the pledge, let's get back to doing what we say we are meant to do. Let's feed the poor, clothe the naked, love the orphaned and free the oppressed.

In my church in New Jersey, we finished each service with the following prayer. Now, whether or not you believe in prayer is immaterial to me. What's more important is that we all acknowledge that Humanist, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jain, Jewish or any other form of faith, we all share these same goals of basic human decency.

The spirit of God is upon us.
God has anointed us
to bear good news to the afflicted,
to bind up the broken hearted,
to proclaim freedom to the captives,
to open the prisons of those who are bound.
Let us go forth in the name of Christ
to bring peace into broken relationships,
healing to alienated persons,
and justice into oppressive structures.
Amen.

Oh, and one more request

On this day of glutenous fun, our niece has to go into the hospital for another bout of chemotherapy. While she is doing exceptionally well and seems to be responding to her treatments, the idea of Caylyn having to sit in a hospital on a day when we celebrate children, at least that's how I see it, breaks my heart. So while you're out celebrating today, even if you'll only eat a handful of candy corn at the office, please give a thought to Caylyn. I ask that you only do what comes naturally: say a prayer, light a candle, tell a friend or just send your thoughts her way.

Missing the US

So two things happened in the States this week that Brad and I are not able to take part of. The first is daylight savings time. The second is...duh duh duh...Halloween.

Countries can decide whether or not to participate in Daylight Savings Time. Not only that, but they choose the days of the year to move their clocks ahead or behind. India doesn't change their clocks. (Read more at Wikipedia, if you're so inclined.) This means that 1) we are now 10 1/2 hours ahead of New York and 2) we didn't get an extra hour of sleep on Saturday night. And as the rooster just outside of our hotel room in Chennai started very early, and the frog went on and on for the rest of the night and the trains like sounding their horns all hours of the day, we could have used that extra hour of sleep!

Halloween is not celebrated here, which is a bit of a bummer. However, I have gone to the store and bought candy bars. I watched my yearly viewing of The Nightmare Before Christmas. If you have not seen this movie, it is a must. The animation is amazing, the music is inspired and the story always warms my heart. Basic plot: Jack Skellington, the King of Halloween, becomes fed up with the ease of the holiday. When he discovers Christmas, he hijacks it in an attempt to broaden his horizons. Simply extraordinary. We also bought candy for Shyla and made her go to the front door, ring our bell and say "trick or treat!" I don't think she entirely understood, but hey, good times!

So we ask you today, while you're revelling in the joy of being rested from the weekend, to do a little bit of trick or treating for us. Go to that extra house. Jump out at a little child and scare the crap out of them. Egg the house of someone that you know we wouldn't like. In short, make this Halloween one to remember. Oh, and take pictures.

Update on Women for Women

After discussing it with Brad, we have decided to sponsor another woman. Their are 500 women in Iraq who have been chosen to be enrolled in the program and WfWI is doing its best to match these women with sponsors. Due to the security risks involved, we will not be able to communicate with our sisters, nor will we receive pictures of them or know their last names.

I urge you to look into your heart (and finances) and see if you can afford the $27/month that the program needs. I know it's not a paltry amount, but as the US created many of the problems in Iraq, it is up to us to do our best to fix them. While going there is not an option, this is a small step to show that while we may have helped to create a civil war, it was, perhaps, done with good, albeit naive, intentions.

International Book Club

In an attempt to always have things to talk about, my mother and I have decided to start an online book club together. We've chosen our first book and thought it would be great if more than just the two of us were involved. So here is your invitation! Join the B&EIA Book Club. (With an acronym like that, we should get t-shirts.)

Our first book is called Arrow of the Blue-Skinned God by Jonah Blank. Here are some blurbs from bn.com:

Publishers Weekly

Blank, who has reported on Asia for the Dallas Morning News, traveled the length and breadth of India, retracing the footsteps of the god Rama, hero of the ancient Sanskrit epic (portions of which introduce each chapter). Coupling journalistic detachment with piercing lyricism, he samples the subcontinent in all its horrific, multitudinous, overwhelming diversity, from Bombay's Hollywood-style dream factories to Calcutta's leper-filled streets. He ponders the nation's lingering caste divisions, with their "BMW Brahmins'' and destitute untouchables. He meets Sikh separatists in the Punjab and, in Sri Lanka, tracks down Tamil Tiger guerrillas, young boys carrying AK-47s. He converses with holy men in ashrams and probes the erotic intensity of the Krishna cult. He scuffles with Indian's venal, infuriating bureaucracy. Blank writes beautifully and taps into India's elusive, indestructible soul with a clarity few writers attain, as he ponders the paradoxes of a country where deep-rooted fatalism clashes with Westernization and a new social mobility. (Sept.)

From the book jacket:
The two-thousand-year-old Sanskrit epic Ramayana - one of the greatest literary works of the ancient world - chronicles Lord Rama's journey from one end of the Indian subcontinent to the other and his spiritual voyage from man to deity. In Arrow of the Blue-Skinned God, anthropologist and journalist Jonah Blank retells the ancient story in a lively prose while following the course of the epic her's quest through contemporary India and Sri Lanka.
In his adventures, Blank encounters a chimerical subcontinent caught between the ancient and the modern, from swamis who wrestle both physically and metaphysically, to prepubescent Tamil guerrillas barely able to lift their AK-47s, to television actors who are worshiped as living manifestations of Hindu divinities. Sparkling with humor and cultural insight, Arrow of the Blue-Skinned God is an up-close look at the multifaceted jewel that is India, in all its poignant, picaresque and paradoxical beauty.

We don't have a strict format for our group yet, as far as how much to read and by when. If you want to be involved, just post a comment and we can decide by when we should have the first chapter or four read.

My sister

A little over a year ago, I became a sponsor through a program called Women for Women International. From their website their mission is:

"Women for Women International helps women in war torn regions rebuild their lives by giving them financial and emotional support, job skills training, rights education, access to capital and assistance for small business development."

This organization was started by an Iraqi woman in 1993, and now supports women in Afghanistan, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Colombia, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Iraq, Kosovo, Nigeria, Rwanda and Sudan. I wanted to share my most recent letter of the woman I sponsor. She lived through the genocide in Rwanda in 1994. (For a phenomenal movie on the subject, see Hotel Rwanda.) Her name is Perpetue. She can neither read nor write and does not speak English. Here is her translated letter.

To my dear friend Elizabeth.
How are you? Allow me first greet you with too much love. May the Lord Jesus be with you. I have written to you, just due to the way I do miss you, and I need to extend my news to you and to know more about yours. I wrote to you, but you have never replied it, up to date, but this time I trust that you are going to reply to my letter.
At the moment, I am fairly okay slowly by slowly due to sickness, I encountered horrible cuts and dislocation to my body, during the 1994 genocide-war. It's not easy for me to do anything that demands physical strength. I thank you greatly for your sponsorship that has enabled me to solve much of my encountered problems. It's my hope that I will acquire basic foundation in what I am supposed to do shortly before the end of the program. I still hope to maintain our friendship to you, even in the near future. Just due to the way you did select me among others, when you didn't know me, this makes me never to desert you at all.
In fact, I am an orphan, though I am grown-up. I survived together with my young sister, who is now a student and both of us live in orphanage organization families, for we can't be able to care for ourselves and worse to this I was left disabled physically. I thank you greatly for your sponsorship, that has enabled me to come out of a solitary life. Prior to this, I had so many problems and I had no possible ways and means to solve them, but today I have hope in my life, and I hope to survive better than before. Let me thank them that you always send to us through the organization of Women for Women International of Rwanda, for they pass on our message from you and they also give us lessons that are beneficial to us. To me, I wish we would be meeting on a daily basis, for they render their services to us in love.
We have just been celebrating our Easter day and during this time I did seek forgiveness, through repentance of my sins, to God, so as to bear the righteousness of the Lord. By resurrecting with the Lord Jesus Christ. It's not easy for we do sin every day. But our God is full of mercy for the forgiveness of our sins daily. Hence we should always seek never to do contrary to God's will. It's my prayer for you, for the Lord to continue to protect you and to maintain your gift of Love. I always pray for you, in God's will, for he is the very one, who made you to know me and to know much of my problems. Let us maintain our prayers for each other and our God will always be with us.
Thanks from your friend,
Perpetue

I ask you to take only what you want from this. I want to point out that I merely requested to have a sister from Rwanda. I did not choose Perpetue from a list of women. Also, this organization is not a Christian one, although Perpetue is clearly Catholic.

If you feel so inclined, please consider sponsoring a woman. They have recently opened up their program in Iraq again, even though the safety of those involved cannot be guaranteed. I believe that we need to empower those who are poor and powerless in order to truly attain peace. Peace cannot be reached through an act of war. Perhaps if we (and by we I mean the empire that is America) showed love and compassion to our global neighbors, we would be able to reach the peace that we all so desperately crave.

Fun, fun, fun

For a colossal waste of time that is also mindless fun, try this: Line Rider

Ahimsa is Still Speaking

Namaste,

Sorry that we haen't posted in a while. Our connection was down for a few days and I was finishing exams and Elizabeth's work has been busy (which is a great thing - I'm sure she'll post soon).

We spent last weekend at the CESCI Ghandi Ashram outside of Madurai. We participated in an interfaith dialogue session sponsered by the World Council of Churches. The core group is called "Thinking Together" and is composed of 15 people representing all the major religious traditions from around the globe. In addition, there were another 15 or so that were invited as guests. We were lucky enough to get an invitation because of our good friendship with Wesley Ariarajah.

The topic of the conference was "Nonviolent Resources in our Religious Traditions." As the name implies, the objective was to share concrete resources from our respective religious traditions that could be useful for anyone seeking a peaceful resolution to conflict. I think one idea behind the concept is that if there is a conflict between two people of different religions, it is helpful to be aware of peaceful resources in our own religion as well as in the religion of the other person. The transcript of the presentations will be published in the coming months.

One thing that was particularly exciting for us was the presentation given by Rev. Dr. Shanta Premawardhana, Associate General Secretary for Interfaith Relations of the US National Council of Churches. Not only was it an excellent speech, but guess what resources he presented to the group? "God is Still Speaking"! For those of you who aren't members of the UCC (United Church of Christ), the basic idea behind the phrase "God is Still Speaking" is that we should regard the Bible as the living Word of God and that God still speaks to us through the Bible. The point is that we should not simply accept traditional interpretations taught by the church through the centuries, but we should allow God's Word to reach us today. Also, God Still Speaks to us today through the people around us and the world in which we live.

Shanta demonstrated, through his presentation, that one resource in the Christian tradition is that of continued revelation through the Spirit. Dogmatism, therefore, has no place. Dogmatism is the ultimate roadblock to peaceful, nonviolent conflict resolution. He ended his presentation with the phrase "never put a period where God has put a comma." (well, actually, since we are in India, he said "never put a full-stop where God has placed a comma.")

By the way, Shanta is a Sanskrit word meaning "Peace." He works in Manhattan and lives in NJ, so I asked if he would be willing to come and speak sometime at FCC (our church in NJ). He said he'd love to.

Overall the weekend was simply amazing (mostly, I admit, because we got to spend time with Dr. Ariarajah), and we'll both post more about it, but I think that is a good start for now. Here is a picture of the Ashram at night. This is not intended to be the "God is Still Speaking" comma, but I choose to interpret it that way! More pictures to come.

Off We Go Again

Hey, folks. So we're going to Madurai for a conference on ahimsa. A postcard to the first person who can tell the group a little bit about ahimsa: who created it, what it is, etc. I expect comments, people!

We'll catch you on the flip side. Love you all!

An Act of Kindness

I had my first truly negative experience this weekend. On the whole, we had a spectacular time, but there is one moment that sticks in my mind as one of the worst of recent memory. But like most things, there is a golden and glistening moment at the end of it.

On our way home, we decided to stop in Somnathapura which houses one of the oldest temples in India, Kesava. We navigated our way across the Indian country side and parked in front of the temple. We paid our Rs. 200 and walked across the beautifully manicured gardens into the temple.

The temple itself was breathtaking. I was immediately reminded of my trips through Egypt with the detail of the carvings on this temple. We walked around, taking pictures and discussing whatever it is that Brad and I find to discuss. It was somewhat crowded and I decided that I didn’t want to get in the middle of the crowds and chose to sit in the shade on the outer perimeter of the temple and wait for Brad.

My seat offerered a wonderful view of the outside of the temple. As I sat, I watched the people coming and going. I watched the children running around. I listened to the rhythms of conversations around me. I reveled in the glory of the day, with the cerulean sky above me. I watched as a man approached me, with his head turned back to his friends. He was waving an arm at them, as if to shush them, while they watched me and laughed. He walked to the ledge I was sitting on and asked me what country I came from. I told him the US at which point he turned on his heel and went back to the group. I head him say “United States”, which made his whole group laugh even harder. I watched them for the next ten minutes as I waited for Brad to come out, doing my best to let them know how hurt I was that they would laugh at me, merely because of where I came from.

After a little while, a woman made her way over to me. She skirted around the column that I was leaning against and sat down next to me. She was remarkably close, but Indians seem to have less personal space than Americans, so I chose to think that she was merely behaving as an Indian would, and I should not be offended. She then called across the courtyard to her friends. They looked over at her and they all started laughing. She turned to me and started laughing in my face and looked back at her friends. They began to pull out cameras to take pictures of her sitting next to the American.

At this precise moment, Brad walked out of the temple. I stood up quickly and headed out of the main door, meeting him outside by our shoes. I burst into a tirade, ranting about how Indians are not as hospitable as they are made out to be. One of the girls who laughed at me watched as I tried to let out all of my anger at the situation. I could see, at least I’d like to think I could see, some remorse at her actions. As you could imagine, Brad became very upset because I was so upset and we spent the better part of the next hour doing our best to soothe my ego.

A few hours later, we found ourselves in a small town 50 kilometers outside of Bangalore. It was 2:30 in the afternoon and we were both famished, as breakfast had been sparse that morning. We parked the car and wandered through the town in an attempt to find a restaurant that was non-veg. A small sign directed us through a small passageway and up a very tiny flight of stairs at the back of a building. We walked into a room that was mostly empty. Half of the room had no tables or chairs.

The gentleman at the door must have not spoken any English because he went into the kitchen and brought out an older gentleman. He had white hair and was wearing a white tank top with a cloth wrapped around his waist. He motioned to the menu board and told us that they didn’t have everything on the menu prepared yet. He listed a few of the things they did have and we both settled on the chicken biriyani. He smiled, genuinely, at the both of us and invited us to have a set.

The meal was fantastic, one of the best I’ve had here, and was over very quickly, mostly because we were so hungry that we didn’t speak to each other. We wen to the main desk to pay and the same gentleman came back out of the kitchen. We thanked him and told him that the meal was extraordinary. He smiled and charged us Rs. 60, or $1.33, for the whole meal. We thanked him again and he in turn thanked us for our patronage. We started out the door and he asked us to come again. We turned and stated that we would. He looked us both in the eye and repeated his request. “Please, come back again.” He was so sincere and so kind that I felt as if I were floating out of the restaurant.

In a small town in India, at the top of a small set of stairs, there is a small man, with an enormous heart, who is waiting to serve you a meal that nourishes so much more than your belly. I hope that we’ll be able to go back again, if for no other reason than to thank this man. He is probably not educated. He had probably lived within the same few blocks his whole life. But he had enough wisdom to see that we were just a pair of travelers who meant no harm. He had enough wisdom to know that the color of our skin doesn’t designate our political leanings. He had enough wisdom to know how far a kind word can go.

My Temple Priest

While we were falling asleep on our second night at the parish house, Brad asked me what my favorite thing all weekend had been. I paused for a millisecond (nanosecond, perhaps?) before answering him: the temple. A smile spread across his face and he told me that his was the same.

We went to the zoo on Sunday morning and afterwards we wandered around the shops in the area. We bought a chess set and a plate at one of the shops and asked the man where we could find dosa. He pointed at a hotel at the end of the little street and said that they had the best dosa in the area. We decided to take a short walk around the neighborhood before heading to eat.

This section of Mysore reminded me of the village in Manhattan. The houses were not very tall, five stories at the most, on crooked streets that didn’t make any sense, unless perhaps you’d lived there for decades and decades. The houses were mostly whitewashed, which made the sun seem more brilliant than even. We walked a few blocks, passing by a small park where a bunch of boys were playing cricket. Brad noticed that there were a few cows lounging in the shade of the trees there and commented that he wouldn’t want to play in that field. But when you’ve got only one choice, you’ll quickly get over any internal protests you may have.

Across the street from the park, there was a small temple. There are temples everywhere here in India, mostly because Hindus will erect a temple wherever there happens to be a natural “phenomenon”. An interesting tree or a strange rock outcropping. Maybe even a pretty, trickling stream. These are all reasons to erect a temple. This one was larger than most, although by no means enormous. There were a few buildings on the land. The largest had a tall structure on the tope of it that had been carved with many of the Hindu gods, a pantheon if you will. It was painted brilliant colors: blues and green and yellows and pinks. We walked to the gate and looked over into the yard, which was neatly kept. We saw a man coming towards us and asked if we could enter. He smiled broadly, obviously pleased that foreigners would be interested in their small temple, and invited us in. He asked our country and left us to wander on our own.

We slipped through the rotating gate and took our sandals off, leaving them there. Something I have learned about Indians is that they remove their shoes for most things. In their homes, temples, churches, microscope rooms, everywhere. We started across the grass towards the main structure. A man, wrapped in a white cloth, came running across the lawn, towards one of the smaller buildings, and stood attentively in front of it. Looking back, we were probably rude to ignore him, but I don’t think either of us understood that he was eager to bless us. So instead of going over to him, we went inside the central temple.

It was dark inside, but not in an uninviting way. There were no doors or windows in the openings, so we could still hear the world outside. In front of us, there was a smaller room, which contained the god. Sitting on the steps which led into the room were three little girls. We stood back for a moment, not wanting to intrude if we weren’t welcome. The day before, we had been scolded for taking pictures inside a different temple, and we didn’t want to offend someone else. The girls, giggling at the sight of these two white fools, motioned us forward to offer us a blessing. First, we were asked to take some water in our hands, sipping at it and spreading it over our heads. We were asked to place some red powder on our foreheads as a mark of our blessings. Then, the oldest of the girls handed each of us a little bit of banana. Finally, the smallest gave us each a bright yellow marigold. We chatted with the girls for awhile, while the priest flitted behind us, listening and obviously understanding, but not participating in the conversation. We asked each other’s names, and the girls asked what country we were from. They asked if we liked India and thought it was very funny when we asked them if they liked India. We thanked them and walked back into the sunshine.

We thought that our trip to the temple was over and headed back towards the granite bench where our shoes were. The original priest saw that we had come back out of the temple and again ran across the lawn. We followed him because this time we understood that it was our presence that was exciting him so.

The god that he was attending to was housed in a much smaller structure. Instead of being in a room within another room, this god was in a building that was the size of a small garden shed. The doorway was just large enough for the man to walk through. The god was draped with many flowers, white and pink jasmine, yellow marigolds and crimson roses, draped artfully to demonstrate the correct level of respect.

The priest picked up a brass plate that had a small bowl on it. In the bowl was oil and a wick, which was burning. He turned towards the god and passed the plate in front of her face, circling her image three times while chanting. He turned back to me and offered me the flame. I giggled and said that I didn’t know what to do. I don’t think he spoke English, but he understood my confusion and gestured to me. Understanding, I cupped my hands over the flame, capturing the heat of it. I spread the essence of the flame over my forehead. After Brad had done the same, the priest picked up a small bowl with a spoon in it. He mimicked cupped hands and dumped some of the water in when I copied his motion. I sipped at the water, which was salty, and blessed myself with it. He then offered us a bowl of white powder. We each dipped a finger in the bowl and placed some of the powder on our foreheads. He then gave us a bag of prashad, which Brad took from him. Finally, he handed us marigolds and placed his hands together, like children do in America when praying, and bowed his head at us, showing us that he was honored that we had allowed him to bless us.

We turned to leave, both feeling alive and warm. He called after me, perhaps in his only word of English. “Hello!” I turned back and he motioned that I should place the flower in my hair. I wove the stem into my braid, where it stayed throughout the day. We thanked him again and then collected our shoes from the gate.

In the time that I’ve been in India, I’ve had every type of welcome, from warm and kind to cool and disdainful. But by far, this priest, in a small village in Mysore, made me feel more welcome and more special than most people I’ve met in my life. His joy at our presence helped me feel worthy and appreciated. And I can’t wait to go into my next temple.

Mysore? My sore is my feet.

Well, the weekend was quite spectacular. We saw the Mysore Palace and went to a carnival on our first day. On the second day, we went to the zoo, wandered around a small neighborhood where we ended up in a temple and went to one of the largest outdoor markets in Asia, according to our guidebook. On the way home, we stopped at an ancient temple and drove on the bumpiest rode you can imagine. We ate spectacular food and slept at one of the most peaceful places I’ve had the honor of going to. Instead of one massive blog, which would be a short book, we’ll break the trip into smaller pieces. But to make you all happy, here are some pictures from the trip. If you want to see big copies of them, you can click on them. They may take awhile to load, as they are quite large.

This is Father Tony, who was our gracious host.

This is the parish house where we stayed.

A flower at the Catholic parish.

Mysore Palace. It's quite breathtaking.
We weren't allowed to take pictures inside.

A tree inside the smallest temple on the palace grounds.
I got in trouble for taking this picture.

Outside of the palace grounds.

The carnival that we stumbled upon. We didn't go on any of the rides.
This is where we found samosas!

A traditional Indian dance at the fairgrounds.
She's throwing a spear.

The palace and entrance lit up for Dasara festival, the only time of year it's lit up.
The palace is the light in the middle of the archway, in the distance.

The palace all lit up. It's quite amazing to see first hand.
There were so many people there!

A pair of pretty giraffes at the zoo.
The one in the front was very protective of the one in the back.

These bums were redder than I thought possible!

A lovely path through the zoo.

My new favorite sign.

A lovely zebra.

So we're at the zoo, wandering around, when we find this monkey. He was just
sitting there, enjoying himself. Imagine, a wild monkey hanging out at the zoo. I
wonder if he teases the other monkeys.

Kesava Temple in Somnathapura. It reminded me of the carvings in Egypt. To think,
while we were fumbling in the dark, men and women in the East were building
amazing temples such as this one.

A tree in the middle of the path leading up to the temple. You can see the entrance behind the palm tree on the right. This is a tree out of a fairy tale.

One of the gods inside of Kesava temple in Somnathapura. There were three separate chambers, each with a different god.

By a river on the long drive home.

Rice paddy. It's amazing how much work goes into producing rice for us to cook at home!

Some men working in the rice paddies.

Your sore? What about Mysore?

Hey, kids! Just a quick update today. Brad has mentioned that my blogs are becoming a tad long for easy reading. Sorry about that! So this one will be quick, with little to no personal reflection. Enjoy!

Tomorrow morning, we're going to get in our new car (well, our 1999 Hyundai Santro, electric blue) and drive to Mysore for a quick week-end break. We had a little bit of trouble finding a hotel, as there is a huge holiday there this weekend. It's called Dussehra, which celebrates the 10th day of the waxing moon. (I know that there are many 10th days of waxing moons in the year, but this is the only one that's celebrated: September-October.) To celebrate, people wash the tools of their profession and polish and put in order their work place. Neither of us were certain why Mysore is the center of this festival, but it meant that hotel rooms were hard to come by. Thankfully, one of the priests at Brad's school found us a family room in a parish just outside of the city limits.

We should have lots of fun. We're hoping to buy a bed cover while we're there and also find some dosa and samosa, both of which have been hard to come by. We'll tell you all about it on the flip-side.

Oh, and Kathrin? Yes, we'll take pictures.

And as an additional extra special offer, if you come to visit us, we'll take you there. Now that's temptation!

Bye, Bye Bangalore

Elizabeth and I have enjoyed living in Bangalore. However, next month will be our last month living in Bangalore.

No, we aren't moving, we are staying right where we are, but yesterday the city announced that they are changing the name of the city to Bengaluru. The reason is that "Bangalore" is actually a mispronunciation by the British of the name in Kannada (the official language of Karnataka). So, when the people who live here say the name in English, they say "Bangalore" but when they say it in Kannada, they say "Bengaluru." Originally (quite long ago), the rajya (kingdom) was called "bendakaluru", meaning "city of gardens."

Interesting, huh?

Pictures

Please read Elizabeth's post (below) about riding the brake. She told me to post pictures, so here goes. The first is Sanjay, the security guard. Then Durga Puja from our balcony and from below and then Elizabeth dancing - I have video, too ;-)

Riding the Brake

Recently, while driving home from the lab, I found myself behind someone whose brake light was illuminated. I slowed down, anticipating his obvious decrease in speed. However, the other car sped up, brake lights glowing red. It took me a few minutes to realize that he was riding his brake as he drove.

My first reaction was, What an idiot! It's so bad for your brakes to do that and it makes the drivers around you a little panicky (at least, it makes this one a little panicky). Then, I started to think about life; how some people live life full out, never using the brake to stop and reflect. Just going going going. Then, there are the people who never turn the car on. They just sit there, with the clutch pressed down, foot on the brake, in a perpetual attempt to choose where to go and what to do. Then there is that special group of people. The people who ride the brake. We floor it, pushing ourselves to the limit, while at the same time, forever stopping ourselves from really seeing where the car can take us. I am a part of that we.

For my whole life, I've made big decisions and done big things. I moved to New York to become an actor, never thinking about where I was going to live or if I was the right type of person to be a professional actor. (I've since concluded that I'm not.) But I never went on auditions. I never put myself out there to really fall. I stopped myself from seeing just how far I would be able to go. I took a great job at Chase, but didn't use all the resources at my fingertips. I've met amazing people, time and time again, but I've always considered myself unworthy and have therefore shied away from pursuing relationships or even banal conversations with them, particularly with those that I've met in the academic community.

Naturally, this led me to think about India. As my family will attest to, we didn't plan this trip to the best of our abilities. (Something which they like telling me.) We found a place for me to work and a school for Brad to attend. And then we just kind of...moved. The house wasn't sold. Our possessions were lugged to our parents' respective houses. We just did it. Jumped in with both feet and hoped for the best. (We've been very lucky that it has indeed worked out in the best way.)

And yet. I've been here for six weeks. I've bought my scooter, started my job and basically begun my life here in India. I wouldn't, however, make the claim that I'm living. Instead, I've been existing. Sustaining myself without indulging the curious side that brought me here to begin with. The gas and the brake were both hitting the floor.

The more I've thought about this, the guiltier I've felt. I didn't come here to live in a lavish apartment, hire a maid/cook and spend all of my time working. I came here to see how someone else lives. The purpose of our little experiment is to gain a better worldview. We believe that in order to understand the perspectives of the rest of the world, it is necessary to live with them. That was the greatest motivator in our decision to move to India. To better understand our "neighbor".

Last night, I released some of the pressure on the brake. There is a celebration here called Durga Puja, which is celebrating Kali, the God of War. (I'm sure Brad is going to correct me on that. I'm pretty sure that it's a tad more complex.) It began yesterday and will last for the next 9 days. There was a festival here at our complex. The open invitation that was posted on the bulletin board listed, among other things, the dress code: very traditional Indian garb, none of which we had. So instead, we stood on the balcony, watching the events below. While Brad wanted to attend, I didn't want to intrude, especially since we wouldn't fit the dress code.

The first person to urge us down was Sanjay, the head of security. He got my attention and waved me down (we live 5 floors up). I shook my head, no, while waving my hands back and forth, thank you. A few minutes later, I saw him sprinting toward the elevator bank. Within moments, our doorbell was ringing. Brad went to answer it and when he returned, he told me that Sanjay came up to invite us down. Brad, knowing my reservations, feigned an illness for me. We continued to watch and eventually we were spotted by a group of men. They waved at me (Brad hadn't noticed), inviting us down. I did my head shake and hand wave to beg off the invitation.

Then I thought about my brake. I realized I was doing it. I was in the middle of riding my brake. I can stand on my balcony and take pictures, but I can't go downstairs. So I bucked up, slipped into the most Indian shirt I have and headed down. Sanjay was remarkably excited to see us, and led us to the front of the crowd so we could see and take pictures. Needless to say, we couldn't have been more conspicuous. Or so I thought. We were down there for ten minutes when a woman approached and asked us to dance with the group. Nervous as I was, I kicked off my shoes and followed her into the crowd. (Yes, Kathrin, we have pictures. Brad has to upload them.) She taught me the very simple step and led me halfway around the circle. We came to a group of her friends, at which point she turned to me and said, "You've got it! Now keep going!" and walked away. My hands quickly rose to my shirt, tugging on the hem in embarrassment and fear. I froze, wanting to participate, but also wanting a guide to join me. I looked across the crowd to where Brad was standing and wanted to be holding his hand more than anything else in the world. I quickly walked across the circle and joined Brad. My foot was once again firmly planted on my brake.

Every Sunday, we've been attending a lecture series at Brad's school, focusing on religious issues, especially those affecting India. Today, Brad received a phone call telling us that the Islamic group that was scheduled to come had backed out. This was not surprising, as the school is run by the Catholic Church. With the comments that the Pope made recently, it isn't surprising that a Muslim would not want to make a public appearance at a Catholic university. Instead, the group was invited to a local mosque to discuss Islam. While Brad was eager to go, I was apprehensive. Islam and I have a checkered past. Part of it has to do with 9/11. (I'm horrified and ashamed to admit.) Part of it has to do with my ex-husband, who is from Pakistan and is Muslim. Part of it has to do with my time in Egypt. I love Islam as a religion, just as I love Christianity, Hinduism, Sikhism, Judaism, etc. But I fear what Islam is doing in modern times. (I recognize that there is some hypocrisy here, as Christianity has been one of the most popular justifications for war.) And I can't help but be emotional when I go to mosques.

Brad and I spoke about my feelings and he encouraged me to join him. So it was with great trepidation that we went to the mosque. We were a few minutes late, due to some miscommunication. It was immediately clear that this session was to introduce the basics of Islam to the group. Brad and I, unlike much of the group, have extensively studied Islam. We know the history of the religion. We know the Qu'ran. We know the philosophies of the religion. We spend much of our time learning about other religions, and Islam has been no exception for us. We have friends who are Muslim and I, for one, consider Islam to be an extension of Christianity. So I was having trouble focusing on the discussion because I could answer most of the questions that were posited.

I looked around the group in my distraction and noticed that I was the only woman there. For some reason, the woman who is in Brad's class was not there. I was a tad dismayed and I instantly questioned whether I was meant to be there. In my distractions, I noticed two young girls at the window, who kept watching me. I smiled at them and they responded in kind. We went back and forth smiling for some time. I then made eye contact with one girl and she started gesturing at me. Brad leaned over and asked what she meant. I shrugged my shoulders, not knowing what she was trying to communicate. Yet in that moment, she ran in and sat beside me. Her friend was steps behind her, with two younger boys joining us.

I was so excited to be so trusted by these four children. We started speaking in hushed tones. We began with the banal. What is your name? Where do you live? Are you happy? Who is that man next to you? (This one was directed at me.) We then moved on. Why are you here? Why is the world unhappy? What are your religious festivals? They were enraptured by what I had to say. The boys would whisper questions to the girls, who would in turn translate. They asked me to their respective houses, which I declined, not wanting to intrude. I started discussing Jesus, who is known as Isa in Islam, explaining what he meant in Christianity. Another boy came over to listen to our conversation. When it was time to leave, they followed me outside and made me promise that we would come back. They told me where they lived and kept waving across the quad as I got on my scooter.

I don't think I have the words to explain what this experience means to me. I could have chosen to not go. I wanted to go shopping today for speakers and I did not want to go to a mosque. But I would never have met these beautiful children who found something special in me. I don't know if it was that I was a woman or white or friendly. It could be any combination of those things. But the affection of a child often means so much more than that of an adult. I could have kept my foot on the brake today, but I instead took it off, hurtled into the unknown and ended up floating amongst four glowing stars.

I know there will be more riding the brake moments. And I know that there will be moments that I wish I had held back. But I'll always have these children, reminding me that the great moments of your life will always come from flying blindly ahead. For that is when the unexpected happens. And the unexpected is so very sweet. So to my four new friends, I thank you for teaching me the greatest lesson that I've learned thus far on my Indian Adventure.

Sacred Grove

Two years ago in my Church at Worship liturgy class, we were given the assignment to plan and describe our funeral. As morbid and disturbing as this might seem, this is actually quite an important exercise for future pastors who will, undoubtedly, plan and conduct many funerals. For mine, I had the idea of having my ashes used at the funeral to plant a tree in a whole cycle of life thing.

Yesterday, all of the MPh students visited the Fire-Flies Ashram here in Bangalore. Fire-flies is an interreligious ashram devoted to ecological concerns. FIRE stands for Fellowship In Religious Experience. Anyway, the founder of the organization (who, by the way, is a friend of Dr. Ariarajah’s) showed us the tree that he had planted using his brother’s ashes. This was fascinating to me because it was a similar idea to the one I had.

Then he told a story about a tribal village here in India. In this village, when a person dies, they conduct a traditional funeral (traditional means cremation on a funeral pyre by the priest). What is different is that they then take some of the ashes and they use them to plant a fruit tree along the road. Everyday when they walk past the tree, they are reminded of what that person meant to them and perhaps they will say a prayer. When spring comes around, the tree bears fruit. In one sense, then, the person who passed away is contributing to the health and vibrancy of the community. When the people take the fruit, they remember the person and tell the children about their good attributes. In other words, the person continues to live on in that community through the life of that tree. Although the person has died, his/her spirit lives on through the memories of the villagers, which are the person’s sons, daughters, friends, etc.

Next, as the city limits of Bangalore continue to stretch farther and farther out, this once-remote village becomes potential land for development. A company comes and buys the land and wants to build a factory or store or something there. But the people protest saying “these are sacred trees! The spirits of our ancestors dwell in these trees!” The developers simply respond that these are foolish notions and that trees do not have spirits and are not sacred. The villagers, they say, are simple minded and superstitious.

Now what do we say about these villagers? Are they worshipping the trees? Are they venerating the trees? Who is to blame for the lack of understanding – the villagers for saying that the trees have spirits or the developer who doesn’t know what they mean? Does the tradition of the villagers seem like a practice we should discourage or mimic? What are your reactions?

Views From Our Balcony

There's a lot of noise here in India. We sleep with the fan on high every night in a weak attempt to drown out the sound of the trucks honking their horns. (Seriously, ya'll will not truly understand how annoying the horns are until you're here, trying to sleep. They have creative horns, which are just crap!) But every now and then, a noise filters into our window and we feel compelled to run outside onto one of the balconies.

Yesterday, we were in our office, pretending that we were working on, um, work, when in reality we were checking to see if anyone had posted comments here on the blog. (Yes, people, that means you...let us know you're listening!) There was some yelling outside, and I looked out the window and saw that our neighbors had come out onto their balcony. I said, "Hey, they're outside." At this point, Brad whipped his head around the corner of the window, fast enough to get their attention. The mother turned to look at us, and by the time she and I made contact, Brad had already disappeared from the frame. I gave a meager smile and wave, while Brad descended into giggles. We laughed for a bit, and then realized that if the neighbors were interested, it was probably something cool.

We ran out onto the bedroom balcony (we get the best view from there) and saw a small crowd of men. Many of them had red cloth wrapped around their heads and they were dancing furiously in the street. There were two religious symbols: the first was housed in a decorated white miniature temple, and I unfortunately couldn't see it. The second was one of the Hindu gods*, on the back of a flatbed truck, surrounded by people.

A few interesting things. First, there weren't any women, which I found strange. Hinduism isn't segregationalist, at least not in terms of gender. ** Also, while some of the men danced with passion, almost to the point of crossing into being a whirling dervish, others were subdued. A few noticed Brad and I taking pictures. (You can see them seeing us in the images.)

We asked Shyla what the festival was for, and she said it was North Indian and therefore she didn't really know. But I have to say, they seem to like their festivals here! It's so great to see such vibrant celebrations happening in the streets. I hope I have the guts to participate some day.

*I want to be clear that the Hindu concept of God is complex. I know that some people may read this and think that Hindus, having many gods, are polytheist. Brad, I'm sure, will give a better lesson some day, but for now, let's just say that they have many names for the different aspects of God's personality.

**There are some schools of thought in Hinduism that promote casteism. Again, something Brad can talk more about. I must stress, however, that it is only some sects (denominations?) that discriminate based on caste.

The Delivery of My Desk

Last week, my desk and chair were delivered. Brad called the store to ask what time things would be delivered, and he was told in the next 15 mintues. When I came home an hour later, there was still no desk. We went out onto our balcony to see if the truck was coming and instead we saw this:

You can clearly see the man carrying my chair on his head. If you look closely on the bottom, the man with the desk can be seen with it on his head. They then walked up 6 flights of stairs to bring the desk to our office.

To get to our apartment, they had to walk at least a half mile down the road, then cross a very busy road. Best delivery I've ever had, hands down.

The People Around You

Edit: Brad has a really good comment to this. So if you usually ignore the comment section, you should read the one that accompanies this post.

For as much of my life as I can remember, I've done my best to be a friendly person. Not just to the people that I love and call my friend, but also to people who I don't know at all. This group of people has always included service staff. When I was working at JPMorgan, I would smile at the cleaning ladies. I would pick up the garbage cans near me and hand them to the women. I say hello and thank you to the people whose job it is to hold my door or clean my table. I'm not trying to imply that I'm some magnanimous individual who deserves praise. I've just always tried to make an effort to notice the people who make my day easier.

This behavior has become habit with me. When I see someone working in my flat or tending to the gardens at the lab, I do my best to make eye contact, smile and either say hello or thank you. In the US, the reaction was always a smile in return, perhaps a few words of polite conversation. I would get something in return. But here in India, I've found that the women and men I try to engage, more often than not, just look at me. While it feels like they're snarling at me, in reality it's probably just a lack of reaction.

When I'm on the receiving end of a smile, I do my best to smile back. If nothing else, it makes me smile to have someone smile at me. It means I've been noticed and acknowledged. That's a wonderful feeling! Someone thinks enough of me to expend energy and use their muscles to send a bit of happiness in my direction. If that doesn't make you smile, I don't know what would! So when I smile at someone, and they keep eye contact without smiling back, I get upset.

I've asked Brad about it, and his educated guess is that the people at whom I'm smiling aren't used to people outside of their "caste" smiling at them. Now, I'm outside of the caste system anyway, obviously. But these women and men work for people who deliberately don't acknowledge them. At least that's our working theory.

We have a woman who works for us. It's a little embarrassing for me to admit, because there is a part of me that feels as if I'm falling into the "white oppressor" stereotype. She does the cooking and cleaning and in return we give her $2.50/day. She works for 3 other families, so she most likely makes close to $10/day, which is enough to survive off of here. And in thinking about how poorly "the help" seems to be treated here, I've thought about how I treat Shyla. I leave Brad out of this because his behavior is vastly different than mine.

Most of the time, when Shyla comes over, I shuffle into another part of the flat. I try to make polite conversation for a few minutes, but most of the time, I'm so overwhelmed with guilt and shame that I find it hard to be in the same room with her. It is just so unfair that I would have so much in life, and she so little. I know that she doesn't look at it that way. Her religious beliefs are such that she feels she's fulfilling her duty. But it's really hard for me to have someone think that their duty is cleaning my underwear.

But all of this thinking has brought me to the point where I've realized that I'm not treating her like a human being, and this is just plain wrong. I can't do anything about my fantastic wealth in comparison to her situation. I can't help that I am the boss while she the employee. But what I can do is try to listen to her. Try to talk to her. And do my best to never, ever let her feel like my shame is her fault.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

Brad and I shared a professor at Drew by the name of Obiri Addo. Dr. Addo is from Ghana and has organized and participated in dozens of cross cultural trips. In fact, he was on my trip with me to Egypt and he helped plan Brad's trip to Ghana. Dr. Addo has a term that uses to describe a very specific interaction that almost always occurs: uh oh moments. Those are the moments where an American is discussing some financial aspect of their lives in a very candid way with someone from a developing nation. The American perhaps is talking about how they need a brand new car or the computer that they can't afford to buy. And in that moment, that very specific moment, the American looks up, remembers who they are talking to and adds an addendum to their statement. "Well, you know, necessary in American terms." "I mean, I know I don't need another computer, but it's different in the US." It's that uncomfortable moment where, as an American, you become painfully aware of how fortunate we are in comparison to the rest of the world. Well, I had my first. And instead of talking to one individual, I was talking to four. And I walked away feeling dumb. As if I had fulfilled the stereotype.

A few of my labmates invited me to go out and have some tea with them at the canteen. I quickly said yes and grabbed my bottle of water. I explained to them that I only like hot beverages when I'm cold, which perhaps sets the tone for the whole conversation: this American chick is weird. We sat down and they started asking me the questions you would expect: Why are you here in India? How long are you staying? How are you adjusting? I answered as honestly as I could. One of the girls then mentioned that she had wanted to take some time off after graduating from her undergraduate program, but her parents hadn't let her. She was lamenting the Indian system, and saying that she wished she lived in America where people took time off to travel and fulfill their whims. (I didn't tell her that most people can't afford that.) I started talking about taking time off and how hard it was to make the decision to go back to school. I know it was for me. I gave up a very good job and a lot of freedom to go deep into debt. Then, I choose to go deeper into debt with my husband by moving to India for two years. No, the decision to take time off is hard.

That's when it happened, when my own little disaster struck. I started rambling about how we had sold our house to move here and we were living on ever dwindling savings. That when we move back to the states, we're both going to be enrolled in post-graduate programs, feeding the flames of debt even more. How we may never be able to afford a house again, depending upon how things go in life. I was captivated with myself and my situation. Never has there been a situation as dire as ours, from the sounds of it. Oh, whoa is me, for this life that I've chosen. How can I stand it? How can I deal with the absolute freedom to move around the world for two years and the savings to provide? How, people, HOW?

Well, those pesky, rational thoughts quickly crawled in and took over. I am lucky. I am probably going to own a home again. I have more money in the bank than these kids may make in their entire lives. My uh oh moment had arrived. "You know, poor by American standards." I looked down at the table and took a swig from my water bottle. Silence descended upon the group. No one said a word for a few moments. Finally, someone mumbled something about being ready to head back to the lab.

I was paralyzed with fear for a few days. (Okay, paralyzed is an obvious exaggeration, but doesn't it sound nice?) I was convinced that these people had now written me off as an ignorant, arrogant American. And you know what? I would have supported that conclusion, based on the small amount of time that they'd spent with me. How foolish of me! However, their superior Indian intellect has prevailed. Mirab helped me out all day in the lab, describing protocols for me. The woman whose name I couldn't pronounce smiled at me today. And I mean, a real smile, all the way up to the eyes!

So while my first uh oh moment has passed, I find myself unscathed. Perhaps I should have been. It would have been deserved. But what I'm really hoping is that the next time an uh oh moment starts to rear its ugly head, I'll be ready for it and try to present a more dignified view of Americans.

Upping the Ante

Okay, per llawhsoj's suggestion, we're gonna make things interesting here, people. Josh seemed to have trouble dealing with the fact that our postcard may not creatively match whatever item was sent to us. So, let's all match wits, shall we? Can we all stump each other with the crap that we can mail, which will bring joy to the lives of all?

I can say this: very creative mailings will get a picture put on the blog. Just think, you too could be immortalized on the internet.

Our address

So it's always in a place you can find it, here is our address.

Brad & Elizabeth Bannon
Sobha Aquamarine A4-507
Bellandur: Sarjapur-Outer Ring Road
Near Petrol Bank
Bangalore 560037 Karnataka
India

Don't feel compelled to send us anything. But we will send a postcard back if you write to us. That's the deal we're willing to strike here.

Do you remember?

It was a beautiful day, that day. The sun was shining, the sky was the color of a robin's egg, with white specks floating by. It wasn't that hot, a little breezy even, so sitting in the sun wasn't uncomfortable. Do you remember?

I had worked the night before, as usual. As I didn't get home until after 12:30 in the morning, I didn't make it to sleep until at least 1:30. I slept until 9:55, and then got up to watch Rosie. I went into the living room and turned on the television. Kathrin was cooking herself breakfast in the kitchen area and channel 7 wouldn't come on. I flipped through the channels, looking for a reason as to why the antenna would be out. I went down to channel 2, which was coming through, and then back up to 7. I couldn't figure out why the only channel that came through was CBS. I flicked back to CBS and found myself speechless. Do you remember?

I must have called Kathrin in to look at the tv. It didn't really make sense. The towers were only a couple of miles from our apartment, yet we hadn't heard anything. There, on the screen, were the images that none of us can get out of our heads, no matter how hard we try. We crawled out onto our fire escape and struggled to see something. We had a view that let us see just the antenna on the top of the trade center. We saw plumes of smoke billowing in the air, black and thick against the crystal blue sky. Do you remember?

I stuck my head back in the apartment, and watched the tower fall. When I stood back up, the antenna was gone from the skyline. That's when the frantic phone calls started. People had been calling us for hours, but the lines were jammed. We called our mothers. We called our friends. We left and heard messages like "I'm fine. I've heard from Jim, Bob, Sue and Joe. They're fine. Let me know that you're fine, too." Do you remember?

We decided to donate blood, so we walked to the local hospital. All of Jersey City was out on the street, searching for something meaningful to do. When we got to St. Francis, we were told that they weren't dedicating any staff to drawing blood because of the survivors. We were told to go home. Back to that place where the only thing to do was watch in horror. We only had one station at that point. The only station being broadcast in New York was CBS, because it's antenna was on the Empire State Building. Do you remember?

We watched the news. We watched a movie. We watched each other. Then, we watched as the ambulences started pulsing past our apartment window. One after another. Sirens screaming. If you looked out our back windows, you could see, maybe a football field away, the ramp to the Turnpike. The Holland Tunnel was closed to allow the ambulances the freedom to drive where they needed. That was when they thought there would be a lot of ambulances. Do you remember?

The first time I went into Manhattan afterwards was on Friday, September 14th. I got out of the subway at 47th and 6th and started to walk East. When I hit 5th Ave, I looked South. I had always been able to see the towers from there, a beacon , a compass letting you know where you were in the city. The sky looked like it had been ripped apart, like a person being taken out of a photograph. Do you remember?

For weeks afterwards, we were bombarded with the images of the missing. The Path station walls were plastered with posters with pictures taken of the people who fell that day. Playing with their families and smiling for cameras. While I wanted to move on, I was drawn to the humanity of those walls. Do you remember?

It's been 5 years and those images and days are blazed in my head. I heard on the news the other day that 95% of Americans remember where they were and what they were doing when they heard. Do you remember?

Life is the end of life

“Life is the end of life.” That is a sentence that I encountered in my reading today. I had to stop and think about it for a minute because it is such a strange sentence. In philosophy, strange sentences are anything but a rarity, but this one stood out. “Life is the end of life.”

Regardless of whatever our particular philosophy of life is, I think it should include the statement, “life is the end of life.” Here we are, Elizabeth and I, far away from friends, family, and familiarity and it has become much too easy to come home and watch TV and surf the net and forget why we are here. I’ve been here nearly 3 months now and I’m already starting to wonder where the time has gone and how quickly life is passing me by. But wait, what are we doing way over here – far from friends, family and familiarity? We are here because life is the end of life. It’s time to stop treating each day as a means to some elusive end. Life – this life – the one right here and right now – this life is the end of life. Pray that we might all realize this end before the end realizes us.

Changes in attitude

(The above can be clicked for easier reading)

This was what I wrote at the lab the other day. I have this ongoing battle with the world of synthetic biology. I love the research and find it to be stimulating, fascinating and inspiring. Yet, the people in synthbio are brilliant. It's a young field, and there aren't very many people who have been inspired to spend their lives attempting to create circular strands of DNA that will change the way cells behave. It's a growing field, one with an extraordinary amount of attention at this point, but for the moment, it's the intellectual elite who are controlling the field.

I am not one of those people. I'm a smart girl, there's no doubt of that. I've lived with myself for long enough to know that I have a hefty dose of intelligence in my DNA. However, I'm also smart enough to know that I'm definately not among the higher echelon. I can solve differential equations, I can design genetic circuits, I can hold moderately intelligent conversation about many of the scientific issues facing this world we call home. But I'm not a genius. I'm not one of the intellectual elite. Yet I work with them, everyday.

It's hard to be reminded that I'm limited. We'd like to believe that we are just as capable as everyone else. Americans have this can-do attitude, where we truly think if we work hard enough, put in enough time, we can do anything. This week, I felt as if that just wasn't true. I was defeated, by two Ph.D. candidates who made me feel stupid. ATP, Chemostat, LuxR, LuxI; these terms were bandied about in ways that made my head spin. I know this wasn't their intention, but their wealths of knowledge on the topic intimidated me into feeling as if I'd never be able to hack it in this lab.

That was Tuesday. But then Wednesday happened. We had a lab meeting, that was heavily steeped in complex differential equations. Now, I know many people don't know what those are. They are complex calculus problems, that are not so easy to solve. In fact, the vast majority of D.E. cannot be solved without using tricks and shortcuts. I sat there, following everything that Mukund, the head of our lab, was doing. This is what I spent the past 3 years doing, writing equations that have the same symbols as Brad's Greek translations, but vastly different meanings.

Mukund then came to the most beautiful equations in all of mathematics. Richard Feynman named it as one of his favorite equations. It is paradoxical, it is strange, it is profound. And it is something that I hold very dear to me.Euler's identity, which brings together 5 of the most important concepts in mathematics in a fantastic dance. This shouldn't hold true; I mean, look at it.

Well, this little equation has brought my ego up again. The two Ph.D. students had never seen this before, and couldn't make tail end of it. They are both molecular biologists, and have therefore not had high levels of mathematics or physics. Their lack of understanding helped me to understand. It's not that I'm stupid, it's that I'm undereducated for the world that I'm working in. I've had, at most, one year of college level biology, and that was 7 years ago. I'm a bit rusty. The biology that I studied was general, not molecular, so there is a vast amount of knowlege for me to learn.

Having come to this conclusion, I've made it a goal of mine to work through a few molbio textbooks at the library. Biology has the benefit of being self-teachable. And with a bevy of biologists there to back me up, I'm sure that I'll be flinging those acronyms around in no time.