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.