As our train pulled into the Aluva station, I felt both a sense of sadness and relief. This really felt like home to me after so many months. However, coming from the Air conditioned train compartment into the hot and sticky summer air, I felt my excitement melt away along with my forehead. By the time I was back to my room, it looked as though I had gotten off the bus at the Periyar for a quick swim.
Despite the perpetual feeling of becoming a puddle on the pavement, the last week has been fun catching up with everyone I have not seen in a few months. Especially the girls at my hostel, who are now themselves getting ready to vacate and move on with their lives away from U.C. College.
You would think that in this sort of heat, no one would dare plan a function. Well, you would be incorrect, as I was, because nearly everyone is getting either engaged or married, or both, during the summer months. So in the past week I have attended two marriages (one in which there were 4 couples married simultaneously) one engagement, and received an invitation for another next week. Can you imagine wearing a sari covered with gold during this heat??!! (Note to self: don't have an indian wedding)
Here are a few thoughts that ran by as I was sweating porfusely, trying to look presentable as the only Madama (a.k.a. white woman) at the stately functions:
What must it be like to get married to someone you MAY have met once or twice? I can't imagine commiting my life to a stranger. Even if your parents planned the match, who's to say that this man will treat you well? I have asked this question to my friends here many times, and they always tell me it's because the family will support you if you marry who they choose. I feel this argument is weak, because I think a family should support you, no matter who you marry . . . and my parents won't disown me if I marry someone they dislike. (Although I want my parents to like who I marry . . . in an ideal situation). Furthermore, most families here would pressure the woman into staying in the marriage, even if the husband was doing her wrong.
They also say there is a greater chance for divorce with "love marriages" (a.k.a. not arranged). However, I think this is a seperate issue. Up until the 1960s in america, divorce was uncommon. It's only with the liberation of women that there has been a move toward divorce. The woman is allowed the freedom to remove herself from a bad situation. As I stated before, the culture and the family would most likely encourage the woman to stay even in a bad relationship, rather than get a divorce.
Despite this, there are happy marriages here. For example, my site supervisor and his wife. They may quarrel at times, just like couples in the U.S., but they have a great love for one another, and a beautiful family. So maybe my mind isn't quite made up yet on the subject, but I will continue to ponder.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
A whole different India
After seven months in one place, you start to feel comfortable with your surroundings, your knowledge of the area, and your expectations of people. That is the feeling I had before going on our tour of the entire country of India. I now realize that there is so much diversity from region to region, and Aluva, Kerala does not represent the entire nation. Rajasthan, located in the northwest, is a hot, desert climate, with colorful dresses and turbans, all signifying something of caste, religion, or status.
Delhi, the capital of India, was again a completely different world. In the city lies a number of contradictions. While there is undoubtedly greater technology and amenities available, the poverty is more acute than what I have experienced so far. As the train entered through the outskirts, small cubicles of scrap metal formed dwellings that most in the western world would deam uninhabitable. But within the city proper, it is easy to see how those with money may never lay eyes on this destitution. Near the embassy the green grounds are lush, and there are a number of beautiful, spacious gardens. Shopping malls with imported brand names rise up out of the pavement.
North of Delhi lie the beautiful Himalayas. Small villages are still prevalent in this area, where the climate is cool enough to wear wool sweaters and caps. Trekking in the foothills of the snowcapped mountains was exhilirating, but it was easy to feel a sense of peace. Dharamasala was our next stop; the place of the Tibetan refugees. While I knew a little about the struggle of Tibet, I learned infinitely more here. A cooking lesson with Sangye, a Tibetan who escaped in 1998, was certainly a highlight of the trip. He told of how he walked for 28 days through the mountains to Nepal, while people were dying from the snow and cold. Several lost their limbs from frostbite. This struggle was something I hadn't thought of before. A demonstration of Tibetan monks and refugees passed us, shouting "Free Tibet! Stop the killing! Death to China!" How powerful words and shouts can be!
Our final destination was Goa, a small state full of beaches once occupied by the Portuguese, where we met up with some friends from a globalization conference we attended earlier in the year. They were from a village fighting against a port being built in their area. The proposed construction, given by a corporate organization, would destroy all of the fishing and collection of oysters and mussels from that area, which the villagers depend upon. There truly is struggle everywhere.
As I returned to my site, and to a sense of normalcy, I come to the realization that India truly is both one and many: "The land of unity and diversity". Different cultures, different religions, different food, different dress. Yet, there are similar problems everywhere. Poverty, caste, sectarianism, gender discrimination. These are universal.
Delhi, the capital of India, was again a completely different world. In the city lies a number of contradictions. While there is undoubtedly greater technology and amenities available, the poverty is more acute than what I have experienced so far. As the train entered through the outskirts, small cubicles of scrap metal formed dwellings that most in the western world would deam uninhabitable. But within the city proper, it is easy to see how those with money may never lay eyes on this destitution. Near the embassy the green grounds are lush, and there are a number of beautiful, spacious gardens. Shopping malls with imported brand names rise up out of the pavement.
North of Delhi lie the beautiful Himalayas. Small villages are still prevalent in this area, where the climate is cool enough to wear wool sweaters and caps. Trekking in the foothills of the snowcapped mountains was exhilirating, but it was easy to feel a sense of peace. Dharamasala was our next stop; the place of the Tibetan refugees. While I knew a little about the struggle of Tibet, I learned infinitely more here. A cooking lesson with Sangye, a Tibetan who escaped in 1998, was certainly a highlight of the trip. He told of how he walked for 28 days through the mountains to Nepal, while people were dying from the snow and cold. Several lost their limbs from frostbite. This struggle was something I hadn't thought of before. A demonstration of Tibetan monks and refugees passed us, shouting "Free Tibet! Stop the killing! Death to China!" How powerful words and shouts can be!
Our final destination was Goa, a small state full of beaches once occupied by the Portuguese, where we met up with some friends from a globalization conference we attended earlier in the year. They were from a village fighting against a port being built in their area. The proposed construction, given by a corporate organization, would destroy all of the fishing and collection of oysters and mussels from that area, which the villagers depend upon. There truly is struggle everywhere.
As I returned to my site, and to a sense of normalcy, I come to the realization that India truly is both one and many: "The land of unity and diversity". Different cultures, different religions, different food, different dress. Yet, there are similar problems everywhere. Poverty, caste, sectarianism, gender discrimination. These are universal.
Friday, March 21, 2008
My Christmas... a little late
Sorry for the lateness. . . I wrote this portion just after Christmas, and I thought it would be worthwhile . . .
Christmas in a Foreign Land
“Is this your first Christmas away from home?” was a common question as time drew nearer to December 25th. This is my second time in a foreign country during the holiday season; however, my experience in Europe was far from similar. With a surfeit of snow and mountains in Switzerland, I felt the Christmas spirit even more sharply. Without the frostbitten toes and fingers, the enveloping heat of the fireplace, and the aroma of mulled wine, it was difficult to sense that the holiday season was upon me. There were carol services galore, and semi-recognizable attempts at decorated fir trees, but it was not until I was on the train Christmas night that I realized just how unique the spirit of Christ’s birth could be.
In a train car packed with Hindu pilgrims recently returning from a famous temple in Sabarimala, shoeless and carrying a distinct odor, our tiny eclectic group of Americans, Achen, and his wife Betty, sang Christmas tunes while their son, Binu, played the guitar. We rounded out the session with “The Piano Man,” not really a Christmas tune per se, but one we knew and loved. We arrived at our destination, Andhra Pradesh, at 10 am the next morning. This was a real culture shock.
It was the India I pictured before my time in Kerala. Rural, destitute, sparsely populated. But staying for three days at a boys’ home for children either orphaned or abandoned was one of the best of my experience so far. The boys did not encircle us, beg for pictures or attention. Rather, they treated us as older sisters who were there to teach and love. It felt like a haven and a home for us during the holidays. Achen’s sister, who is a Church of South India Sister, took us to some of the schools the missions group is trying to run on little or no funding, as well as the village areas, in which not even the state language, Telagu, is spoken. When our time with them was over, I felt more than hesitant to leave what felt like a new family and home. But I returned with a new passion and vigor to continue the projects I had started, and to initiate new projects.
Christmas in a Foreign Land
“Is this your first Christmas away from home?” was a common question as time drew nearer to December 25th. This is my second time in a foreign country during the holiday season; however, my experience in Europe was far from similar. With a surfeit of snow and mountains in Switzerland, I felt the Christmas spirit even more sharply. Without the frostbitten toes and fingers, the enveloping heat of the fireplace, and the aroma of mulled wine, it was difficult to sense that the holiday season was upon me. There were carol services galore, and semi-recognizable attempts at decorated fir trees, but it was not until I was on the train Christmas night that I realized just how unique the spirit of Christ’s birth could be.
In a train car packed with Hindu pilgrims recently returning from a famous temple in Sabarimala, shoeless and carrying a distinct odor, our tiny eclectic group of Americans, Achen, and his wife Betty, sang Christmas tunes while their son, Binu, played the guitar. We rounded out the session with “The Piano Man,” not really a Christmas tune per se, but one we knew and loved. We arrived at our destination, Andhra Pradesh, at 10 am the next morning. This was a real culture shock.
It was the India I pictured before my time in Kerala. Rural, destitute, sparsely populated. But staying for three days at a boys’ home for children either orphaned or abandoned was one of the best of my experience so far. The boys did not encircle us, beg for pictures or attention. Rather, they treated us as older sisters who were there to teach and love. It felt like a haven and a home for us during the holidays. Achen’s sister, who is a Church of South India Sister, took us to some of the schools the missions group is trying to run on little or no funding, as well as the village areas, in which not even the state language, Telagu, is spoken. When our time with them was over, I felt more than hesitant to leave what felt like a new family and home. But I returned with a new passion and vigor to continue the projects I had started, and to initiate new projects.
Monday, March 3, 2008
My First Blog
Well, I am sorry that this has taken me so much time, but I finally decided to start blogging. There is so much to tell, that I must first organize my thoughts before posting. But I at least wanted to initiate the site. Thank you for visiting, and there is much more to come . . .
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