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.