In Their Hands

Greetings friends! I am writing to you from the steps outside the door to my room, watching the rain. The monsoons have finally delivered the promised rain and there has been steady rainfall for at least two days. You can feel the relief in the air. Every year, many farmers take loans to buy the supplies they need to plant each season and if the rains don’t come with enough force and their crops turn up short, many commit suicide as a means of debt relief for their families. This sad story is replayed year after year and this year, and tensions were high because it has been an especially dry monsoon season. There was talk about the farmers and what the villagers could do to convince them not to take their own lives. Thankfully, the skies have opened and I hope they stay this way so that no planter looses another wink of sleep. This will be my last blog post as an intern of Navsarjan Trust. My time here is coming to an end and although I am ready to come home, I have a melancholy feeling inside me. This feeling started last week when I went into the field to visit a Navsarjan boarding school in a village called Sami. These trips are always my favorite. The Navsarjan boarding school model is fantastic; children from ages 5 to 8 get a real education, which includes personality development and empowerment. Most of the children who attend these schools have dropped out of government schools because of abuse. When I visited with these children they told me about how at their government schools, they never learned. Their teachers were hardly ever in the classroom with them, rather they were outside gossiping with other teachers or never came to school at all. The illiteracy rates in government schools are extremely high and most of the time parents don’t think the school fees are worth it because their children aren’t learning anything anyway. India seems to be full of these catch 22 situations. But being at the boarding schools is like a breath of fresh air. The children are taught everything from Sanskrit to geography and their appetite for learning is truly inspiring. When I asked if they liked their school, they told me that they wish they had class on Sundays too, they would rather have 7 days of learning than have a free day. On the way home from this visit, I had the opportunity to speak with Preeti, the Navsarjan Education Officer. She is a wonderful woman who spends her time touring Gujarat and making sure all Navsarjan education facilities are running according to their mission. She is also the woman who organized the Patan Children Rights Rally, which was one of my first experiences with Navsarjan (described in “Spark in the Eye, Fire in the Belly” entry). Hundreds of children shared their stories of abuse in their government schools and Preeti and her team assembled a list of grievances and all of us marched together through Patan to the Chief Magistrates office to deliver the document. It was such an incredible day. The media coverage added to the empowerment the children felt; they were really doing it, they were standing up for their rights. I hadn’t heard anything about what happened after that day in Patan district, so I followed up with Preeti in the car. When I said the word Patan she looked as though she was going to cry. Apparently, due to the media attention the rally received, the Magistrate had to do something. He called a meeting with all the principals of all the schools that were named in the list of grievances and told them to “make the problem go away.” The principals in turn went into the communities and threatened the Dalit families whose children had participated in the rally. The families were told that if their children kept “acting up,” they would no longer be welcomed at the school, nor would any of their siblings. And so the complaints have stopped. The demands for rights have stopped. The children and families have been pushed into a corner and the empowerment has stopped. When I asked her why this was tolerated, why the families were scared of these men, she replied, “Because all the power, everything is in their hands. If a family stands up and doesn’t quiet down, they cannot buy milk. Then the next day they cannot get water. All the power is in their hands.” And so here we are, two months later, in a worse state than when we started. Something has to change.
And so with these thoughts floating in my head, I hopped on a plane to Bangalore to attend the National Conference of Women in Governance. Manjula is founding member of this network and invited Vivi and I for the second annual meeting to help with the logistics of the programming; little did I know this meeting would be a brain storming session on the same thoughts that were racing through my mind. For three days, I was in a room full of women who are active in politics and civil society and who represent marginalized communities. They ranged in age and every other possible difference you could think of, yet they were together to discuss how this network could be an agent for change. WinG (Women in Governance) seeks to assist in getting women in to leadership positions, both in their local Panchayat (village councils) and at the municipal level. We discussed human security, customary laws, personality development, and legal action that can be taken to get women’s voices heard. Over and over again we came back to the same problems of implementation. The laws are there, but access to them is make believe. India has been concerned about its image for sometime and has some very progressive documents under its belt to claim that it is a liberal, equality driven nation; the reality is quite the contrary. I listened and feverishly wrote down the brilliant words that flew around the room. I was in awe of these women and honored to be among them. I was even invited back to work with a few of them on future projects regarding womens rights. This interaction lessened my feelings of frustration and hopelessness. My heart is broken for the children of Patan who dared to speak out only to be silenced by fear, yet I met 40 women who had similar experiences as children and continue to fight as adults. The power may be in “their” hands as Preeti says, but “they” better watch out because a collective voice of discontent is growing in “their” backyards. The potential for change is great, and the personalities of the change makes are even greater.
On the 27th of July, Vivi and I will be embarking on journey across India. We have booked buses, trains, flights and taxis to assist us in our travels. I hope to see more than the tourist highlights of India, I hope to see the rich variety of people who call this home. Upon completing these travels, I will be retuning to my home and to all of you who make it that. I cannot wait to see your smiling faces and to tell you how I missed you! Stay tuned for travel highlights in my final blog entry!

Building People

Namaste friends! My apologies for not writing for awhile, I have been traveling and chose not to subject my poor laptop to any more hardships than I already have! But I am back now and ready to tell about my most recent adventures. During the Spring semester in San Diego, a colleague of mine at school, Upendra Malla, organized for Vivien and I to attend a week long conference in the capital city of Hyderabad in the southern Indian state of Andra Pradesh while we were here in India. Vivi and I didn’t really know what to expect from the conference entitled “Community Driven Sustainable Development,” but we took Upendra’s word for it and signed up. As the time approached for the conference, Vivi and I began looking into the city of Hyderabad in my trusty Lonely Planet travel book and we discovered that it is the official pearl headquarters of India! This exciting fact along with a significant list of other “Must See Sights” persuaded Vivi and I to leave Ahmedabad a few days early to explore the city before reporting to the conference. Our travel there was trouble free and we were instantly satisfied with our choice to come early just by the decrease in temperature. Central and Southern India are much more tropical than the north part of the country and we walked out of the airport to raindrops floating on a cool breeze. We were in heaven. We get to out hotel and dropped our stuff off and set out to explore.
Walking the streets we noticed that there were hardly any women and the ones we did see were covered from head to toe in black burkas (long sheet like coverings that cover the entire woman’s body except for a slit for her eyes). I knew that a few of the sights on our list of things to see were mosques, but that didn’t translate into me thinking about the city as Muslim. It is interesting because I had learned before coming here that India is 95% Hindu. I thought wow, 95%...I may meet a few Muslims or Buddhists, but they’ll probably be so few and far between that I wont even remember. Well 5% of 1 billion people is a significant population and I now know that Hyderabad hosts the majority of the Muslims in India…approximately 5.5 million. This was the first time that Vivi and I were traveling completely alone and I want to say that I realize the events I will describe could have happened in any city, in any religious context. I only bring up the religious factor because something very important about Muslim women became evident to me in Hyderabad. Throughout the two days we were there, Vivi and I regularly feared for our safety. We were followed by various men at various times; when we were in large groups we were pinched, grabbed, smacked and pushed around; the cat calls (or Indian equivalent) never ceased, the entire time we were in a public place. Overall, we stood out like a sore thumbs and the men of Hyderabad capitalized on our inexperience in this situation. The men of the villages we visit are intimidated by us, and rightfully so. We go there to talk to them about why their wives are forced to walk 5 kilometers to get water two times a day while they lay around and rolling tobacco. We are always respectful to them and they return the favor. The men in the city were of a different breed. I purchased a pashmina shall to cover my head with in hopes that I might receive less attention…I might have worked if the shall covered all the way from my ankles and wrists. As I walked through the streets of the bazaar, my shall and purse clutched to me for dear life and my eyes lowered enough that I would avoid eye contact with any voice hollering at me, I noticed a group of women walking in their burkas, all holding hands. I get it, I thought. At that moment I would have happily, thankfully even, traded my capris for their all-covering garb. People call it oppression, maybe. People call it fanatical, maybe. Women call it safety, absolutely. The whole argument of the burka was right there in motion in front of me. These ravenous men calling out to me and the burka women strolling the streets safe, unnoticed (except by me); it was a perfect explanation to a topic I have heard debated a hundred times. I wondered who decided on the burka, the imams because they knew what the men were thinking as they saw women, or the women because they knew what the men were thinking when they looked at them. Chicken or egg. Whatever the case, I learned more from the harassment I received on that trip than I ever expected to.
After our two days in Hyderabad, Vivi and I hopped on a bus to Warangal, a northwest province of Andra Pradesh. We were reporting to the Bala Vikasa People Development Center for our training. We tried not to talk about what we expected the conference or Bala Vikasa (the NGO hosting the conference) to be like; we have learned that the best way to enjoy India is to not have any expectations. Well it blew us away. The campus of the training center was large and pristine. Our rooms were air conditioned, equipped with wireless internet, running water and western toilets. I just knew it was going to be a good week! The conference was filled with mostly NGO professionals from all over South Asia. Vivi and I were the only two from the US…you can imagine the questions/stereotypes we faced throughout the week. We met in an actual meeting hall and sat at tables (unlike the other Navsarjan meetings I have attended that are conducted while sitting on the floor). The director of the NGO, Mr. Reddy, greeted us on the first morning and told us that we weren’t going to be learning about how to build buildings this week. Rather we would learn how to build people. Bala Vikasa has been incredibly successful in South India assisting communities in building different projects (mostly water purification plants) that are completely sustainable and revenue generating. They do this by only assisting communities that seek them out and by making the community raise at least 50 % of the total cost of the project. They host meetings and capacity building trainings prior to starting any physical work in a village and they require at least 40% womens involvment in all project planning and implementation. Very impressive. They told us the real story of their organization. About how they started with a needs based approach and would go into villages like a charity and give away money. But a few years later those people still didn’t have drinking water or enough food. They weren’t doing anyone any favors. So they switched to an “Asset” based approach, which focuses on the existing positives within the community to mobilize them into positive change. They build people’s capacity to change their lives. The weeks worth of lectures and discussions taught me incredibly valuable lessons that I think are topic neutral. Development in this manner is not just for NGO’s that focus on development projects, it’s for all of us that look at the world and see what it could be. The other participants and I sat around after class and talked about how exciting these ideas are. I, of course, was the least qualified person of the conference. I sat at a table of women who are human rights activist from Sri Lanka…talk about interesting conversation. More than half of the have been jailed for their work. One of them was the first woman to become a partner in a law firm in all of South Asia. They were acclaimed writers and journalists who enlightened me about their people’s struggles and the ways they found to cope with the sadness they’ve seen. I am forever grateful to Bala Vikasa and to my dear friend Upendra for giving me this experience.
On a final note, Vivi and I were able to plan for the rest of our time in India with the help of the Bala Vikasa wi-fi internet. On July 30th we will be leaving Ahmedamad (west coast of India) and traveling to Kolkata (east coast of India) by train. Along the way we will stop in Jaipur, Delhi, Agra, Varanasi, and Bodhgaya. Our last trip will be a flight to the tea-producing Himalayan town of Darjeeling (which I am most excited for)! There are many adventures to come, but the greatest of them all will be coming home to all of you! Namaste my friends!

Mothers

Throughout my weeks here in India, many things have amazed me. One of my favorite amazements is the power of a smile. I think I mentioned this I prior blogs, but the phenomenon is truly noteworthy. I often walk into a village with nothing but my notebook, camera, and a smile and seem to make out just fine. I don’t think this is just an Indian thing; rather I’m testing a theory that it is a human thing. The rest of my life experiences will be further test cases to prove it, as smiling is one of my favorite things to do. Recently, another cross-cultural norm has crossed my path in more ways than one. That norm is the unyielding love of a mother for their children. I’m sure some of you are rolling your eyes, but I couldn’t help but share my recent experiences with you; hopefully all of them will illustrate what I mean by “unyielding.”
First, but certainly not foremost, I have observed this mother-child love in the animal kingdom. The monkeys of our campus who scared me away from the water pots in my early days here have now become some of my favorite faces. They are absolutely fascinating to watch and despite their speed and size, I find them less and less intimidating and more endearing. There is mommy monkey who has a new baby and as you can imagine, they are quite the pair. I often sit and watch the two of them and marvel at how absolutely human-like they are. She teaches her baby something new everyday and if I get up early enough, I can watch them for about 20 minutes before the rest of the campus wakes up and scares her into the trees to protect the little one. In just a few days, I watched the baby learn how to swing and break bark off the tree to get to ants; all with mommy’s guidance of course.
Another example was given to me by my co-intern’s research. Sam is doing a comprehensive study of manual scavenging in a few districts in Gujarat. This practice is the most gruesome in the world and is a sever problem within the Dalit community. Without going into too much detail or getting too graphic, I will try to give you a brief overview of the practice. Since India doesn’t have a developed sanitation system, manual scavengers are the people who clean toilet facilities. They have to literally empty buckets, sweep out sewers, or unclog manholes full of human excreta. This is part of where the term “untouchable” comes from and the conditions of such a position lead to a life full of disease and being a social outcast. Because these people are poor, they don’t have any tools for this job, except cardboard, which they use like a dustpan, a short straw broom and a basket, which they load with excreta and the carry on their head to a “dumping zone” outside the village. I hope you can imagine how awful this is. There is a really good documentary called Lesser Humans about manual scavenging that I would recommend to anyone who wants to see how bad life can really get. Anyway, back to the point of my digression. I went with Sam into our village to do some interviews of the scavenger community there. He interviewed a family in which the father and mother both cleaned toilets in the upper caste neighborhood of the village. As he asked them about their work, they told him it was their duty. God has assigned them this role to play and they don’t question it. You can imagine how frustrating this is to hear. We often feel like it’s hard to help people who don’t want to help themselves. After Sam asked this, they sat there dignified and proud in silence. But when Sam asked the two of them about their children, the woman started crying. Only then did she express concern over the family’s lot in life. I don’t want my children to do this. It was then that we knew they didn’t really believe the lines they fed us about God wanting them to clean other people’s shit (literally, and excuse the language but that’s exactly what it is). She wept almost uncontrollably. She told Sam she would do anything so her children don’t have to have her life. At the end she said that she didn’t really believe in God. It’s amazing what happens when you ask the right questions.
A few days later, I went to a tribal village in Baroda to visit the school there because Navsarjan was having a meeting of their agricultural laborers union and I tagged along for a free ride. The school facilities were frustratingly awful, but the most interesting conversation of the day came from talking to a women who works as a laborer in a nearby farm. There is a minimum wage in Gujarat of 100 rupee a day (about $1.15 USD), yet it is rare that a laborer makes more than half that a day. Navsarjan’s union was started to create awareness about issues of minimum wage implementation in the communities of laborers and encourage unity in demanding their rights. However, when workers do demand their meager 100 Rs. a day, they are let go by the landowner and quickly replaced by others who are desperate enough not to make a fuss. The woman began telling me that she has gotten into a bondage position to the landowner because she borrowed an advance from him to create a nice dowry for her daughter. There was an upper caste boy, a doctor, who fell in love with her daughter. They wanted to marry, but his family was very traditional and opposed the inter-caste match. The mother saw this marriage as her daughters only chance to have a life outside the laborer community. She knew if her daughter didn’t marry up, she would be forced to be working in the field into her old age, as she herself was doing. So the mother borrowed a large amount of money from the landowner to entice the parents of the upper caste boy that her daughter was worthy. It worked and the mother is now a grandmother of three little girls. This may seem like a happy story, but the reality is that the mother has been working without sufficient wages for 8 years. The deal was she was to work without wages for one year and then work for 40 rupee a day for two years more. This was a steal for the landlord, he was going to be making are more on the deal than he loaned this woman. He was happy to take advantage of her desperation and continued to do so for long after the set terms of the deal. This woman did not receive any wages for two years after the deal. She has worked continuously since the deal, 12 hours a day, six days a week, and only now receives 100 rupees a week. Her debt was paid off long ago, yet she still works for next to nothing. She was sure to tell me that even though she is very poor, she doesn’t regret her decision because she saved her daughter. She told me that she will die in the field, but she will be smiling because her daughter will not be working next to her.
After the meeting, I had the pleasure of going to the childhood home of my director, Manjula. She is from Baroda and she planned to bring me there to meet her family and have dinner. Manjula is a momma’s girl, something that initially attracted me to her. She often tells me stories of how hard her mother’s life has been. She married a domineering Indian man who liked to drink in his younger days; her life has been a battle of maintaining her sanity and strength to raise her children. Manjula frequently talks about what a wonderful cook her mother is and as a surprise, she arranged for her mom to show me how to make a few of my favorite Indian dishes. As we stood in the kitchen and I learned the art of turmeric, masala, and chilly powder, Manjula told me that her mother made her the way she is. She refused to let her be a timid, shy face in the background like most Indian girls are raised to be. Manjula said that her mother raised the woman she wishes she had been. Having an abusive, loveless marriage destroyed her prior ideas of happiness and as Manjula put it, “All the life between her and I is different because she was strong enough to make it that way.” This was one of my favorite days in India so far.
After that wonderful experience, I was given the opportunity to go into the field for a few days to accompany some researchers who were looking into the situation of Dalit women in Gujarat. Again, I tagged along, but I was sure that more field experience is always better than less. You all know how I feel about Dalit villages, and the ones I visited were no different; wonderful people, extreme hospitality, lots of beautiful faces. One of the last stops of the trip was to visit a little girl named Sonal. She is 10 years old and last year she was brutally raped by a 45 year old man. This man kidnapped her from her home at night, raped her in a near by field, threatened to kill her if she told anyone, and then beat her unconscious. When Sonal woke up she was in the hospital. She told her parents what had happened. The man who raped her was the village head, a very powerful man. Sonal’s father was terrified of this man and told Sonal that she couldn’t tell anyone what happened to her. There is also a significant social stigma attached to rape victims; they are treated as impure and often cannot get married. Her father thought reporting the rape would only bring more problems for the family. Sonal’s mother, Mina, did not agree. She refused to allow this man to get away with what he had done to her daughter. She not only filed a report with the police, she called the Indian Express and issued a statement about the incident. When Sonal and her mother returned back to their village, they began receiving death threats from other villagers who supported the accused and thought that Sonal and her mother were creating these stories for political reasons. Sonal’s mother refused to back down and drop the charges. Because her husband was too afraid, he moved to another village nearby with the other children in the family. Sonal’s mother refused to leave. She would stay and fight for her daughter even if her husband would not. The case goes to trial next month. Sonal was awarded a scholarship at one of the Navsarjan boarding schools so she will be able to continue her education past the village primary school. As we talked to them, they sat next to each other, hand in hand.
Throughout my fieldwork, I saw many mothers caring for their children. I took several photos of them in action. I hope you enjoying seeing them as much as I enjoyed taking them. The first two photos are of Sonal and her mother.
And finally, I would like to cite myself as another example of my original statement. Since I have been here, I have received an amazing amount of support from all of my friends and family, and for that I will be forever grateful. But to be very honest, I would not have made it this far without my mama. In five weeks, she has sent me three LARGE care packages stocked with everything from Clorox wipes to top ramen. Because of her foresight and creativity, I am the supplier of goods to my co-interns; we all have regular conversations about our “Janice goodies.” She is there every morning and night to send me a few messages telling me how proud of me she is and how happy she is that I’m having these experiences. On the nights when I hate it, she reminds me of the greater purpose and when there’s humor to be had, she laughs as if she was her to witness it herself. She has managed to still take perfect care of me even though we are on opposites sides of the world. Her constant and unyielding love has followed me to India and is the pep in my step everyday. Few people are as lucky as I am in the mother department, but I bet Sonal knows how I feel.

Patience and Self-Discipline

There really is nothing like “being” aboard. It’s an odd dynamic of struggling for comfort in constant uncomfortable situations and being incredibly conscious of stereotypes. Last weekend, Vivi, Sam and I took a weekend trip to Mumbai. In the past weeks, when it was so hot we that even subtle movements hurt, we took some pleasure in planning a few weekend getaways. Mumbai was our first try at this traveling India thing; we are very well taken care of while in the custody of Navsarjan Trust so stepping out from their guidance was both exciting and terrifying. In true Indian fashion, we traveled from Ahmedabad to Mumbai by train. It was a great experience although I could not relax enough to let the train rock me to sleep. There is something odd about clutching a backpack, with everything you need to survive inside, in a manner that is tense enough to scare away thieves and relaxed enough to allow you to sleep. Needless to say, I did not master the technique. But Mumbai instantly felt like a vacation. The air was humid and foreign, compared to the dry, dusty feeling of North India. The streets were cleaner and the buildings were absolutely fantastic. The architecture of Mumbai has a poetic colonial feel with a run-down Indian character. I honestly felt as though I was walking through history. The organization, the infrastructure, the entire being of the city seemed so British and so imposed. Granted I have seen almost nothing of India and met nowhere near enough Indians to start generalizing, but Mumbai did not feel much like India. Everywhere I have been in Gujarat, I have been treated like an absolute Princess; and despite what you may think the treatment I receive is genuine. I have to come love this inherent kindness that surrounds me in Gujarat and I really didn’t think Mumbai would be different, but I was wrong. The metropolis brings a level of convenience and also a level of subtle attack. You cannot walk a block in Mumbai without at least 25 people pulling at you; they want handouts, for you to see what they’re selling, to take your picture, offer you a taxi, or to ask where you are from. At first it isn’t so bad, but when your hotel is 15 blocks away, the constant attacks get very old. I also must tell you that I had never imagined what real pollution is like. The air of Mumbai was so stale and mucky that it is like an object, a real thing, that you can touch and feel. I was disgusted by the sever lack of visibility and the dingy grey of the skyline. Despite the hectic streets and the atmosphere, we enjoyed touring the city. We played the typical tourist and went to the museums, churches, and gardens across the city, all of which are littered with a thick colonial history. We found a charming café next to the Taj Mahal Hotel and the Gateway of India where we ate two of our weekend meals. It was a small, intimate Jewish establishment called Moshe’s and they served lox for breakfast and fondu for dinner, we were in heaven. Having a break from Indian cuisine was just what the doctor ordered; having rice three times a day has been fine, but eggs for breakfast was truly a gift. One night we went to the theatre to see a Bollywood film. The cinema house was to the same caliber as radio city music hall and it was packed with moviegoers. I definitely got a glimpse of the power of pop culture and although the film was in Hindi without subtitles, I followed along just fine and enjoyed the crowd as much as the film. Indian people are lively even in a movie and Indian women are openly star-struck just by seeing their favorite actors on the big screen. Before I knew it, we were back on the train. As funny as it is to say, it felt like I was coming home on the train back to Ahmedabad. We took another overnight train, which arrived at 5 am. We had a rally to attend by 9, so it was quick sink shower and some tea to get my day started. The rally on Monday was outside Ahmedabad city, in the slum neighborhoods of Kalol. The Navsarjan Women’s Rights Council organized to have 15 different slum (that’s literally what they’re called) represented. In typical rally fashion, we met first at a location to discuss the grievances that the slums feel are the most important. The women and youth who gathered told us stories of not having access to drinking water, of an extreme lack of sanitation in the slums, of poor road conditions, and of the sale of illegal substances (drugs and alcohol sales are illegal in all of Gujarat, but the police turn a blind eye to shops that open in slum neighborhoods-it is as if the police are encouraging the slum community’s dependence on substances to keep them occupied and in poverty…sound familiar?). The Women’s Rights Council prepared a memorandum asking the Chief District Officer to please taken action against these grievances. After the speeches, we marched through Kalol to the Chief District Officer’s office. During the march (of course it was hot, dusty, and I was absolutely drenched in sweat by the time we rounded the first corner), I could sense something different about this crowd. Many women were carrying empty ceramic jugs that are used to collect drinking water. They were banging on them with sticks to create drumbeats that accompanied their chants. Many of the women were beating their chest as we walked, which is a traditional Indian sign of mourning. They were actively mourning their lifestyle. The passion that expelled from these women as we walked was extraordinary and despite the tense situations of past events, this was drastically different. When we reached the office, the police officers closed the front gates so that we could not enter. This created a fervor of anger and the empty ceramic jugs that women had carried to symbolize their lack of water became perfect outlets of their frustrations. The women began throwing the jugs at the gate and then over the gate at the officers themselves. Shouting ensued and I braced myself for a clash. Thankfully Manjula intervened and convinced the police to allow a few of us in to speak to the Chief Officer on the crowd’s behalf. This cooled the rising tempers and Manjula and I and 6 of the women headed inside for a little chat. I have had this same experience two other times with Navsarjan, but like I said before, this time was very different. Both the Chief Officer and the women began shouting at each other as soon as we entered his office. Apparently this was not this first time the slum’s had complained. They are taxed the same as the rest of the community, yet because they are Dalits they receive nothing in return. The Chief Officer looked directly at me in the midst of the shouting match and said, “Look, what these dirty people need is patience and self-discipline.” He spoke perfect English and as he finished his statement I felt as though he punched me in the stomach. So it was true, these people really were powerless in this retched excuse for a legal system. Up until then, I had hope that change wouldn’t be that difficult; caste discrimination was an age-old system that would disappear with a new educated generation, right? Wrong. All I could manage to say back to the Officer was that he should try living without running water and see how he feels about it. Probably not the best thing to say, I realize that, but it was initial and natural reaction. Before I could say anything else, the shouting continued. This meeting lasted for an hour. The women showed the Officer photos of their living conditions and pleaded with him for change. He eventually told them he could do nothing for at least a year and a half…eighteen more months without water or proper sanitation. When I walked outside the office, all of the children were waiting for me. I looked at their smiling faces and swallowed my tears. That man should have to come out here and explain to these babies that they aren’t worth his time; that they don’t deserve running water. It was a very hard day and it was the first day I left an event feeling worse than when I arrived. On the car ride home I tried to name my emotions so that I could tell you about them- frustration, anger, sadness, exhaustion. I think it was a combination of all of them, but most of all I felt helpless. I came here to learn, to record, to witness and although I never intended to be anything but an observer, I was angry with myself that I couldn’t do more. I was warned that this feeling would come, I just didn’t realize how bad it would feel.
Yesterday and today (June 15-16), I have been taking minutes at a workshop on researching violence against Dalit women. Three states are represented by three different NGO’s that work with Dalit issues. Navsarjan is trying to organize a uniform system of research violence against Dalit women in all Indian states so that a large national report can reflect the grim reality of the situation. It has been fascinating to listen to these women’s experience in researching this difficult topic. Most of them regularly receive death threats, especially when daring to inquire into domestic violence cases. During the introduction section of the program, Manjula introduced me as an American Dalit woman who came here to fight for equality. Its ridiculous how proud I am to wear this title, to be called an untouchable… must be something about the company.

Spark in the Eye, Fire in the Belly

The rains have come to Gujarat. The long agonizing days of triple digits are behind me now; the cool monsoon rains have drastically changed the temperature and the atmosphere. I had never been in a monsoon, so when the winds first started thumbing on the walls and the thunder began cracking overhead, I was in awe. I sat outside for about an hour watching the storm roll towards me, realizing how far from home I really am. The new weather has brought many new pests into my life. Mosquitoes and flying ants (that are the length of a match and the width of a French fry) are a package deal with the rains. I must say, I’m not sure the rain is worth it. Vivien and I have spent about two hours this evening battling the bugs. They are everywhere and they are absolutely relentless. We have barracked ourselves into our room and have tapped the bottoms and tops of all our doors and windows to stop their steady entry. We look like we are in a bomb shelter and through the windows we can see their bodies stammering to get in. It feels a bit like a horror film. I am praying that we have trapped a few lizards in the room with us so that they can help catch any stray mosquitoes. In the middle of doing this, we looked at each other and realized that for 10 days we have been wishing for rain and now we would gladly go back to the hot arid and bug-less nights. At least we could open our windows and get a slight breeze. We are just hoping that the generators make it through the night so that our fans keep our little space from truly becoming a sweatbox now that we have sealed out all air/bug flow! Telling you this leads me to another problem we have encountered due to the rain, mud. When you spend your days in dusty villages with no paved roads that are littered with trash, you think, “Wow, this is rough living.” But then it starts to rain and it rains so hard and with such gust that you wonder if it will ever stop; and the once dusty roads are now a muddy muck filled with floating trash. Sound delightful? Try walking a few kilometers through it to where your car is parked. This has been my experience over the last several days. I can’t help to but laugh to myself. India gets more challenging every day. It’s as if she is testing me gradually to show me how naïve any sense of comfort I feel is. Life is India is hard and water, although it is a blessing, only makes things harder.
Despite the changing in the conditions, Vivien and I have been very active. Last Wednesday, June 2, we made the long drive to Patan, a district in Gujarat about three hours from Ahmedabad, to attend a Child Right Rally. The rally was organized by the youth program officers of Navsarjan Trust. Over 40 villages were represented by children ranging in age from 8 to 14 years old. We met at a school house in the center of Patan and instantly I was overwhelmed. The sight of more than 700 children all seated and eager for their cause was quite a sight. Vivien, Sam (intern from New York), and I were invited to sit with Manjula on the stage. In typical Indian fashion they opened the rally with several songs about liberation and strength. There was also a crowning of a picture of Dr. Ambedkar, which I thought to be for this special occasion only, but have seen several times since. The Dalit community of Gujarat is very, I mean extremely, fond of Dr. Ambedkar. They identify with him as their true hero, as he was a Dalit himself. Due to his education in London, he was able to return to India much more powerful than when he left and became a fearless social leader against the discrimination of the caste system. He is the sole reason that caste distinction was made illegal in the Constitution of 1950. His memory gives his people strength as they continue to battle the social implications of centuries of tolerated discrimination. So back to the rally…after the opening crowning and songs, children from all the different villages came forward to speak about the discrimination they face in attending the public, government run, schools in their villages. They told of being beaten, forced to clean the urinals, fed day-old food, being excluded from cultural events, and being ignored by their teachers. The children in most of the village schools are forced to sit by caste in the classrooms and in the dining halls. Dalit children are often not given desks or chairs and are restricted to sit behind all of the other children. Many of the children still do not know how to read or write, even after attending years of primary education, because they are simply ignored by their teachers. I was astonished. These children came forward and spoke with such resilience and strength. Never once did I sense a feeling of shame or embarrassment, only empowerment. I would have shaken holding a microphone in front of that crowd, but they filed up one at a time and spoke clearly and with purpose. I fell even more in love with Dalit children sitting there. Once all of the villages had been represented by a child speaker, Manjula spoke to the children. She told them that she was so happy they knew that what was happening to them was wrong, but that they should not get discouraged or be moved to anger. They strength would come from working together. The children all cheered and with that room erupted with movement. Carrying signs and chanting “Dalit Shakti” (Dalit Empowerment), we began marching through Patan to the Chief Magistrates office. We marched through the busy streets in one long jumbled line. We had to break for the occasional cow crossing, but that was nothing that the children weren’t used to. The walk was long, about 7 kilometers and it was an astonishing 119 degrees, yet you would never know it by looking at the faces of these children. They were all smiles and giggles. I tried to walk different legs of the journey with different groupings of children and each little face I met shared the same enthusiasm. As you can imagine, this is quite a spectacle and by the time we reached the Magistrates office, the police and the press were waiting. They held us outside the building until the Magistrate was ready. It was as if they were trying to break the spirit of the rally. They forced us to stay outside in the heat for about 45 minutes before finally allowing us an audience with the Magistrate. The police only allowed 5 children into his office, because the small room was like a freezer (first place I have felt air conditioning in India) and he didn’t want all the cool air to escape with all 700 children. The children who went into the room presented the judge with a list of their grievances and told him personally how serious they wanted their education. Manjula was with them and as he looked over the document, she pleasantly quoted the constitution’s article 14, which allows all children equal opportunity to primary education. He smiled politely and told the children he would look into the matter. You could smell the bullshit on his breath from the back of his freezer like office, but the children didn’t seem to notice. They skipped out of the room triumphantly and you could see the satisfaction in their eyes. Leaving that scene was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I felt extremely emotional. The combination of the heat, lack of water, and frustration at the situation made me a mush. It has taken me almost a week to try to describe it for all of you and even now I cannot give the day its justice. I just cant get over the fervor of these children. They are so driven and so eager despite the extreme conditions that they have faced their entire lives. They do not know what equality is. It must seem mystical and exotic and I couldn’t help but think about how I have taken my own education for granted. It was an amazing day.
I also must note two small accomplishments that have made my experience even more authentic. First of all, Vivi and I have discovered a passion for Indian sweets, ghulab jamun in particular. They are like little crunchy donuts soaked in syrup and full of wonder! I could eat a thousand of them, good thing I haven’t figured out enough Gujarati to order correctly. Secondly, Vivien and I have been recently getting around by rickshaw. Riding on an Indian rickshaw that is built to hold 5 people, but regularly transports 15 to 20 is like nothing you have ever known. They blast Hindi music and people literally hang on to all sides and sit on each others laps and we drive through bumpy, uneven roads. The first ride we went on, Vivien and I could not stop laughing. The sight was hilarious and even though we have been here for a bit, we felt like our rickshaw ride signified real India.
Today, we accompanied Manjula to Anand District to attend a meeting with five villages about the right to water. Water availability is one of the largest issues or Dalit communities. Dominant caste villagers forbid Dalit’s for using the same tap as them and so women often have to walk miles and miles to another tap and then carry the water back. Despite not being allowed to have equal usage of the water taps in their villages, the Dalit community is still charged a water tax. This backwards system is very aggravating (understandably so) and violence often erupts in villages over these water issues. I sat with one group of women for about an hour while we waited for the rest of the villagers to arrive. None of them spoke a word of English, but we had the best time. They made fun of me for being so plain and forced me to try on their jewelry and they wrapped their extra sari material around me so that I looked just like them. We laughed more than anything and at the end of the meeting one of the women gave me her necklace. She had strung it herself and as she gave it to me she touched her heart and then her head. I think she was telling me not to forget her. I wish I could have explained to her how impossible that would be. On the way home we stopped for lunch and we asked Manjula how she got her start working for Navsarjan. She told us that she has been working for them for 18 years and was hired first as a social worker. She said that there was only one position open and 40 people applied, but she was chosen because she had a spark in her eye and fire in her belly. This is a perfect description of her and of all of the wonderful people I spend my days with. I hope they rub off on me.

Being a guest in India

Everyone told me that I would it would take some time to get acclimated. Everyone told me that I would be in culture shock. No one told me how easily it would be to fall in love with India. I realize that my current tone sounds much different than it did in my initial post. Many things have happened since I have arrived to make me feel so differently. First of all, I have gotten used to the DSK campus. The people here have opened their arms and hearts to me and have invited me to become part of their daily lives. Throughout the day, I have many people to talk to, I get countless smiles, and a few amazing hugs from the cooks little girls who think I’m the bee’s knees. I don’t even notice the language barrier anymore because I don’t feel as though it has hindered the building of any of the relationships I have here. I know I have not met anywhere near enough people start making generalizations, but the Dalit community, these so called “untouchables,” are the nicest people I have ever met. They have a genuine sweetness and goodness that shines through their eyes. Indian women and children have the most beautiful eyes, and I am convinced it is because they are the gateways to their goodness. Another reason why India has become so amazing is that my colleague and dear friend, Vivien Francis arrived on Saturday. Vivien and I go to school together and she was doing some research and visiting family in Lebanon for a week, so she arrived a week after I got here. Her simple presence here brings a light and comfort that I was severely longing for. ViviBen, as she is called, has quickly adapted to rural life and impresses everyone with her smile and creative ideas. I am so blessed to have her by my side. A third intern arrived last week as well. His name is Sam and he is attending law school in New York and came here for the summer to assist the legal wing of Navsarjan Trust. The three of us have become fast friends and I realize now how nice it is to have people around you who speak your “mother tongue.” Although I have not learned near enough Gujarati, after a week or so I know enough to communicate my basic needs and make some very basic pleasant conversation. But being able to speak uncensored English with Vivi and Sam is invaluable. Yesterday, the three of us were meeting with out director Manjula when she received a call that there was some Dalit related violence occurring in a near by village. Manjula leaped up and told us to come and within minutes we were making our way to the village on a bumpy unfinished road. In the car, Manjula explained that the violence was occurring because there had been a wedding in the Dalit area of the village and the celebration warranted music and banging on pots and pans (this is a common celebration practice in all of India, regardless of caste). A few members of the dominant caste of the village decided that the party was too noisy and so they went to the area where the wedding was taking place and started trying to break up the party. Armed with swords and sharpened sticks, they locked the bride and groom in their parent’s house and began beating on the guests to get the party to break up. By the time we arrived in the village, the police had been called and the dominant caste men had run off, but the tension was still very high. Vivi, Sam, and I were instantly overwhelmed with situation, so we stayed very close to Manjula who is a woman that all people in the village respect. The village head, who was a Dalit woman, invited us into her home. It is unheard of for a Dalit woman to be the head of her community. This women’s struggle to become village head, or head of the Dalit community in her village, has been one of much pain. Dominant caste village members have repeatedly beaten her, and her husband for their participation in village politics. Her husband was beaten so badly that both of his legs were fractured, yet they refused to stop being the voice of the Dalit community to the rest of the dominant caste village heads. With the help of Navsarjan Trust, the men who were responsible for the violence against this wonderful couple have been brought to justice and are currently serving time in prison for the repeated attacks. I was honored to be in the presence of these strong and noble people. Manjula began assisting (or watching over) the officers who were writing the report of what had happened. While this was going on, Vivi, Sam and I began to visit with the Dalit villagers who had gathered to welcome us. We were surrounded by at least 50 people at all time, all of whom were smiling and trying to speak to us. We eventually split up and began exploring the village with different groups of people, as everyone was fighting for our attention. I was designated for the children, which was more than ok with me. Vivi was taking pictures for the village heads and Sam was talking with some of the young men of the village. Let me just say that I think all children are beautiful and I always enjoy spending time with them. However, I have never seen anything like the beauty of Indian children. Their coloring, facial expressions, jovial spirit, and relentless smiles are worth traveling around the world to see. These children had never seen a white woman, one person told me, and they thought I was pretty. I laughed in irony. I guess the grass is always greener, even in India. I asked two of the children to hold my hand as we walked through the crooked streets. When I made the gesture to them, I could see the shock in their eyes. I remembered that they thought that I didn’t want to touch them because of their caste status. I insisted and took their small fingers in mine and began strolling along. Within minutes I was holding 10 children’s hands at once (some were holding my wrist, forearm, and elbow). As we walked we looked like a big ball of arms. I had to crouch so that the children could reach me. They drug me around the village, showing me their homes and favorite play spots. Time flew by and before I knew it, night had fallen and we were walking back to our car. Manjula had mediated between the villagers and the police and made sure the details of the “discrimination” attack, as they called it, were correctly documented. This was my first experience in the field and I was overwhelmed with excitement from it. Despite the high tensions of the earlier attack and the mob-type attraction that we created with our arrival to the scene, I never felt unsafe. I was welcomed into homes and prayer alters within minutes of meeting these people. India is undoubtedly a backwards place. The pollution, corruption, discrimination, and rampant poverty are enough to make your head spin; yet there is something about these people that is indescribably wonderful. I know I am a foreigner and will always be treated as a guest, so my experience is inherently different than if I was a fellow Indian. But being a guest in India has got to be better than being royalty anywhere else. People who have nothing, literally nothing, want to share it with me to make me feel welcomed. I am so moved by their hospitality, their spirit, and their energy. I could get very used to being a guest in India.

Working towards Katie G

Kemcho (Hello in Gujarati) Friends!
I know it hasn’t been very long since I wrote last, but I have so much so say about my experience so far! My culture shock is mostly gone and I am fast being accustomed to rural village life. I am almost embarrassed about my initial reactions seeing how easily so many people live a life I thought was too “rough” for me. The cupcake city-girl seems to be mostly at bay, or at least I thought it was until yesterday morning I went to get choqu pani (filtered water) and I was run off by four LARGE monkeys who were enjoying the water for themselves. I am going to have to get used to hissing, jumping monkeys from a far distance!

The worst part remains to be the heat. Yesterday it was a miserable 111˚ and my whole body showed it! I am surrounded all day by people who don’t look the least bit sweaty. Not only do I stand out by being white (and significantly taller than everyone), but now I am also the sweaty one! Indian women look flawlessly manicured and wonderfully colorful always and to beat that, they seem to be void of sweat glands! Some things just aren’t fair!

I am staying at a young adult boarding school that offers vocational training to Dalits. DSK (Dalit Strength Center) is run by Navsarjan Trust. Almost everyone lives on the campus, including all of the staff and teachers and all 140 students. Currently all of the students are young girls who range in age from 13 to 23. I could write a book about how fond I have become of them. They all call me Katie Ben, which means Sister Katie and whenever I approach the main part of the campus where they all stay and study, they run out to greet me. Most of them don’t speak any English, but smiles and hugs cross the communication boundaries very well. At first they were afraid to approach me. They assumed because I was white, that I would think they were dirty, untouchable and would not want to get near them. A few brave girls approached me after lunch yesterday and I gave them hugs and within minutes I was surround by probably 50 girls all wanting the same affection. For the first time in my life I felt like a celebrity. Since that initial breakdown of their fear towards me, they hardly leave my side. The past two days have been spent embracing smiling faces and learning Gujarati as quickly as possible so that I can talk to them. During the week, from 8am to 5pm, they take classes of their choosing. DSK offers everything from tailoring and seamstress training to basic computer skills. They also offer a spoken English class and the students who study in that class are so excited to talk to me. Today I visited each class and observed their work. The hope is that after leaving DSK, these children will have the training they need to get a job in a field that has never been available to them because of their caste standing. Job placement is not guaranteed, but it is much more likely when the girls have skills training. Besides the classes, the over-all theme of DSK is empowerment. All around the campus there are signs about believing in oneself and human value. These children have never before heard this language or been treated in this manner, but they seem to have all embraced an empowered spirit. Yesterday, I attended a public speaking competition that was truly inspiring. These young girls spoke for 7 to 10 minutes about their experience with caste discrimination. Although I could not understand their words (except for a friend generally translating after each speech), I was very moved by their emotion. Many of the girls cried during their speech.

The entire Navsarjan Trust organization is run by a woman named Manjula Pardeep. She is amazing. When I first arrived here scared and overwhelmed, she opened her arms to me and thanked me for coming. She also spent an hour trying to help me fix my internet connection so that I wouldn’t feel so isolated. Her kind face is backed by an inspiring resume, including a Master’s in Social Work and a Law Degree. Listening to her stories makes time fly by, even in the extreme heat. She will be helping me get my research started regarding Dalit discrimination in the compulsory school system.

From the ample amount of lizards, to taking my shoes off every time I enter a room, I am slowly being to understand and appreciate life in Gujarat. Indians are very diverse by region and so the majority of their alliance lies with their state. Gujarati people (from the state of Gujarat) are very proud. They speak a completely different dialect of Hindi, have a different written text, and even say they have more Gods than other Indians. I made the mistake early on by broadly referring to them as Indians, which was offensive. Manjula said it best when she told me, “People here are Gujarti. There are one billion Indians, but only few Gujarati.” Gandhi was born and was educated in Gujarat and so was Dr. B. R. Ambedkar (the man who really started the Dalit Rights Campaign, often referred to as the Indian MLK Jr.). Yesterday I was interviewing a man and he mentioned “Gandhi G,” so I asked him what the “G” meant after the name. He told me it was a sign of respect, and then he paused, clearly trying to think of how to tell me more accurately with his limited English. He said, “G at the end of a name means that your life is good for my life.” I love this explanation. I decided then that if my life is ever described in this way, it will have been a success. I have never met people as warm and welcoming as my new DSK friends. Thinking of and missing you all everyday!