I hope Oh Mar and San Win got shoes to get through the harsh winters here.
And so did Mar Met and his wife and his little kids.
It is their first winter here and they have no idea what they are in for. Today, the first big storm hit us.
Sometimes I wonder how it is like for them to see the snow the first time ever in their lives, how would it be to touch it and then watch it fall from the window...and then dread it.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
without a voice
some voices are just lost in translation. so true for those who have come to a country that promised so much to them. but often promises are in a language they don't understand.
and it frustrates me that i can't do anything to help out except document it here. today, I met two Somali Bantu women, who came to Utica as part of the U.S. resettlement program for refugees. both can't speak English and were talking to me through an interpreter, Ali Juma.
one has three kids who she thought were lost or killed in the war. But now she has word they are alive and in a refugee camp at Kenya. And as any mother would, she wants to bring them here.
the problem is she does not know how to. she can't understand the system.
she went to the refugee center in utica but they told her the cases for somali sponsorships are closed, she said.
and she asked me to help. and i don't know how to. i could ask around, even get her the forms but this points out to a bigger problem.
it is not about bringing the refugees here. it is about helping them to adapt, to understand the new country and to help them navigate the system.
with limited or no knowledge of English, it is difficult.
the ESL classes help but they need help with the system too. many agencies here have no translation services. isn't this about the access to basic human services?
many had to run around with letters from the DSS, the schools and housing agencies stuck in their boots, in their coat pockets, looking for that one person who can help make sense of the new world and what it involves.
often it is too late till they find help. of course the resettlement agency helps out in the first six months but what happens later ... are those six months enough for them to go on without any problems ...
In time, they will contribute and pay taxes and resurrect the cities that are have been abandoned ... like they did in utica long ago
and it frustrates me that i can't do anything to help out except document it here. today, I met two Somali Bantu women, who came to Utica as part of the U.S. resettlement program for refugees. both can't speak English and were talking to me through an interpreter, Ali Juma.
one has three kids who she thought were lost or killed in the war. But now she has word they are alive and in a refugee camp at Kenya. And as any mother would, she wants to bring them here.
the problem is she does not know how to. she can't understand the system.
she went to the refugee center in utica but they told her the cases for somali sponsorships are closed, she said.
and she asked me to help. and i don't know how to. i could ask around, even get her the forms but this points out to a bigger problem.
it is not about bringing the refugees here. it is about helping them to adapt, to understand the new country and to help them navigate the system.
with limited or no knowledge of English, it is difficult.
the ESL classes help but they need help with the system too. many agencies here have no translation services. isn't this about the access to basic human services?
many had to run around with letters from the DSS, the schools and housing agencies stuck in their boots, in their coat pockets, looking for that one person who can help make sense of the new world and what it involves.
often it is too late till they find help. of course the resettlement agency helps out in the first six months but what happens later ... are those six months enough for them to go on without any problems ...
In time, they will contribute and pay taxes and resurrect the cities that are have been abandoned ... like they did in utica long ago
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
now and then
So San Win and Oh Mar will start work next week. The daily drudgery will earn them minimum wages with which they will buy all they want, all they can. But $7.50 an hour for 40 hours a week will not take them too far into the aisles.
They told me about their job at the laundrmart Sunday. A sewing company hired them.
Obviously they are excited.
I am happy for them too. And relieved too. Now at least they can buy shoes and some warm clothes.
In the chilly November months, they wear sandals. When I ask them, they smile. Then they tell me they will buy shoes when they get their first salary.
Sometimes, I wonder if they negotiated for this life.
The other day at my apartment, Oh Mar told me she wanted to come to America. It was a big price she paid for it. Her parents are still in Myanmar. She will visit them in 2010, she said.
Often I wonder what makes us leave our countries. Often it is war, persecution...sometimes it is the lure of a better life, free of wants, free of expectations that society heaps on us.
Why did I want to leave?
I guess I was just curious.
For Oh Mar and San Win, it is from one camp to the other till they can go back to their country. That homeland...it is always there, our hearts clutching to that faint notion with so much ferocity and tenderness lest the fragile dream breaks.
This is not their country, they said.
They told me about their job at the laundrmart Sunday. A sewing company hired them.
Obviously they are excited.
I am happy for them too. And relieved too. Now at least they can buy shoes and some warm clothes.
In the chilly November months, they wear sandals. When I ask them, they smile. Then they tell me they will buy shoes when they get their first salary.
Sometimes, I wonder if they negotiated for this life.
The other day at my apartment, Oh Mar told me she wanted to come to America. It was a big price she paid for it. Her parents are still in Myanmar. She will visit them in 2010, she said.
Often I wonder what makes us leave our countries. Often it is war, persecution...sometimes it is the lure of a better life, free of wants, free of expectations that society heaps on us.
Why did I want to leave?
I guess I was just curious.
For Oh Mar and San Win, it is from one camp to the other till they can go back to their country. That homeland...it is always there, our hearts clutching to that faint notion with so much ferocity and tenderness lest the fragile dream breaks.
This is not their country, they said.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Somali Bantus - from A Hut to an Apartment
By chinki sinha
Seeking home...
They killed Jeylani Hassan's mother after they raped her. And then the soldiers raped his sister and shot his younger brother, seven at the time, because he happened to offend them. As Hassan recalled the days of terror that made escape from Somalia the only option, his eyes seemed to reflect the horror that he witnessed.
Hassan had stood there, petrified, he said. The soldiers from Mogadishu, who roamed around killing and raping, had guns. One wrong reaction and he too would have been dead.
"You could not even cry. They (soldiers) were scary," he said. As he spoke, his friend Amjad, folded his pants to show bullet marks on his right thigh. He saw his seven brothers being shot at the same time by the soldiers. They had left him for dead in a carnage that left around 5,000 dead in his village. Ahmad, bleeding, crawled 500 feet to safety where people rescued him.
The soldiers were everywhere. There was no escaping them but by traveling to Kenya. And the travel would take days. They had to walk through the deserts, the swamps and fields - without food or water.
"It took seven days. No food, no water. We had like one gallon and 700 people," he said.
Sidi, another refugee from Somalia, said he had no choice but to drink urine as that was the only way to survive.
When the time to leave came, there were no goodbyes. Hassan's family members ran in different directions. He lost his father and siblings, he said. And like thousands of other displaced people, he walked to what he thought was safe haven. In some ways the refugee camp in Kenya represented what they had always sought - security. But the refugee camp was mid-way between heaven and hell. They could not go out. They had rationed food, had to live in one-room tenements with many people, and had no work. There were around 50,000 refugees in the camp from Sudan, Somalia, Uganda and other African nations that had been ravaged by dictatorships and civil wars.
Hassan lived in the refugee camp in Kenya for 12 years. It was bad in Kenya, he said, "We could not go out. We did nothing," he said.
He met his uncle and aunt in the refugee camp and now after 14 years, he has finally found his father, who is still in the refugee camp.
Now Hassan lives in Utica, works as a cleaner at Planet Fitness and dreams of going to school. Eventually, he wants to go back to Kenya to help and meet his own people. Also, he thinks he has better opportunities in Africa now that he knows English. Some of it he learned at the refugee camp in Kenya.
"I will be a big manager there. If I know little English, I can get a good job in Africa," he said.
But the option of returning to Somalia does not exist. "I don't think Somalia is going to be fine. There are many tribes and there is in-fighting. Everybody is killing someone," he said.
There are around 236 refugees in Utica from Somalia. Most of them are Somali Bantus. A few arrived in 1996 but the bulk started coming in 2003 and after.
Somali Republic gained independence in 1960. However, things got worse with in-fighting between various tribes. There is no national government in place to control the civil war and parts of Somalia are controlled by rebel groups and military. This has resulted in mass starvation and displacement of thousands of people over the years. Even after years of intervention, order is yet to be restored.
Life is tougher in America than what they thought. First there are the differences in culture and then there are bills to pay.
"In Africa you take the money and keep it in your pocket," said Hassan. Here, he has to worry about insurance bills, phone bills, rent, and electricity bills. In his village, they did not have electricity. Last month he received a phone bill for $500 and he just threw the phone out of the window. Nine dollars an hour and 38 hours a week is not too much money even in Utica, where housing is cheap. And he has to send money to his friends and family, who are still in the camp.
"It is hard. Sometimes, they don't eat for two days, often nothing from morning to evening," he said.
Insurance is another issue. Hassan has been suffering from back pain but he does not go to the hospital. "I buy medicines at the store. I don't have Medicaid," he said.
There are myths too to deal with. There are many expectations to counter. "They say you have a good life. We explain but they do not believe," Hassan said, referring to the constant calls from friends and relatives in Africa asking for money. "With $100, a family of eight people can live in Somalia comfortably for two months," he added.
Hassan works from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. He wants to get the other shift so that he can attend college but it is difficult. Some of the men live together in a dorm-like setting with 2-3 mattresses thrown in a room. It is cheaper this way, they said. And till their families arrive, they live a shared life to save up enough to get a house and support them.
If life in Africa was hard and dangerous, American way of life intimidates Somali Bantus. Hassan and many like him, who now Utica their home lived in huts and were farmers. Some of them had never seen fans or even electric bulbs. They burned oil lamps and mostly lived on the farms.
The flight that took Hassan from Kenya to Nairobi was a small carrier and Hassan said he was terrified and felt lumps in his throat when there was turbulence. The bigger plane that brought him from Nairobi to United States was better, he said. And then he saw snow for the first time.
They are not used to the culture and way of life here.
When Hussein, another Somali Bantu who lives with Amjad, got his picture with his newly-wed wife taken at a studio in Somalia against the backdrop of Statue of Liberty and the skyline in New York City, he thought America would be a cure to all his problems. Now he is here and his two wives are still in Africa.
For them it is a huge shift in cultural and traditional roles, ways of work and even eating habits. They stick to each other, watch Indian movies, smoke and eat together.
"We meet other people but not like this," said Hassan referring to their interactions with other African people, refugees and the local community.
Hassan just broke up with his fiancée, who he met here. He does not like American girls. "They make trouble, they talk too much. They get drunk and wear little clothes," he said.
They are Muslims and their women are covered. Another thing that bothers Ahmad is how he will get his three wives here. They are all in the refugee camp still. Polygamy is common for Somali Bantus and it is not uncommon to have four wives.
"We follow Prophet Mohamed. He had four wives," said Hassan, hiding away his cigarettes. Did Prophet Mohamed smoke too? He smiled and said no.
For Amjad it is the costs involved with bringing up his four children here. "In Somalia we have no child support system after you separate from your wife. It is different here," he said.
Even here they have to fight the myths associated with being a refugee in the Promised Land, the United States. No. They do not just receive money from the government. They have to work hard for it.
The phone rang and Amjad pointed to the number flashing on the cell phone and said the call was from Africa. May be it is one of his wives calling. Amjad pays for their phone.
Suddenly, all six of them started laughing. Hassan said his wives are asking for money. "They always call for money. That is the only thing," he said.
The struggles remain. Many of the Somali Bantus like Utica but have no attachment.
"Everything is somehow," said Hassan, summing up what many Somali Bantus feel. They are waiting for things to get better. Maybe it will be too long before they settle down and call Utica home.
NOTE- Some names have been used in part to protect the identities of people
This was written as part of series on refugees and integration in America that I worked on during summer of 2006.
Seeking home...
They killed Jeylani Hassan's mother after they raped her. And then the soldiers raped his sister and shot his younger brother, seven at the time, because he happened to offend them. As Hassan recalled the days of terror that made escape from Somalia the only option, his eyes seemed to reflect the horror that he witnessed.
Hassan had stood there, petrified, he said. The soldiers from Mogadishu, who roamed around killing and raping, had guns. One wrong reaction and he too would have been dead.
"You could not even cry. They (soldiers) were scary," he said. As he spoke, his friend Amjad, folded his pants to show bullet marks on his right thigh. He saw his seven brothers being shot at the same time by the soldiers. They had left him for dead in a carnage that left around 5,000 dead in his village. Ahmad, bleeding, crawled 500 feet to safety where people rescued him.
The soldiers were everywhere. There was no escaping them but by traveling to Kenya. And the travel would take days. They had to walk through the deserts, the swamps and fields - without food or water.
"It took seven days. No food, no water. We had like one gallon and 700 people," he said.
Sidi, another refugee from Somalia, said he had no choice but to drink urine as that was the only way to survive.
When the time to leave came, there were no goodbyes. Hassan's family members ran in different directions. He lost his father and siblings, he said. And like thousands of other displaced people, he walked to what he thought was safe haven. In some ways the refugee camp in Kenya represented what they had always sought - security. But the refugee camp was mid-way between heaven and hell. They could not go out. They had rationed food, had to live in one-room tenements with many people, and had no work. There were around 50,000 refugees in the camp from Sudan, Somalia, Uganda and other African nations that had been ravaged by dictatorships and civil wars.
Hassan lived in the refugee camp in Kenya for 12 years. It was bad in Kenya, he said, "We could not go out. We did nothing," he said.
He met his uncle and aunt in the refugee camp and now after 14 years, he has finally found his father, who is still in the refugee camp.
Now Hassan lives in Utica, works as a cleaner at Planet Fitness and dreams of going to school. Eventually, he wants to go back to Kenya to help and meet his own people. Also, he thinks he has better opportunities in Africa now that he knows English. Some of it he learned at the refugee camp in Kenya.
"I will be a big manager there. If I know little English, I can get a good job in Africa," he said.
But the option of returning to Somalia does not exist. "I don't think Somalia is going to be fine. There are many tribes and there is in-fighting. Everybody is killing someone," he said.
There are around 236 refugees in Utica from Somalia. Most of them are Somali Bantus. A few arrived in 1996 but the bulk started coming in 2003 and after.
Somali Republic gained independence in 1960. However, things got worse with in-fighting between various tribes. There is no national government in place to control the civil war and parts of Somalia are controlled by rebel groups and military. This has resulted in mass starvation and displacement of thousands of people over the years. Even after years of intervention, order is yet to be restored.
Life is tougher in America than what they thought. First there are the differences in culture and then there are bills to pay.
"In Africa you take the money and keep it in your pocket," said Hassan. Here, he has to worry about insurance bills, phone bills, rent, and electricity bills. In his village, they did not have electricity. Last month he received a phone bill for $500 and he just threw the phone out of the window. Nine dollars an hour and 38 hours a week is not too much money even in Utica, where housing is cheap. And he has to send money to his friends and family, who are still in the camp.
"It is hard. Sometimes, they don't eat for two days, often nothing from morning to evening," he said.
Insurance is another issue. Hassan has been suffering from back pain but he does not go to the hospital. "I buy medicines at the store. I don't have Medicaid," he said.
There are myths too to deal with. There are many expectations to counter. "They say you have a good life. We explain but they do not believe," Hassan said, referring to the constant calls from friends and relatives in Africa asking for money. "With $100, a family of eight people can live in Somalia comfortably for two months," he added.
Hassan works from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. He wants to get the other shift so that he can attend college but it is difficult. Some of the men live together in a dorm-like setting with 2-3 mattresses thrown in a room. It is cheaper this way, they said. And till their families arrive, they live a shared life to save up enough to get a house and support them.
If life in Africa was hard and dangerous, American way of life intimidates Somali Bantus. Hassan and many like him, who now Utica their home lived in huts and were farmers. Some of them had never seen fans or even electric bulbs. They burned oil lamps and mostly lived on the farms.
The flight that took Hassan from Kenya to Nairobi was a small carrier and Hassan said he was terrified and felt lumps in his throat when there was turbulence. The bigger plane that brought him from Nairobi to United States was better, he said. And then he saw snow for the first time.
They are not used to the culture and way of life here.
When Hussein, another Somali Bantu who lives with Amjad, got his picture with his newly-wed wife taken at a studio in Somalia against the backdrop of Statue of Liberty and the skyline in New York City, he thought America would be a cure to all his problems. Now he is here and his two wives are still in Africa.
For them it is a huge shift in cultural and traditional roles, ways of work and even eating habits. They stick to each other, watch Indian movies, smoke and eat together.
"We meet other people but not like this," said Hassan referring to their interactions with other African people, refugees and the local community.
Hassan just broke up with his fiancée, who he met here. He does not like American girls. "They make trouble, they talk too much. They get drunk and wear little clothes," he said.
They are Muslims and their women are covered. Another thing that bothers Ahmad is how he will get his three wives here. They are all in the refugee camp still. Polygamy is common for Somali Bantus and it is not uncommon to have four wives.
"We follow Prophet Mohamed. He had four wives," said Hassan, hiding away his cigarettes. Did Prophet Mohamed smoke too? He smiled and said no.
For Amjad it is the costs involved with bringing up his four children here. "In Somalia we have no child support system after you separate from your wife. It is different here," he said.
Even here they have to fight the myths associated with being a refugee in the Promised Land, the United States. No. They do not just receive money from the government. They have to work hard for it.
The phone rang and Amjad pointed to the number flashing on the cell phone and said the call was from Africa. May be it is one of his wives calling. Amjad pays for their phone.
Suddenly, all six of them started laughing. Hassan said his wives are asking for money. "They always call for money. That is the only thing," he said.
The struggles remain. Many of the Somali Bantus like Utica but have no attachment.
"Everything is somehow," said Hassan, summing up what many Somali Bantus feel. They are waiting for things to get better. Maybe it will be too long before they settle down and call Utica home.
NOTE- Some names have been used in part to protect the identities of people
This was written as part of series on refugees and integration in America that I worked on during summer of 2006.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
"They know I have come to forget. They are not even mildly curious of my life or the place I belong to...It is as if they know they live in the most spectacular corner of the world...So when you come here, it does not matter what you left behind. You stand with you mouth open. Because these are mountains, they can fill anything up."
Tishani Doshi
Tishani Doshi
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
why are we here
It is strange how some of the best stories that could change things, make us more tolerant and maybe help us understand and appreciate "others" never get into the newspapers.
Is it because these poor, not-so-elite people are not target audience for the publication? Or maybe those who are at the helm of affairs think these stories are just not important? Why should the readers care, they ask.
Stories on a retail store opening make it to the front page, stories planted by agencies get a thinck headline, but seldom do these stories that tell us of our own biases, of the others' struggles and stories that just reflect the naked, ugly truth that many of us can't bear to see.
Or is it because we don't want the truth?
There could be a thousand reasons. And none justify the neglect of these issues.
Maybe that's why I appreciate the opportunity to blog. At least someone will read it. Maybe it will make someone think, and maybe act.
And then my job is done.
Is it because these poor, not-so-elite people are not target audience for the publication? Or maybe those who are at the helm of affairs think these stories are just not important? Why should the readers care, they ask.
Stories on a retail store opening make it to the front page, stories planted by agencies get a thinck headline, but seldom do these stories that tell us of our own biases, of the others' struggles and stories that just reflect the naked, ugly truth that many of us can't bear to see.
Or is it because we don't want the truth?
There could be a thousand reasons. And none justify the neglect of these issues.
Maybe that's why I appreciate the opportunity to blog. At least someone will read it. Maybe it will make someone think, and maybe act.
And then my job is done.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
where to begin
‘A big challenge’ for MAMI instructors
Oct 20, 2007 @ 11:48 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
As Terry Chabot and Liliana Vidovic prepare to teach a class of future interpreters, they often wonder where to begin.
The class is a mixed group. A few are professional; others have limited education.
There also is a huge cultural barrier.
“It is a big challenge to keep the brilliant students on board while not overwhelming the new ones,” said Chabot, a registered nurse who teaches medical terminology with MAMI.
Both instructors begin by recognizing the various backgrounds. Sometimes they put a little flag of a student’s country on his or her desk.
Vidovic, a Bosnian refugee who teaches ethics of professional interpreting, said she shares a lot of her experiences with the students, just so they can identify.
“I use a lot of examples,” she said. “You have to be fluent in both cultures.”
Not long ago, she was interpreting for a woman who was wrongly put in a mental health facility at a local hospital because the untrained interpreter did not understand the cultural context.
In a regular session with her doctor, she had said if she did not get more help around the house, she was going to kill someone. She wasn’t serious, Vidovic said.
“The translator interpreted word to word, not by meaning,” she recalled.
The woman had been at the hospital for a few hours when Vidovic came to her rescue.
Chabot, who has been with MAMI since 2005, has encountered similar situations.
“People from other cultures use traditional remedies,” Chabot said.
Interpreters need to know those remedies in order to help the doctor serve them better.
Also, as a professional interpreter, one has to maintain confidentiality and step back from interfering to let the patients make their own decisions, she said.
Oct 20, 2007 @ 11:48 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
As Terry Chabot and Liliana Vidovic prepare to teach a class of future interpreters, they often wonder where to begin.
The class is a mixed group. A few are professional; others have limited education.
There also is a huge cultural barrier.
“It is a big challenge to keep the brilliant students on board while not overwhelming the new ones,” said Chabot, a registered nurse who teaches medical terminology with MAMI.
Both instructors begin by recognizing the various backgrounds. Sometimes they put a little flag of a student’s country on his or her desk.
Vidovic, a Bosnian refugee who teaches ethics of professional interpreting, said she shares a lot of her experiences with the students, just so they can identify.
“I use a lot of examples,” she said. “You have to be fluent in both cultures.”
Not long ago, she was interpreting for a woman who was wrongly put in a mental health facility at a local hospital because the untrained interpreter did not understand the cultural context.
In a regular session with her doctor, she had said if she did not get more help around the house, she was going to kill someone. She wasn’t serious, Vidovic said.
“The translator interpreted word to word, not by meaning,” she recalled.
The woman had been at the hospital for a few hours when Vidovic came to her rescue.
Chabot, who has been with MAMI since 2005, has encountered similar situations.
“People from other cultures use traditional remedies,” Chabot said.
Interpreters need to know those remedies in order to help the doctor serve them better.
Also, as a professional interpreter, one has to maintain confidentiality and step back from interfering to let the patients make their own decisions, she said.
making sense of the new world
Immigrant community’s growth spurs the need for interpreters
Oct 20, 2007 @ 11:43 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
UTICA – MAMI ko talash hai nayi bhashaon ke jaankaron ki.
If you can understand the statement above, which is written in Hindi/Urdu, then you know you’re needed at MAMI, a local agency that provides interpreter services.
As the number of non-English speakers in the community grows – fueled by new refugees from Asia and Africa – the demand for interpreters for new languages is growing, according to officials of Multicultural Association of Medical Interpreters of Central New York.
Often that demand is hard to meet. About 10 percent of the population in Utica is composed of immigrants and refugees. While refugees do need help with language, many immigrants, especially seniors or women, also require help with interpretation while seeking medical help.
‘We need to find people’
“We are always looking to add more languages,” MAMI's Director Cornelia Brown said. “We even get requests for Polish. We need to find people who are curious and appreciative. They need to make the commitment of time and energy.”
MAMI recently started its 18th training session in Utica for those interested in becoming an interpreter. With 14 to 15 students taking the course, it is a good class
size, but not quite enough to maintain a high level of service.
Not only have they not found a Farsi or a Vietnamese speaker, there is only one Arabic-speaking woman and one Somali speaker in the class.
The organization also is seeking to add more depth to its existing repertoire of languages, such as Burmese, Arabic and Russian.
“We would appreciate more,” Brown said. “We are still looking to tutor Burmese.”
Already the staff is too busy, and resources are often stretched to the limit, Brown said.
Ali Juma, one of the two full-time Somali/Mai Mai interpreters at MAMI, said it is often difficult to be the bridge, which is how he describes his job. Late-night calls to help women in labor, domestic violence and abuse cases make for a tough job, he said.
“Most of the time I am so busy,” he said. “We connect the provider and the patient.”
One patient’s story
One such patient is Jamila Dume. She was pregnant with Abdaqadir in 2005 when she had been lying down outside the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees, writhing in pain.
A Somali Bantu refugee who came to the United States in 2004, she knew no English and did not know who to ask for help. Then she saw Lul Mohamed coming her way.
Mohamed, an interpreter with MAMI, helped Dume see a doctor. When Mohamed translated her fears and her pain from one language to another, Dume finally made herself heard.
She was so relieved, she said of Mohamed’s translating for her.
In the beginning, Dume had gone to English as a Second Language classes, but hadn’t been able to learn much. Mostly, because she had never learned to read or write in Mai Mai, her native language.
“I know nothing. I don’t think I can learn anything. I just go to MAMI office,” she said.
Letters from Department of Social Services, schools, doctors – she takes them all to the MAMI office.
“We just help them,” Mohamed said.
Burmese refugees
Another group that requires help with language is refugees from Myanmar, formerly Burma. About 321 refugees from Myanmar came to Utica in August and September, joining many that already arrived.
Among them is Mar Met.
While Met is trying to make sense of the new world through bits and pieces of English that he picked up in the camps in Thailand, the meaning is often lost in translation and chaos returns.
The Burmese/Karen or the Bosnian staff at MAMI are busy around the clock. MAMI currently has one Burmese/Karen staff and four independent contractors, officials said. Yet MAMI is struggling to catch up.
“We are anticipating high demand,” she said.
Immigrant’s tale
Also in demand is Arabic-speaking interpreters.
Enas Alkhader is from Yemen and is the only Arabic-speaking student in the class learning how to interpret for those seeking help in her community.
She already has helped neighbors, friends and others make sense of such things as their prescriptions and doctor appointments. But a “he said and she said” approach doesn’t really work very well, she said. When her neighbor Liliana Vidovic told her about MAMI’s training program, she enrolled.
“They are mistreated, they can’t even say they are in pain,” Alkhader said. “A lot of people just shake their heads … they just take the medication.”
Most people in her community – Lebanese, Egyptians, and those from Yemen – can speak English. It is the elderly who often need help.
Then after the Sept. 11 terror attacks, most of the Arab community in Utica dept to themselves fearing bad treatment because of stereotyping, she said.
“They don’t try to involve themselves,” she said. “We were the victims, too.”
Alkhader is concerned the class does not have more Arabic-speaking students. She asked MAMI’s Cornelia Brown to promote the program more. The problem is not many people know help is there, or they could join these classes to help out others, she said.
“We need at least five between Utica and Syracuse,” she said.
Utica’s high diversity
MAMI offers about 25 languages, but that does not cover Utica’s diversity.
With attitude toward professional interpreting changing, people are warming up to the idea of having trained interpreters help them communicate instead of friends and family members who often edit out bad news or may make bad decisions.
“A lot of people are requiring interpretation,” Brown said. “We have all these languages here by virtue of who lives here.”
Changes in law have also generated more demand.
Under Title VI of the Civil Rights Act, any organization receiving federal funding must provide interpreters to speakers of other languages. While MAMI started in 1999, a cut in funding after 9/11 led the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees to consider other avenues to generate revenues.
So in 2004, refugee center launched fee-based interpreting services.
Now, the Refugee Center offers about 13 languages, according to Shelly Callahan of the center.
“We have contracts with numerous providers, hospitals, schools and others for whom we provide between 3,000 to 5,000 interpretations each year,” Executive Director Peter Vogelaar said.
That’s just an indication of the demand.
The organization also has added more services, such as 24-hour help for law enforcement agencies, area courts, and for mental-health patients.
Now, the organization is exploring the option to help in the financial-services area.
“Refugees need to buy homes,” Brown said.
Oct 20, 2007 @ 11:43 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
UTICA – MAMI ko talash hai nayi bhashaon ke jaankaron ki.
If you can understand the statement above, which is written in Hindi/Urdu, then you know you’re needed at MAMI, a local agency that provides interpreter services.
As the number of non-English speakers in the community grows – fueled by new refugees from Asia and Africa – the demand for interpreters for new languages is growing, according to officials of Multicultural Association of Medical Interpreters of Central New York.
Often that demand is hard to meet. About 10 percent of the population in Utica is composed of immigrants and refugees. While refugees do need help with language, many immigrants, especially seniors or women, also require help with interpretation while seeking medical help.
‘We need to find people’
“We are always looking to add more languages,” MAMI's Director Cornelia Brown said. “We even get requests for Polish. We need to find people who are curious and appreciative. They need to make the commitment of time and energy.”
MAMI recently started its 18th training session in Utica for those interested in becoming an interpreter. With 14 to 15 students taking the course, it is a good class
size, but not quite enough to maintain a high level of service.
Not only have they not found a Farsi or a Vietnamese speaker, there is only one Arabic-speaking woman and one Somali speaker in the class.
The organization also is seeking to add more depth to its existing repertoire of languages, such as Burmese, Arabic and Russian.
“We would appreciate more,” Brown said. “We are still looking to tutor Burmese.”
Already the staff is too busy, and resources are often stretched to the limit, Brown said.
Ali Juma, one of the two full-time Somali/Mai Mai interpreters at MAMI, said it is often difficult to be the bridge, which is how he describes his job. Late-night calls to help women in labor, domestic violence and abuse cases make for a tough job, he said.
“Most of the time I am so busy,” he said. “We connect the provider and the patient.”
One patient’s story
One such patient is Jamila Dume. She was pregnant with Abdaqadir in 2005 when she had been lying down outside the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees, writhing in pain.
A Somali Bantu refugee who came to the United States in 2004, she knew no English and did not know who to ask for help. Then she saw Lul Mohamed coming her way.
Mohamed, an interpreter with MAMI, helped Dume see a doctor. When Mohamed translated her fears and her pain from one language to another, Dume finally made herself heard.
She was so relieved, she said of Mohamed’s translating for her.
In the beginning, Dume had gone to English as a Second Language classes, but hadn’t been able to learn much. Mostly, because she had never learned to read or write in Mai Mai, her native language.
“I know nothing. I don’t think I can learn anything. I just go to MAMI office,” she said.
Letters from Department of Social Services, schools, doctors – she takes them all to the MAMI office.
“We just help them,” Mohamed said.
Burmese refugees
Another group that requires help with language is refugees from Myanmar, formerly Burma. About 321 refugees from Myanmar came to Utica in August and September, joining many that already arrived.
Among them is Mar Met.
While Met is trying to make sense of the new world through bits and pieces of English that he picked up in the camps in Thailand, the meaning is often lost in translation and chaos returns.
The Burmese/Karen or the Bosnian staff at MAMI are busy around the clock. MAMI currently has one Burmese/Karen staff and four independent contractors, officials said. Yet MAMI is struggling to catch up.
“We are anticipating high demand,” she said.
Immigrant’s tale
Also in demand is Arabic-speaking interpreters.
Enas Alkhader is from Yemen and is the only Arabic-speaking student in the class learning how to interpret for those seeking help in her community.
She already has helped neighbors, friends and others make sense of such things as their prescriptions and doctor appointments. But a “he said and she said” approach doesn’t really work very well, she said. When her neighbor Liliana Vidovic told her about MAMI’s training program, she enrolled.
“They are mistreated, they can’t even say they are in pain,” Alkhader said. “A lot of people just shake their heads … they just take the medication.”
Most people in her community – Lebanese, Egyptians, and those from Yemen – can speak English. It is the elderly who often need help.
Then after the Sept. 11 terror attacks, most of the Arab community in Utica dept to themselves fearing bad treatment because of stereotyping, she said.
“They don’t try to involve themselves,” she said. “We were the victims, too.”
Alkhader is concerned the class does not have more Arabic-speaking students. She asked MAMI’s Cornelia Brown to promote the program more. The problem is not many people know help is there, or they could join these classes to help out others, she said.
“We need at least five between Utica and Syracuse,” she said.
Utica’s high diversity
MAMI offers about 25 languages, but that does not cover Utica’s diversity.
With attitude toward professional interpreting changing, people are warming up to the idea of having trained interpreters help them communicate instead of friends and family members who often edit out bad news or may make bad decisions.
“A lot of people are requiring interpretation,” Brown said. “We have all these languages here by virtue of who lives here.”
Changes in law have also generated more demand.
Under Title VI of the Civil Rights Act, any organization receiving federal funding must provide interpreters to speakers of other languages. While MAMI started in 1999, a cut in funding after 9/11 led the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees to consider other avenues to generate revenues.
So in 2004, refugee center launched fee-based interpreting services.
Now, the Refugee Center offers about 13 languages, according to Shelly Callahan of the center.
“We have contracts with numerous providers, hospitals, schools and others for whom we provide between 3,000 to 5,000 interpretations each year,” Executive Director Peter Vogelaar said.
That’s just an indication of the demand.
The organization also has added more services, such as 24-hour help for law enforcement agencies, area courts, and for mental-health patients.
Now, the organization is exploring the option to help in the financial-services area.
“Refugees need to buy homes,” Brown said.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
in and out of their lives
Bollywood broke the ice between us. It became the common ground, at least for then.
Dev Anand, Rajesh Khanna, and Shahrukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan. They knew them all. Even hummed some songs for me.
I had been cleaning my apartment when the phone rang. On the other side, Mar Met was trying to tell me they had cooked lunch for me, that I should come to Mary Street instead of Rutger Street. I had totally forgotten I was to visit the Burmese girls and have tea with them on Sunday, the second day of Eid.
I finally figured what Met was saying. Trusting my sense of direction, I did not bother to waste time looking at the map and got on the road. I did not want to be late.
It should be one of the streets branching off from Rutger Street, I thought.
But I ended up in the wrong part of the city. It being a Sunday, there was hardly anybody I could ask for directions. Also, I was in America. You don’t have paan-wallahs and rickshaw drivers here you could turn to for help. It had been so easy in India. You could just lower the window and ask.
In any case, I kept on driving. Finally saw this one guy. So I stopped the car. After several “excuse me”, he turned, smiled and got into the car. yes, without invitation. It would be better if we traveled together, he said, as he rolled up the car window.
His mouth stank of beer. I had been warned not to give rides to people. But he seemed alright. He told me he was going to cook dinner for 40 people, that this aunt of his was very popular in Utica and this one brother of his owned a charity.
After several lefts and rights, we were on the right road or so he said. Finally, I dropped him off and then got on to that elusive Mary Street.
Past old homes, boring signals, closed bakery shops, and numerous stop signs, I saw Oh Mar’s silhouette and I waved to her. She had been standing for an hour outside the house in the cold for me. I felt bad for her. She had a coat one but it wasn’t enough protection against the wind.
I had brought shawls for the two friends. A little Eid thing from my side. We both spoke different languages. There were smiles, and nods and stolen looks, and that’s a language we both understood.
She took my hand and led me to the apartment. The apartment was modest to say the least. There were mats spread on the floor. No chairs, no tables. In the kitchen, women sat in a circle, cooking, chatting and laughing. An easy laughter, carefree almost. After all they have been through – fleeing their country, leaving behind people, knowing it will be near impossible to return to all of it ever – they deserved it. The host family has been here only a month and know nothing of the cold, dreary winters here, of work and difficulties to life as they adjust to the new country and the new life here.
A few men stood in the dining area, smoking. They nodded at me while they were at it. It was the second day of Eid-ul-Fitr. More men came in. I sat on a bed, an old one, its beams creaking. The mattress had been covered with a colorful mat from Thailand.
Women came in to welcome me, a few waved at me from the kitchen.
The two friends, who I met last week while on of my assignments, handed me a bag with traditional Burmese dress and said “gift”. It was for me.
While Oh Mar explained to others I was a journalist, that I was an Indian and that I was Hindu, I noticed I was the only outsider in the family celebrations. But yet in that moment, in their celebration, I was an insider.
Finally, an uncle of theirs I had met the pervious evening came in. He had been a teacher in Myanmar, formerly Burma, and lived in Rangoon. Last evening, we had talked about history, democracy and Jawaharlal Nehru. It had been an easy conversation, though language was still a limiting factor, we had understood each other fairly well.
He was with another man, who had been a guerilla fighter. When things became tough, he fled to Thailand.
Later…
Dev Anand, Rajesh Khanna, and Shahrukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan. They knew them all. Even hummed some songs for me.
I had been cleaning my apartment when the phone rang. On the other side, Mar Met was trying to tell me they had cooked lunch for me, that I should come to Mary Street instead of Rutger Street. I had totally forgotten I was to visit the Burmese girls and have tea with them on Sunday, the second day of Eid.
I finally figured what Met was saying. Trusting my sense of direction, I did not bother to waste time looking at the map and got on the road. I did not want to be late.
It should be one of the streets branching off from Rutger Street, I thought.
But I ended up in the wrong part of the city. It being a Sunday, there was hardly anybody I could ask for directions. Also, I was in America. You don’t have paan-wallahs and rickshaw drivers here you could turn to for help. It had been so easy in India. You could just lower the window and ask.
In any case, I kept on driving. Finally saw this one guy. So I stopped the car. After several “excuse me”, he turned, smiled and got into the car. yes, without invitation. It would be better if we traveled together, he said, as he rolled up the car window.
His mouth stank of beer. I had been warned not to give rides to people. But he seemed alright. He told me he was going to cook dinner for 40 people, that this aunt of his was very popular in Utica and this one brother of his owned a charity.
After several lefts and rights, we were on the right road or so he said. Finally, I dropped him off and then got on to that elusive Mary Street.
Past old homes, boring signals, closed bakery shops, and numerous stop signs, I saw Oh Mar’s silhouette and I waved to her. She had been standing for an hour outside the house in the cold for me. I felt bad for her. She had a coat one but it wasn’t enough protection against the wind.
I had brought shawls for the two friends. A little Eid thing from my side. We both spoke different languages. There were smiles, and nods and stolen looks, and that’s a language we both understood.
She took my hand and led me to the apartment. The apartment was modest to say the least. There were mats spread on the floor. No chairs, no tables. In the kitchen, women sat in a circle, cooking, chatting and laughing. An easy laughter, carefree almost. After all they have been through – fleeing their country, leaving behind people, knowing it will be near impossible to return to all of it ever – they deserved it. The host family has been here only a month and know nothing of the cold, dreary winters here, of work and difficulties to life as they adjust to the new country and the new life here.
A few men stood in the dining area, smoking. They nodded at me while they were at it. It was the second day of Eid-ul-Fitr. More men came in. I sat on a bed, an old one, its beams creaking. The mattress had been covered with a colorful mat from Thailand.
Women came in to welcome me, a few waved at me from the kitchen.
The two friends, who I met last week while on of my assignments, handed me a bag with traditional Burmese dress and said “gift”. It was for me.
While Oh Mar explained to others I was a journalist, that I was an Indian and that I was Hindu, I noticed I was the only outsider in the family celebrations. But yet in that moment, in their celebration, I was an insider.
Finally, an uncle of theirs I had met the pervious evening came in. He had been a teacher in Myanmar, formerly Burma, and lived in Rangoon. Last evening, we had talked about history, democracy and Jawaharlal Nehru. It had been an easy conversation, though language was still a limiting factor, we had understood each other fairly well.
He was with another man, who had been a guerilla fighter. When things became tough, he fled to Thailand.
Later…
Monday, October 15, 2007
the morning of Eid
Hundreds offer Eid prayers in Utica
Oct 13, 2007 @ 10:37 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
UTICA - Imam Ferhad Mujkic described his congregation Saturday morning as “white black and mocha.”
“Those are the colors of Islam,” he said.
“It is a like a rainbow,” Samir Omercevic chipped in.
Many of Utica's Bosnians are Muslim, like Mujkic. But many others - Somalis in their colorful kaftans, Afghanis in their sequined jackets and long kurtas, Burmese Muslims in their lungis, and Pakistanis Muslims in their skull caps - bowed down in thanksgiving prayer on the occasion of Eid-ul-Fitr, or the Feast of Fast-breaking, at the Parkway Center Saturday.
That's what made it a beautiful and unique gathering, Imam Mujkic said, Amir Beganovic translating for him.
“Allah is common for all of us,” Mujkic said. “Islam is an equalizer.”
For years Imam Mujkic, who arrived in Utica in 1997, has lead the prayers. And each time he addresses the Eid congregation, he is delighted to see the diversity. And even though the languages they speak are different, the language of the prayer is the same, he said.
“We all understand prayer. I am very, very happy,” he said. “Most different people … that's unique.”
The month of Ramadan, one of the most-sacred times of the years for Muslims, ended Friday with the sighting of the new moon. During the 29-, 30-day period of fasting, during which Muslims abstain from food, drink and sexual intimacy, praying and doing charity are most important, said Imam Malik Najeeullah.
“It is payday for us, a day of reward,” Najeeullah said.
A cardboard box marked for Zakat or mandatory charity had been placed at the entrance. As people walked in, they put money in the box. The money later will be used to provide for the needy in the Utica community, Najeeullah said. Throughout the month, Muslims share meals and do charity. In fact, the Muslim Community Association has been holding Iftar or fast-breaking dinners on weekends for the community throughout the month of Ramadan.
“Charity is the biggest thing,” he said, as he put money in the box.
On a table, trays of food had been arranged. These had been brought by the congregation members to share with others. Later, people would share a breakfast at the mosque on Kemble Street.
“Everybody is included,” he said, pointing to the gathering.
It will be a busy day for both Imams as they will visit prisoners in jail, sick people in hospitals and others to pray with them and wish them “Eid Mubarak” (Happy Eid).
The prayers that began at around 8 a.m., was followed by a sermon from Imam Mujkic. As people exited the hall, greetings were exchanged, and invitations for dinner and lunch extended.
Women, who sat on the other side, embraced each other, and complimented each other on their clothes, as they exited the building. Friends and family would be visiting and there was cooking to be done, they said.
A gift of love
For days, Somali refugee Muslima Osman, 18, had been putting in dollar bills, quarters and dimes in a little box. When she had collected $20, she gave it to her husband as Eidi, cash or gifts that elders normally give to children on Eid-Ul-Fitr.
“I put all in my box … what he give,” she said, smiling shyly. “Then I give my husband.”
At the Parkway Center Saturday morning, Osman was dressed in bright peach-colored traditional dress, with sequins and embroidery, a gift from her husband, and she showed it off, told her friends her husband bought it for her. With new gold earrings, bangles, and henna-colored hands, she looked lovely.
“I put henna last night,” she said, showing her palms, which were colored dark burgundy.
Many Muslim women decorate their hands and feet with henna the night before the Eid day. In South Asia, the night of the sighting of the new moon is called Chand Raat, and women get together, go out to the market, buy sweets, wear bangles and put henna, which is considered auspicious.
Later in the day, she was going to cook traditional African food and celebrate the festival with her family and friends.
“I cook food, calling people, eating at my house,” she said. “Rice, meat, pasta.”
And to top that, she would cook Halwa, a dessert.
Eid-Ul-Fitr is called Mithi Eid in many countries. Mithi means sweet as many cook Sivvyan or a dish of fine, toasted vermicelli for the occasion, or other traditional sweet dish.
Remembering a son left behind
She sat on the floor quietly at the prayer gathering Saturday morning, seemingly lost in her thoughts. Hser He Da Be, 43, a Muslim refugee from Burma, missed her son Ha San, 26, who still in the Thai refugee camp. Her six children sat around her, the seventh present through his absence, in her thoughts, her prayers, she said.
This is her first Eid she will celebrate without her son. But such is the case, she said, her daughter Ra Be Ya, 20, translating for her.
“I miss him a lot,” she said.
The family arrived in Utica 23 days ago. Without a phone, it is even more difficult. Wishing “Happy Eid” to her son is wishful thinking, at least for now.
“No phone, how to contact,” she said, haltingly. “I remember him in prayers.”
The family cooked noodles in the morning for breakfast, Ra Be Ya said. For now they can't afford more than that.
“No money to make something,” Ra Be Ya said. “But we are happy that Eid is here.”
Maybe they would visit the mosque at Kemble Street for breakfast after the morning prayers, they said. An important part of Eid and the month of Ramadan is the spirit of charity, said Imam Malik Najeeullah of the Muslim Community Association.
Some members had even brought food at the morning prayers, to share it with the less fortunate.
For the family, maybe next year things will be better. Maybe Ha Sen will join them. Maybe they will get a job, and money and can buy new clothes and cook good food for Eid next year. Maybe it will all work out, they said.
In the right religion
As she sat in her chair, watching the women kneel down in prayer, Sian Walker of Utica said she knew she was in the right religion.
“It is beautiful even to look at the differences, how everybody comes together,” she said.
Five years ago, Walker converted to Islam, inspired by her husband, Willie Walker, she said.
Her first Ramadan had been tough, the fasting too rigorous. But she is always grateful for Eid, the day when it is all over, when they can look back and feel happy they were able to do it, she said.
“I still appreciate this day,” she said. “It is making me stronger.”
Women praying with men
For Razia Sattar, who came to United States in 1981, it is the small, close-knit community in Utica that makes Eid special for her. In their country, women did not go to the mosque. Here, women participate in prayers and at gatherings at the mosque, she said.
“In our culture, women don't go to the mosque,” she said. “I like it here … we meet the people, Africans, Bosnians, all people.”
Javeria Qureshi, who has been here for eight years, said she missed her Eids back home, but the community here made sure they celebrated the festival as best as they could. Here, there's more chance to get involved, she said.
“There's more participation,” she said. “Ladies come to the mosque. That's definitely good.”
While Sattar has been here for decades, she misses wearing bangles and visiting crowded markets in Pakistan on the eve of Eid. The streets were decorated, festoons and colorful light bulbs are hung on windows, and shops are full of glittering bangles, earrings, clothes and sandals.
“We went out, got henna in meena bazaars, came home at 3 a.m. sometimes,” she said. “I miss that.”
In this small community, the families, most of them immigrants, visit each other's houses on Eid, and during Ramadan, exchanging greetings and sharing food, trying to re-create the sense of the homeland through similar festivities but at a smaller scale.
Friday evening, some Muslim families got together to celebrate Chand Raat, colored their hands with henna, and ate dinner together just how did it in their countries, Sattar said.
* The Eid prayer is followed by the sermon and then a prayer asking for forgiveness, mercy and help. Imam Ferhad Mujkic delivered a sermon in Bosnian before the Eid prayers Saturday morning.
* Muslims spend the day meeting family members, enjoying and praying.
ä Public Eid prayers are held in mosques and public places throughout the world.
* Ramadan is the one month — usually lasting 29 or 30 days — when Muslims abstain from food, drink, smoking and sexual intimacy from the break of dawn to sunset. The period marks the month Muslims believe the prophet Muhammad received the Quran, the Islamic holy book, through the angel Gabriel.
* Ramadan occurs each year during the ninth month of the lunar year. Muslims pray five times daily, and during Ramadan an extra prayer is added, called the taraweeh.
* The end of Ramadan is marked by communal prayers called Eid ul-Fitr or Feast of the Fast-Breaking.
Source: IslamiCity, archives
Oct 13, 2007 @ 10:37 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
UTICA - Imam Ferhad Mujkic described his congregation Saturday morning as “white black and mocha.”
“Those are the colors of Islam,” he said.
“It is a like a rainbow,” Samir Omercevic chipped in.
Many of Utica's Bosnians are Muslim, like Mujkic. But many others - Somalis in their colorful kaftans, Afghanis in their sequined jackets and long kurtas, Burmese Muslims in their lungis, and Pakistanis Muslims in their skull caps - bowed down in thanksgiving prayer on the occasion of Eid-ul-Fitr, or the Feast of Fast-breaking, at the Parkway Center Saturday.
That's what made it a beautiful and unique gathering, Imam Mujkic said, Amir Beganovic translating for him.
“Allah is common for all of us,” Mujkic said. “Islam is an equalizer.”
For years Imam Mujkic, who arrived in Utica in 1997, has lead the prayers. And each time he addresses the Eid congregation, he is delighted to see the diversity. And even though the languages they speak are different, the language of the prayer is the same, he said.
“We all understand prayer. I am very, very happy,” he said. “Most different people … that's unique.”
The month of Ramadan, one of the most-sacred times of the years for Muslims, ended Friday with the sighting of the new moon. During the 29-, 30-day period of fasting, during which Muslims abstain from food, drink and sexual intimacy, praying and doing charity are most important, said Imam Malik Najeeullah.
“It is payday for us, a day of reward,” Najeeullah said.
A cardboard box marked for Zakat or mandatory charity had been placed at the entrance. As people walked in, they put money in the box. The money later will be used to provide for the needy in the Utica community, Najeeullah said. Throughout the month, Muslims share meals and do charity. In fact, the Muslim Community Association has been holding Iftar or fast-breaking dinners on weekends for the community throughout the month of Ramadan.
“Charity is the biggest thing,” he said, as he put money in the box.
On a table, trays of food had been arranged. These had been brought by the congregation members to share with others. Later, people would share a breakfast at the mosque on Kemble Street.
“Everybody is included,” he said, pointing to the gathering.
It will be a busy day for both Imams as they will visit prisoners in jail, sick people in hospitals and others to pray with them and wish them “Eid Mubarak” (Happy Eid).
The prayers that began at around 8 a.m., was followed by a sermon from Imam Mujkic. As people exited the hall, greetings were exchanged, and invitations for dinner and lunch extended.
Women, who sat on the other side, embraced each other, and complimented each other on their clothes, as they exited the building. Friends and family would be visiting and there was cooking to be done, they said.
A gift of love
For days, Somali refugee Muslima Osman, 18, had been putting in dollar bills, quarters and dimes in a little box. When she had collected $20, she gave it to her husband as Eidi, cash or gifts that elders normally give to children on Eid-Ul-Fitr.
“I put all in my box … what he give,” she said, smiling shyly. “Then I give my husband.”
At the Parkway Center Saturday morning, Osman was dressed in bright peach-colored traditional dress, with sequins and embroidery, a gift from her husband, and she showed it off, told her friends her husband bought it for her. With new gold earrings, bangles, and henna-colored hands, she looked lovely.
“I put henna last night,” she said, showing her palms, which were colored dark burgundy.
Many Muslim women decorate their hands and feet with henna the night before the Eid day. In South Asia, the night of the sighting of the new moon is called Chand Raat, and women get together, go out to the market, buy sweets, wear bangles and put henna, which is considered auspicious.
Later in the day, she was going to cook traditional African food and celebrate the festival with her family and friends.
“I cook food, calling people, eating at my house,” she said. “Rice, meat, pasta.”
And to top that, she would cook Halwa, a dessert.
Eid-Ul-Fitr is called Mithi Eid in many countries. Mithi means sweet as many cook Sivvyan or a dish of fine, toasted vermicelli for the occasion, or other traditional sweet dish.
Remembering a son left behind
She sat on the floor quietly at the prayer gathering Saturday morning, seemingly lost in her thoughts. Hser He Da Be, 43, a Muslim refugee from Burma, missed her son Ha San, 26, who still in the Thai refugee camp. Her six children sat around her, the seventh present through his absence, in her thoughts, her prayers, she said.
This is her first Eid she will celebrate without her son. But such is the case, she said, her daughter Ra Be Ya, 20, translating for her.
“I miss him a lot,” she said.
The family arrived in Utica 23 days ago. Without a phone, it is even more difficult. Wishing “Happy Eid” to her son is wishful thinking, at least for now.
“No phone, how to contact,” she said, haltingly. “I remember him in prayers.”
The family cooked noodles in the morning for breakfast, Ra Be Ya said. For now they can't afford more than that.
“No money to make something,” Ra Be Ya said. “But we are happy that Eid is here.”
Maybe they would visit the mosque at Kemble Street for breakfast after the morning prayers, they said. An important part of Eid and the month of Ramadan is the spirit of charity, said Imam Malik Najeeullah of the Muslim Community Association.
Some members had even brought food at the morning prayers, to share it with the less fortunate.
For the family, maybe next year things will be better. Maybe Ha Sen will join them. Maybe they will get a job, and money and can buy new clothes and cook good food for Eid next year. Maybe it will all work out, they said.
In the right religion
As she sat in her chair, watching the women kneel down in prayer, Sian Walker of Utica said she knew she was in the right religion.
“It is beautiful even to look at the differences, how everybody comes together,” she said.
Five years ago, Walker converted to Islam, inspired by her husband, Willie Walker, she said.
Her first Ramadan had been tough, the fasting too rigorous. But she is always grateful for Eid, the day when it is all over, when they can look back and feel happy they were able to do it, she said.
“I still appreciate this day,” she said. “It is making me stronger.”
Women praying with men
For Razia Sattar, who came to United States in 1981, it is the small, close-knit community in Utica that makes Eid special for her. In their country, women did not go to the mosque. Here, women participate in prayers and at gatherings at the mosque, she said.
“In our culture, women don't go to the mosque,” she said. “I like it here … we meet the people, Africans, Bosnians, all people.”
Javeria Qureshi, who has been here for eight years, said she missed her Eids back home, but the community here made sure they celebrated the festival as best as they could. Here, there's more chance to get involved, she said.
“There's more participation,” she said. “Ladies come to the mosque. That's definitely good.”
While Sattar has been here for decades, she misses wearing bangles and visiting crowded markets in Pakistan on the eve of Eid. The streets were decorated, festoons and colorful light bulbs are hung on windows, and shops are full of glittering bangles, earrings, clothes and sandals.
“We went out, got henna in meena bazaars, came home at 3 a.m. sometimes,” she said. “I miss that.”
In this small community, the families, most of them immigrants, visit each other's houses on Eid, and during Ramadan, exchanging greetings and sharing food, trying to re-create the sense of the homeland through similar festivities but at a smaller scale.
Friday evening, some Muslim families got together to celebrate Chand Raat, colored their hands with henna, and ate dinner together just how did it in their countries, Sattar said.
* The Eid prayer is followed by the sermon and then a prayer asking for forgiveness, mercy and help. Imam Ferhad Mujkic delivered a sermon in Bosnian before the Eid prayers Saturday morning.
* Muslims spend the day meeting family members, enjoying and praying.
ä Public Eid prayers are held in mosques and public places throughout the world.
* Ramadan is the one month — usually lasting 29 or 30 days — when Muslims abstain from food, drink, smoking and sexual intimacy from the break of dawn to sunset. The period marks the month Muslims believe the prophet Muhammad received the Quran, the Islamic holy book, through the angel Gabriel.
* Ramadan occurs each year during the ninth month of the lunar year. Muslims pray five times daily, and during Ramadan an extra prayer is added, called the taraweeh.
* The end of Ramadan is marked by communal prayers called Eid ul-Fitr or Feast of the Fast-Breaking.
Source: IslamiCity, archives
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Seeking refuge
More Burmese seek fresh start in Utica
Oct 09, 2007 @ 10:35 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
UTICA – Virtually every new refugee arrival in Utica is from Myanmar, with hundreds more expected in the next year.
Residents of the country formerlly known as Burma have become the largest single source of refugees since Bosnians arrived in the 1990s.
After spending around seven years in refugee camps in Thailand, Oh Mar and her friends, refugees from Myanmar, are waiting for a fresh start. UTICA AND REFUGEES
They already have taken the first few steps — rented an apartment, joined ESL classes at Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees and have started to think big.
A job, a television set, a telephone, a sofa and a computer are next on the list.
They are grateful for a second chance in life and for freedom. In fact, Mar said “freedom” several times during the conversation. As Bengali Muslims, they had been victims of religious persecution. Mosques had been destroyed in her village, she recalled.
“We like the freedom,” she said. “It’s very comfortable and very beautiful.”
Mar and her three friends are four of the 321 refugees from Myanmar that arrived in the Mohawk Valley in August and September.
Altogether, 13,896 refugees from Myanmar came to the United States from Jan. 1 to Sept. 30 of this year, according to Rob McInturff of the U.S. State Department.
Every summer, there is a surge in refugee arrivals nationwide as the federal government seeks to meet the arrival targets set each year by the president. Utica is host to one of the largest Burmese communities, a target group, and the combination of these two factors drove up the numbers for the end of the federal fiscal year, said MVRCR Executive Director Peter Vogelaar.
“We anticipate in a 15-month period July 2007 through September 2008 welcoming upward of 800, 900 people. In the past 11 weeks alone, we welcomed nearly 300 new arrivals,” said Vogelaar in an e-mail.
About 469 refugees from Myanmar came to Utica since January, the largest group this year. Total refugee arrivals for 2007 till September stand at 497, according to refugee center estimates.
Not related to current junta
For many that have come to Utica in recent years, their displacement began with the 1988 student uprising, Vogelaar said.
“Those individuals arriving from Thailand today are not coming as a direct result of the current uprising. Most of those coming today have lived in refugee camps for upwards of 10 or more years,” he said.
Hundreds more are expected to arrive. Though these arrivals are not a direct outcome of the recent military crackdown in Myanmar, the current uprising will contribute to future resettlement as many fled to Thailand after the protests, officials said.
However, the recent protests and images from Myanmar will help demonstrate to the local community why so many flee their country, said Rev. Mark Caruana, pastor of the Tabernacle Baptist Church in downtown Utica. The church helps Karen refugees, who are Baptist, by providing them with clothes, rice cookers and food. Utica is the second-largest community for ethnic Karen in the United States for the American Baptist denomination, he said.
“It raises sensitivity towards the needs of the refugees,” he said.
The majority of refugees from Myanmar are Karen. However there are also Karenni, Burman, Arakanese, Shan, and Mon that either have arrived or will arrive in Utica, according to refugee center officials.
New home
The apartment is sparsely furnished. The living room has one bed. No couches, no tables. The walls are stripped bare. But for Oh Mar, San Win, Aung Thi Ha, and Cho Lay, it is just a matter of days before it all changes.
From bamboo huts and oppression in Myanmar and near-starvation in Thai refugee camps, it has been a long journey.
Mar, 27, wants to study science in a college. She would like to become a journalist, she said.
“I have plans,” she said.
Aung Thi Ha, 21, wants to get more money to buy snow coats. And yes, he would like to have more friends.
There is no more living in fear. Thi Ha goes to the mosque on Kemble Street at least three times a day to pray. It is the month of Ramadan. In the evening, all four break the fast with rice, chicken, fish, fruits and juice.
And for Eid-Ul-Fitr on Saturday, the women are excited about wearing new clothes, cooking traditional food and inviting friends over. In Myanmar, it hadn’t been so.
“This is freedom country,” Mar said.
Community pulls together to help refugees
Oct 09, 2007 @ 10:41 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
While there will always be needs and demands for refugees, local agencies are trying to make the transition smooth.
As the refugee center tries to step up the resettlement process, it is partnering with churches, schools and other service providers to help.
In response to the increase in Burmese arrivals, the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees has hired a number of Burmese/Karen speakers as case workers, employment specialists, and some Burmese/Karen speakers for interpretation and translation, particularly in hospitals, officials said.
Currently, the refugee center has 10 Burmese/Karen speakers working with the center in addition to numerous volunteers, according to officials.
An increase in funding made it possible for the refugee center to hire linguistically and culturally appropriate staff to work with the new arrivals. On average, a new arrival will have a Social Security card issued within 45 days after arrival, Resource Center Executive Director Peter Vogelaar said.
So far, medical checks for new arrivals have not posed any problems. Patrice Bogan of the Oneida County Health Department said with smaller numbers, health assessment is faster. However, with more refugees coming in, the staff is busier, but they expect to complete it within the stipulated 90-day period.
“I anticipate it won’t be a problem,” she said.
However, Cornelia Brown of Multicultural Association of Medical Interpreters, said it is some times difficult to fill in demands for Burmese interpreters.
Currently, they have one Burmese interpreter.
“We need more. Because of a large number, there is more demand,” she said. “As soon as we reach a critical point, we will hire more.”
For Saw Chit, spokesperson of the Utica Karen Organization, there aren’t enough Karen people on refugee center staff considering the number of new arrivals seeking help. Often, it takes months for them to get jobs or even a driver’s license, he said.
“We need more people,” he said. “People have to wait a long time. They don’t know where to go, how to go. Karen people should have more help.”
“When they encounter problems with the bureaucracy, they become frustrated,” said Rev. Mark Caruana, pastor of the Tabernacle Baptist Church in downtown Utica. “They are not asking for too much.”
Learning English, job training, living in an apartment, maintaining it, transportation, and adapting to 2 feet of snow are a few of the initial challenges for these refugees, he said.
Iraqi Refugee update
In the fiscal year ending Sept. 30, only 1,608 Iraqi refugees have come to United States. The state department set the target at 2,000 for fiscal year 2007.
“We focused on 2,000 as a more realistic goal,” said Rob McInturff, a state department spokesperson.
In fiscal year 2008, the target has been set at admitting around 1,000 Iraqi refugees to United States every month, McInturff said. The refugees will most likely not be coming to Utica.
“We have not resettled any Iraqi refugees in recent years,” said MVRCR Executive Director Peter Vogelaar. “I do not anticipate any Iraqi arrivals to Utica while we are resettling so many Burmese.”
* Refugees have arrived from at least 23 different countries in 28 years.
* At least 10 percent of Uticans are considered refugees.
* The largest single group of refugees has been Bosnian.
* This decade, Utica has seen close to 600 refugees arrive either directly or indirectly from Myanmar, formerly Burma. Another 250 to 300 people are expected in coming months.
MYANMAR AND THE U.S.
* The Karen National Union fighting the government in Myanmar is considered a terrorist group, and under the Material Support Provision of the 2001 Patriot Act, anyone seen as helping such an organization is not supposed to be allowed in the country.
Condoleezza Rice waived that exclusion in 2006 for thousands of the more than 100,000 Karen refugees living in camps on Thailand’s border with Myanmar.
* Some have lived in the camps for more than 20 years, and the numbers have grown as thousands have fled from attacks by the Myanmar army over the last 10 years, according to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees.
* The State Department designated the refugees a “population of special humanitarian concern to the United States due to the privations they have experienced” and determined that resettlement was the only “durable solution” for many, according to information on the State Department's Web site.
Oct 09, 2007 @ 10:35 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
UTICA – Virtually every new refugee arrival in Utica is from Myanmar, with hundreds more expected in the next year.
Residents of the country formerlly known as Burma have become the largest single source of refugees since Bosnians arrived in the 1990s.
After spending around seven years in refugee camps in Thailand, Oh Mar and her friends, refugees from Myanmar, are waiting for a fresh start. UTICA AND REFUGEES
They already have taken the first few steps — rented an apartment, joined ESL classes at Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees and have started to think big.
A job, a television set, a telephone, a sofa and a computer are next on the list.
They are grateful for a second chance in life and for freedom. In fact, Mar said “freedom” several times during the conversation. As Bengali Muslims, they had been victims of religious persecution. Mosques had been destroyed in her village, she recalled.
“We like the freedom,” she said. “It’s very comfortable and very beautiful.”
Mar and her three friends are four of the 321 refugees from Myanmar that arrived in the Mohawk Valley in August and September.
Altogether, 13,896 refugees from Myanmar came to the United States from Jan. 1 to Sept. 30 of this year, according to Rob McInturff of the U.S. State Department.
Every summer, there is a surge in refugee arrivals nationwide as the federal government seeks to meet the arrival targets set each year by the president. Utica is host to one of the largest Burmese communities, a target group, and the combination of these two factors drove up the numbers for the end of the federal fiscal year, said MVRCR Executive Director Peter Vogelaar.
“We anticipate in a 15-month period July 2007 through September 2008 welcoming upward of 800, 900 people. In the past 11 weeks alone, we welcomed nearly 300 new arrivals,” said Vogelaar in an e-mail.
About 469 refugees from Myanmar came to Utica since January, the largest group this year. Total refugee arrivals for 2007 till September stand at 497, according to refugee center estimates.
Not related to current junta
For many that have come to Utica in recent years, their displacement began with the 1988 student uprising, Vogelaar said.
“Those individuals arriving from Thailand today are not coming as a direct result of the current uprising. Most of those coming today have lived in refugee camps for upwards of 10 or more years,” he said.
Hundreds more are expected to arrive. Though these arrivals are not a direct outcome of the recent military crackdown in Myanmar, the current uprising will contribute to future resettlement as many fled to Thailand after the protests, officials said.
However, the recent protests and images from Myanmar will help demonstrate to the local community why so many flee their country, said Rev. Mark Caruana, pastor of the Tabernacle Baptist Church in downtown Utica. The church helps Karen refugees, who are Baptist, by providing them with clothes, rice cookers and food. Utica is the second-largest community for ethnic Karen in the United States for the American Baptist denomination, he said.
“It raises sensitivity towards the needs of the refugees,” he said.
The majority of refugees from Myanmar are Karen. However there are also Karenni, Burman, Arakanese, Shan, and Mon that either have arrived or will arrive in Utica, according to refugee center officials.
New home
The apartment is sparsely furnished. The living room has one bed. No couches, no tables. The walls are stripped bare. But for Oh Mar, San Win, Aung Thi Ha, and Cho Lay, it is just a matter of days before it all changes.
From bamboo huts and oppression in Myanmar and near-starvation in Thai refugee camps, it has been a long journey.
Mar, 27, wants to study science in a college. She would like to become a journalist, she said.
“I have plans,” she said.
Aung Thi Ha, 21, wants to get more money to buy snow coats. And yes, he would like to have more friends.
There is no more living in fear. Thi Ha goes to the mosque on Kemble Street at least three times a day to pray. It is the month of Ramadan. In the evening, all four break the fast with rice, chicken, fish, fruits and juice.
And for Eid-Ul-Fitr on Saturday, the women are excited about wearing new clothes, cooking traditional food and inviting friends over. In Myanmar, it hadn’t been so.
“This is freedom country,” Mar said.
Community pulls together to help refugees
Oct 09, 2007 @ 10:41 PM
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
While there will always be needs and demands for refugees, local agencies are trying to make the transition smooth.
As the refugee center tries to step up the resettlement process, it is partnering with churches, schools and other service providers to help.
In response to the increase in Burmese arrivals, the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees has hired a number of Burmese/Karen speakers as case workers, employment specialists, and some Burmese/Karen speakers for interpretation and translation, particularly in hospitals, officials said.
Currently, the refugee center has 10 Burmese/Karen speakers working with the center in addition to numerous volunteers, according to officials.
An increase in funding made it possible for the refugee center to hire linguistically and culturally appropriate staff to work with the new arrivals. On average, a new arrival will have a Social Security card issued within 45 days after arrival, Resource Center Executive Director Peter Vogelaar said.
So far, medical checks for new arrivals have not posed any problems. Patrice Bogan of the Oneida County Health Department said with smaller numbers, health assessment is faster. However, with more refugees coming in, the staff is busier, but they expect to complete it within the stipulated 90-day period.
“I anticipate it won’t be a problem,” she said.
However, Cornelia Brown of Multicultural Association of Medical Interpreters, said it is some times difficult to fill in demands for Burmese interpreters.
Currently, they have one Burmese interpreter.
“We need more. Because of a large number, there is more demand,” she said. “As soon as we reach a critical point, we will hire more.”
For Saw Chit, spokesperson of the Utica Karen Organization, there aren’t enough Karen people on refugee center staff considering the number of new arrivals seeking help. Often, it takes months for them to get jobs or even a driver’s license, he said.
“We need more people,” he said. “People have to wait a long time. They don’t know where to go, how to go. Karen people should have more help.”
“When they encounter problems with the bureaucracy, they become frustrated,” said Rev. Mark Caruana, pastor of the Tabernacle Baptist Church in downtown Utica. “They are not asking for too much.”
Learning English, job training, living in an apartment, maintaining it, transportation, and adapting to 2 feet of snow are a few of the initial challenges for these refugees, he said.
Iraqi Refugee update
In the fiscal year ending Sept. 30, only 1,608 Iraqi refugees have come to United States. The state department set the target at 2,000 for fiscal year 2007.
“We focused on 2,000 as a more realistic goal,” said Rob McInturff, a state department spokesperson.
In fiscal year 2008, the target has been set at admitting around 1,000 Iraqi refugees to United States every month, McInturff said. The refugees will most likely not be coming to Utica.
“We have not resettled any Iraqi refugees in recent years,” said MVRCR Executive Director Peter Vogelaar. “I do not anticipate any Iraqi arrivals to Utica while we are resettling so many Burmese.”
* Refugees have arrived from at least 23 different countries in 28 years.
* At least 10 percent of Uticans are considered refugees.
* The largest single group of refugees has been Bosnian.
* This decade, Utica has seen close to 600 refugees arrive either directly or indirectly from Myanmar, formerly Burma. Another 250 to 300 people are expected in coming months.
MYANMAR AND THE U.S.
* The Karen National Union fighting the government in Myanmar is considered a terrorist group, and under the Material Support Provision of the 2001 Patriot Act, anyone seen as helping such an organization is not supposed to be allowed in the country.
Condoleezza Rice waived that exclusion in 2006 for thousands of the more than 100,000 Karen refugees living in camps on Thailand’s border with Myanmar.
* Some have lived in the camps for more than 20 years, and the numbers have grown as thousands have fled from attacks by the Myanmar army over the last 10 years, according to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees.
* The State Department designated the refugees a “population of special humanitarian concern to the United States due to the privations they have experienced” and determined that resettlement was the only “durable solution” for many, according to information on the State Department's Web site.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
lost in the making
the india of today intimidates me, scares me...me who was all confident of walking through its streets brimming with people, of the very life that i missed, the pulse i craved for, the stinking sweaty smell and curry chicken and cousins and the colors that is home.
so much has changed. things have become expensive and holidays are not the same. long ago, over ramadan neighbors and friends would send the iftari and invite all to the festivities...now, they tell me it is so expensive they can't afford to cook nice dishes themselves.
well, so much for that...
i don't belong anywhere and if I ever did, it would be the verandah i sit in...book in hand, staring into space, the space i once inhabited, the space which has failed to suck me in this time for i have drifted afar, so far i can't be reclaimed or redeemed...
but this is the closest i can get to home. home is what we all keep in the dark, deep recesses of our minds. the idea of it lurks in the expanse of the heart, the soul with the good and the bad mixed, one overpowering the other...sometimes giving in to the dark lord, sometimes the white old man, the good god, crying out triumphantly...confirming the good over the bad as we all say and find comfort in
myopic i have turned or the vice versa. i don't much concern myself with the correct terminology...at any rate not of all this scientific jargon for i was never good at it, screwed up the most basic experiments
everything looks shrunken. i click pics, and stare at them for long hours trying to solve the mystery which is so annoying
each year i go back, things become smaller, distances seem shrunken as if someone put a cashmere shawl, a precious heirloom, passed down from generations, a figment of the past, so important, into a dryer and it came out shrunken, like a kids' muffler
but back to the reality of the life here. mosquitoes bite me in dozen places and mountains and plateaus form aplenty on my body as a cnsequence but i hold on, waiting for something...what is it I don't know
maybe not. for the soul never connects right, it is the illusion it falls for and is forever trapped into
love is for the mighty. i was always the meek one...forever escaping the pain, and in it also missing out on the pleasure, if love ever offered any
once i failed, the courage failed me the second time, maybe the third. who can keep count of not-so-measurable emotions...they always deceive, don't they
here, now and then, i want to connect with the lost world, the life that was and will never be again, i want to sit and mourn, a silent mourning, shedidng of small tears for its passing...for what was will never be...at any rate now how it was
revisitations are for the dreamy-eyed, in the real world they call them lunatics
forever they, the lunatics, mourn the loss of innocence and feign it in order to be for the past is their connection to the life force
me, no...i am sane, rendered so by this world.
ranting is not for me so i vomit it out on the kkeypad for we have outgrown, outlived the era of pen and paper and here i see my old notebooks where i scribbled shakespeare poetry in chelpark ink and i want to revisit but alas, no time machine for us. we were born in the twilight zone. the science stripped us of the innocence, telling us things that we feared most, making us lose our faith and dignity to the machines, enslaving us, but again no time machine for science teased us, keeping us suspended in time, in place and in universe...and we traveled through mindspaces, in the hazy spaces blurring lines between what happened and what memory, which is not so reliable, made it seem like
no time machines...science played the trick here
however much we yearned for the push into the future or be thrown back into the past, it won't let us
while we continue to walk in the lands of memory, unreal, surreal, dark, yet oozing bulb-like lights in places lest we fall and come out of the stupor...
yes, we walk
we, the hybrids, continue to close the distance between continents and increase by immeasurable yards the space between the self and the created...for in transit we grow tired, we lose and give up
so much has changed. things have become expensive and holidays are not the same. long ago, over ramadan neighbors and friends would send the iftari and invite all to the festivities...now, they tell me it is so expensive they can't afford to cook nice dishes themselves.
well, so much for that...
i don't belong anywhere and if I ever did, it would be the verandah i sit in...book in hand, staring into space, the space i once inhabited, the space which has failed to suck me in this time for i have drifted afar, so far i can't be reclaimed or redeemed...
but this is the closest i can get to home. home is what we all keep in the dark, deep recesses of our minds. the idea of it lurks in the expanse of the heart, the soul with the good and the bad mixed, one overpowering the other...sometimes giving in to the dark lord, sometimes the white old man, the good god, crying out triumphantly...confirming the good over the bad as we all say and find comfort in
myopic i have turned or the vice versa. i don't much concern myself with the correct terminology...at any rate not of all this scientific jargon for i was never good at it, screwed up the most basic experiments
everything looks shrunken. i click pics, and stare at them for long hours trying to solve the mystery which is so annoying
each year i go back, things become smaller, distances seem shrunken as if someone put a cashmere shawl, a precious heirloom, passed down from generations, a figment of the past, so important, into a dryer and it came out shrunken, like a kids' muffler
but back to the reality of the life here. mosquitoes bite me in dozen places and mountains and plateaus form aplenty on my body as a cnsequence but i hold on, waiting for something...what is it I don't know
maybe not. for the soul never connects right, it is the illusion it falls for and is forever trapped into
love is for the mighty. i was always the meek one...forever escaping the pain, and in it also missing out on the pleasure, if love ever offered any
once i failed, the courage failed me the second time, maybe the third. who can keep count of not-so-measurable emotions...they always deceive, don't they
here, now and then, i want to connect with the lost world, the life that was and will never be again, i want to sit and mourn, a silent mourning, shedidng of small tears for its passing...for what was will never be...at any rate now how it was
revisitations are for the dreamy-eyed, in the real world they call them lunatics
forever they, the lunatics, mourn the loss of innocence and feign it in order to be for the past is their connection to the life force
me, no...i am sane, rendered so by this world.
ranting is not for me so i vomit it out on the kkeypad for we have outgrown, outlived the era of pen and paper and here i see my old notebooks where i scribbled shakespeare poetry in chelpark ink and i want to revisit but alas, no time machine for us. we were born in the twilight zone. the science stripped us of the innocence, telling us things that we feared most, making us lose our faith and dignity to the machines, enslaving us, but again no time machine for science teased us, keeping us suspended in time, in place and in universe...and we traveled through mindspaces, in the hazy spaces blurring lines between what happened and what memory, which is not so reliable, made it seem like
no time machines...science played the trick here
however much we yearned for the push into the future or be thrown back into the past, it won't let us
while we continue to walk in the lands of memory, unreal, surreal, dark, yet oozing bulb-like lights in places lest we fall and come out of the stupor...
yes, we walk
we, the hybrids, continue to close the distance between continents and increase by immeasurable yards the space between the self and the created...for in transit we grow tired, we lose and give up
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
walking through the glass doors
the confessions have yet to come
for i have no soul
no goddamn soul to rake the ashes
for i fear the fire will kindle again
and burn all
exhume the possibility of a rare moment
a moment where i shall be in peace yet again, when i will walk unfazed
for long i have been in denial
seeing not what lay before me
overlooking perhaps
i cry over the lost world
shed many in its passing
for that which is gone
will never return
on closed doors
i knock, pound and knock yet again
i pause
consider, think of the rights and the wrongs of the past
all behind the shut doors
do i dare confront them
the lies, twisted truths
the betreyals, stories of passion, pain of goodbyes
the naked truth
the ugly reality
oh, how long shall i squirm in my seat
how long will i delay the admittance
the fire burns
hot embers, red and orange
it is an angry fire
eager to burn
it spreads
it is wild too like me
it invites me to step into it
i hesitate
but it spreads
like i don't matter
i will have to pass throrugh it
i am in the purgatory
long i have borne the illnesss
like cancer it spread
now i must burn it
and burn my skin, my soul with it
yes, it hurt then
a year later, i am still inching toward sanity
long i have kept a face
denying the pain, proclaiming it did not matter at all
so long the smile started to hurt
now, when i see the 'other' in your life
it feels like a scorpion sting
the poison spreading
and i become angry
but they say
with anger comes the confession
the strength to walk through the glass doors, beyond it
where the grass grows tall
i had been trapped within those
not seeing them, always yearning for what lay on the other side
my past
and i shed a tear, just one
for that lost world
as i glance back at what burns behind those glass doors
and i walk
for i have no soul
no goddamn soul to rake the ashes
for i fear the fire will kindle again
and burn all
exhume the possibility of a rare moment
a moment where i shall be in peace yet again, when i will walk unfazed
for long i have been in denial
seeing not what lay before me
overlooking perhaps
i cry over the lost world
shed many in its passing
for that which is gone
will never return
on closed doors
i knock, pound and knock yet again
i pause
consider, think of the rights and the wrongs of the past
all behind the shut doors
do i dare confront them
the lies, twisted truths
the betreyals, stories of passion, pain of goodbyes
the naked truth
the ugly reality
oh, how long shall i squirm in my seat
how long will i delay the admittance
the fire burns
hot embers, red and orange
it is an angry fire
eager to burn
it spreads
it is wild too like me
it invites me to step into it
i hesitate
but it spreads
like i don't matter
i will have to pass throrugh it
i am in the purgatory
long i have borne the illnesss
like cancer it spread
now i must burn it
and burn my skin, my soul with it
yes, it hurt then
a year later, i am still inching toward sanity
long i have kept a face
denying the pain, proclaiming it did not matter at all
so long the smile started to hurt
now, when i see the 'other' in your life
it feels like a scorpion sting
the poison spreading
and i become angry
but they say
with anger comes the confession
the strength to walk through the glass doors, beyond it
where the grass grows tall
i had been trapped within those
not seeing them, always yearning for what lay on the other side
my past
and i shed a tear, just one
for that lost world
as i glance back at what burns behind those glass doors
and i walk
Friday, August 10, 2007
in the land of abundance...
My beautiful Africa, my land, my fields
the mud walls of my hut
the lantern in there, the shadows on the wall of my people
the smell of the familiar cooking
rice and meat and vegetables
ah, the maize too
delicious, he says
the mattress here hurts
the lights, the comforts
he would turn them in for home
He does not understand America
they pass by him
never acknowledge him
the white men, women
they smoke together, they go out together
they never ask him
he smokes by himself thinking of home
how they all shared stories
and cigarettes too
this is different
so different it confuses him
he does not how to behave
they tell him, no advise him
smile always, say thank you always
and ask "how are you?" always, to anyone on the street
weird, he thinks
can't go back, he says aloud
so that he can hear it too
but this is not home, he says in a meek voice
lest they call him ungrateful
for all the mercy they showed in the promised land
he eats well here
but he does not relish the taste
at the stores, he sees big eggplants, big onions
abundance is America, he feels
by the dumpster, he sees them throwing away doughnuts, pizzas, everything
he could feed so many back home with all that
can he just take them home?
no, they tell him
they can't, the law does not permit them
he argues
i will eat them, it will be dinner for me, my children, my neighbors
they cost so much, i can't afford them with my minimum wages
no, no, they repeat
what if you sue us? what if this food is bad?
no, it looks fine
don't throw it
i starved for many days
i drank urine, chewed leaves
on the way to kenya
they throw it nonetheless
he gasps
can he redeem them from the garbage after they leave?
yes, of course, the heart cries out
the mind says...no, don't
In America they don't do it
they would call you uncivilized if you did
and he walks away
with a heavy heart, with a guilty mind
my people there
oh, i know how they survive
so many have never tasted a doughnut
never dug their teeth into the cheesy layers of the pizza
wonder what they would say
the mud walls of my hut
the lantern in there, the shadows on the wall of my people
the smell of the familiar cooking
rice and meat and vegetables
ah, the maize too
delicious, he says
the mattress here hurts
the lights, the comforts
he would turn them in for home
He does not understand America
they pass by him
never acknowledge him
the white men, women
they smoke together, they go out together
they never ask him
he smokes by himself thinking of home
how they all shared stories
and cigarettes too
this is different
so different it confuses him
he does not how to behave
they tell him, no advise him
smile always, say thank you always
and ask "how are you?" always, to anyone on the street
weird, he thinks
can't go back, he says aloud
so that he can hear it too
but this is not home, he says in a meek voice
lest they call him ungrateful
for all the mercy they showed in the promised land
he eats well here
but he does not relish the taste
at the stores, he sees big eggplants, big onions
abundance is America, he feels
by the dumpster, he sees them throwing away doughnuts, pizzas, everything
he could feed so many back home with all that
can he just take them home?
no, they tell him
they can't, the law does not permit them
he argues
i will eat them, it will be dinner for me, my children, my neighbors
they cost so much, i can't afford them with my minimum wages
no, no, they repeat
what if you sue us? what if this food is bad?
no, it looks fine
don't throw it
i starved for many days
i drank urine, chewed leaves
on the way to kenya
they throw it nonetheless
he gasps
can he redeem them from the garbage after they leave?
yes, of course, the heart cries out
the mind says...no, don't
In America they don't do it
they would call you uncivilized if you did
and he walks away
with a heavy heart, with a guilty mind
my people there
oh, i know how they survive
so many have never tasted a doughnut
never dug their teeth into the cheesy layers of the pizza
wonder what they would say
Thursday, August 09, 2007
the flashes
it comes in flashes
it is there now
no, it's gone
and I wait
it comes again
there it is, hazy, voices muffled
while i am driving or cooking or looking out of the window
i steer the wheel too much, skip red lights, even hit the curb
the tea boils over staining the stove
while i try to hold on to the glimpse just one more second
it's precious, but it's fleeting
never stays
and i wait by the window
for it to show me who i am
long hours go by
and i devour the smells, all i can
to force the moment
but no...it doesn't come
i boarded the train from patna, then a flight to America
hoping for nothing, yet desiring so much
i slept the whole journey, waking up in my dreams
oh, they were manufactured dreams
ready-made perhaps
I had woven in my memories, experiences, scents, sights and all
all I could pack in
all that would remain
there was the lemon tree, the orange flowers on the vine
the flower pots on the old window sill
my aunt's bed that smelt of IODEX and balms
so soothing
and so much more
i did not want to lose them all
so I stored them
visiting them quietly
so they remain pristine
uncorrupted by the new
it is there now
no, it's gone
and I wait
it comes again
there it is, hazy, voices muffled
while i am driving or cooking or looking out of the window
i steer the wheel too much, skip red lights, even hit the curb
the tea boils over staining the stove
while i try to hold on to the glimpse just one more second
it's precious, but it's fleeting
never stays
and i wait by the window
for it to show me who i am
long hours go by
and i devour the smells, all i can
to force the moment
but no...it doesn't come
i boarded the train from patna, then a flight to America
hoping for nothing, yet desiring so much
i slept the whole journey, waking up in my dreams
oh, they were manufactured dreams
ready-made perhaps
I had woven in my memories, experiences, scents, sights and all
all I could pack in
all that would remain
there was the lemon tree, the orange flowers on the vine
the flower pots on the old window sill
my aunt's bed that smelt of IODEX and balms
so soothing
and so much more
i did not want to lose them all
so I stored them
visiting them quietly
so they remain pristine
uncorrupted by the new
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
an idea hijacked, distorted and commercialised...where are we headed?
the commentary on hippifest...
it was funny how the they sold an idea...and how it became a fashion statement more than anything else. at first, i was angry, then amused and then angry again. here is the commentary that was published in Observer-Dispatch July 29,2007.
Meant to be a general assignment on the fest, I just could not write a straight piece on how people were enjoying. It had to be this way. Sometimes, we write to let it out.
Peace, love — and Christian Dior?
Past, present mingle at Vernon Downs' Hippiefest
July 29, 2007
By Chinki Sinha
VERNON — At first glance, a walk through Vernon Downs on Saturday seemed like a trip into the past.
On men's bare chests, painted peace lockets proclaimed "make love, not war."
"Peace for all, freedom for all," some Hippiefest fans shouted.
As bands such as The Turtles took the stage, long-haired people wearing tie-dye cheered.
Look more closely, however, and Hippiefest was very much an event of the present.
Some concert fans sported Coach bags and Christian Dior sunglasses.
Tickets cost $30, and everyone was searched before entering.
A beer sponsorship advertisement hung on top of the stage, while people bought $5 beers and listened to the music that brought back the ideas they had once stood for.
June Fillman of Lyons says she grew up in the Hippie Era but had never been to a concert because she became a mom. Attending this concert made her feel 19 once again.
"I'm a flower child," Fillman said, pointing to her heavily-embroidered purple outfit.
Still, she noted the contrasts between the free-and-easy past and the corporate-dominated present.
No one could bring drinks in to Hippiefest, not even water.
"Back then, you could take drinks and food in," Fillman said. "Here, if you're thirsty, you have to buy a $3 soda."
She shrugged.
"It's today world," she said.
That world simply means survival for Vernon Downs. The harness track continues its attempts at revival following years of bankruptcy and a dark track. New video lottery gambling machines are part of the effort to become profitable.
And so, strangely, is Hippiefest.
Bringing in a tour of countercultural favorites from nearly four decades ago — The Zombies, Mountain, Mitch Ryder, Badfinger and Country Joe McDonald, among them — offered an opportunity to draw attention and crowds to the Downs. Not to mention an infusion of funds.
"It's all for profit," regional marketing director Douglas Tudman said of the concert's primary goal.
He acknowledged he was hoping for a turnout of 3,500 people by evening. During the afternoon, there were maybe 500 or 600 people present. It wasn't clear late in the day if Tudman's attendance goal would be met.
Across the track infield, people sat in lawn chairs wearing tie-dye and beads. Some adorned themselves with leaves and flowers.
Older fans squeezed into decades-old clothing, while young people simply bought the styles. For those without, Hippiefest shirts went for $35.
The concert had an anti-profanity rule in place. Many fans routinely flouted it.
Beers in hand, they smoked. They danced. They spoke of peace and happiness and freedom. And then about peace again.
In the 1960s, it was Vietnam that galvanized the Hippie movement. Today, some said, it's Iraq.
Eddie Johnson was there to sell beer. He said the 1970s music that Hippiefest bands played was a bonus for him because he enjoys it.
He was quite pleased with the pace at which fans were buying the $5 beers.
"It's beautiful as long as they're buying beer,"Johnson said.
Beyond all the $5 beer and $3 Cokes and anti-profanity rules, it was modern-day hippies such as Andrew Gray of Verona, 43, who caught the day's vibe.
Gray, who also goes by Ghandii, saw the concert as historical.
Attached to his ear and nearly covered by his long hair, Gray wore a purple feather similar to a Native American dreamcatcher. He described himself as an advocate of peace and camaraderie.
"Look at the people here," Gray said. "They are not here for commercialization. They are here for the music."
Friends of 45 years
July 29, 2007
Friends of 45 years
Sometimes traveling down memory lane doesn't come cheap, said Mary Hill and Teri Mayo, friends for 45 years.
The tickets were $30 each, the peace sign that hung around their waists cost $1 and the beers and sodas were "too much."
"They are selling peace for a dollar and don't forget the taxes," Hill said, pointing to the green peace sign. "It's typical of 2007. They are taking away from the Hippie freedom."
Bringing in food or drinks to the event wasn't allowed.
"We should have the freedom of choice. I got searched," Hill said. "Jesus, this is a Hippiefest."
But the friends did not mind so much. They were babies during the Hippie era, they said, always "wannabe hippies". Wearing beads, flowing skirts, tye-dye tees, they made peace signs, danced to the music and drank beer. Peace is what being a hippie means, they said.
'Flower power times'
They wore "granny" sunglasses and swayed to the music from the 1970s.
John George wore floral-print pants and a jacket, while Anne DiDominick wore a headband from the '70s and a necklace with "peace" written on it. The hippies in them had waited for this moment.
"Today we are from the flower power times," George said. "We are normal people ... with 8 to 5 jobs."
"We feel 40 years younger," DiDominick said. "It's hysterical. Lots of memories."
— Chinki Sinha, O-D
it was funny how the they sold an idea...and how it became a fashion statement more than anything else. at first, i was angry, then amused and then angry again. here is the commentary that was published in Observer-Dispatch July 29,2007.
Meant to be a general assignment on the fest, I just could not write a straight piece on how people were enjoying. It had to be this way. Sometimes, we write to let it out.
Peace, love — and Christian Dior?
Past, present mingle at Vernon Downs' Hippiefest
July 29, 2007
By Chinki Sinha
VERNON — At first glance, a walk through Vernon Downs on Saturday seemed like a trip into the past.
On men's bare chests, painted peace lockets proclaimed "make love, not war."
"Peace for all, freedom for all," some Hippiefest fans shouted.
As bands such as The Turtles took the stage, long-haired people wearing tie-dye cheered.
Look more closely, however, and Hippiefest was very much an event of the present.
Some concert fans sported Coach bags and Christian Dior sunglasses.
Tickets cost $30, and everyone was searched before entering.
A beer sponsorship advertisement hung on top of the stage, while people bought $5 beers and listened to the music that brought back the ideas they had once stood for.
June Fillman of Lyons says she grew up in the Hippie Era but had never been to a concert because she became a mom. Attending this concert made her feel 19 once again.
"I'm a flower child," Fillman said, pointing to her heavily-embroidered purple outfit.
Still, she noted the contrasts between the free-and-easy past and the corporate-dominated present.
No one could bring drinks in to Hippiefest, not even water.
"Back then, you could take drinks and food in," Fillman said. "Here, if you're thirsty, you have to buy a $3 soda."
She shrugged.
"It's today world," she said.
That world simply means survival for Vernon Downs. The harness track continues its attempts at revival following years of bankruptcy and a dark track. New video lottery gambling machines are part of the effort to become profitable.
And so, strangely, is Hippiefest.
Bringing in a tour of countercultural favorites from nearly four decades ago — The Zombies, Mountain, Mitch Ryder, Badfinger and Country Joe McDonald, among them — offered an opportunity to draw attention and crowds to the Downs. Not to mention an infusion of funds.
"It's all for profit," regional marketing director Douglas Tudman said of the concert's primary goal.
He acknowledged he was hoping for a turnout of 3,500 people by evening. During the afternoon, there were maybe 500 or 600 people present. It wasn't clear late in the day if Tudman's attendance goal would be met.
Across the track infield, people sat in lawn chairs wearing tie-dye and beads. Some adorned themselves with leaves and flowers.
Older fans squeezed into decades-old clothing, while young people simply bought the styles. For those without, Hippiefest shirts went for $35.
The concert had an anti-profanity rule in place. Many fans routinely flouted it.
Beers in hand, they smoked. They danced. They spoke of peace and happiness and freedom. And then about peace again.
In the 1960s, it was Vietnam that galvanized the Hippie movement. Today, some said, it's Iraq.
Eddie Johnson was there to sell beer. He said the 1970s music that Hippiefest bands played was a bonus for him because he enjoys it.
He was quite pleased with the pace at which fans were buying the $5 beers.
"It's beautiful as long as they're buying beer,"Johnson said.
Beyond all the $5 beer and $3 Cokes and anti-profanity rules, it was modern-day hippies such as Andrew Gray of Verona, 43, who caught the day's vibe.
Gray, who also goes by Ghandii, saw the concert as historical.
Attached to his ear and nearly covered by his long hair, Gray wore a purple feather similar to a Native American dreamcatcher. He described himself as an advocate of peace and camaraderie.
"Look at the people here," Gray said. "They are not here for commercialization. They are here for the music."
Friends of 45 years
July 29, 2007
Friends of 45 years
Sometimes traveling down memory lane doesn't come cheap, said Mary Hill and Teri Mayo, friends for 45 years.
The tickets were $30 each, the peace sign that hung around their waists cost $1 and the beers and sodas were "too much."
"They are selling peace for a dollar and don't forget the taxes," Hill said, pointing to the green peace sign. "It's typical of 2007. They are taking away from the Hippie freedom."
Bringing in food or drinks to the event wasn't allowed.
"We should have the freedom of choice. I got searched," Hill said. "Jesus, this is a Hippiefest."
But the friends did not mind so much. They were babies during the Hippie era, they said, always "wannabe hippies". Wearing beads, flowing skirts, tye-dye tees, they made peace signs, danced to the music and drank beer. Peace is what being a hippie means, they said.
'Flower power times'
They wore "granny" sunglasses and swayed to the music from the 1970s.
John George wore floral-print pants and a jacket, while Anne DiDominick wore a headband from the '70s and a necklace with "peace" written on it. The hippies in them had waited for this moment.
"Today we are from the flower power times," George said. "We are normal people ... with 8 to 5 jobs."
"We feel 40 years younger," DiDominick said. "It's hysterical. Lots of memories."
— Chinki Sinha, O-D
Saturday, July 28, 2007
my tryst with America
in the crowd, which swayed to the music from the 1970, wore peace signs on them, had tucked flowers in their hair...mostly people who were the flower children, i felt home. not because i am wannabe hippie but because the abandon with which they relived their past got on to me.
I should have been born then...then when the movements hadn't been hijacked, when crass commercialism hadn't been so rampant when it did not take away from the idea...when things had not been corrupted so much.
everything costs now...peace too or maybe stading for it. At the Hippiefest, a beer adverstisement hung on top of the stage...to me it took away from all that being hippie stood for. money rules. we are slaves..not free anymore
more later...
I should have been born then...then when the movements hadn't been hijacked, when crass commercialism hadn't been so rampant when it did not take away from the idea...when things had not been corrupted so much.
everything costs now...peace too or maybe stading for it. At the Hippiefest, a beer adverstisement hung on top of the stage...to me it took away from all that being hippie stood for. money rules. we are slaves..not free anymore
more later...
Monday, May 21, 2007
bombay...
the waves crashing against the rocks
the energy unmatched, unthinkable
the waves...
they are huge
unbound and strong
yet frustrate themselves trying to take over the city
the city...its buildings stand tall
overlooking, assessing the waves in their regalia
mocking them in their space
"back off"...they say
it is night time in the city
and lights reflect on the waves, the sea is never calm
maybe it takes from the city's throbbing energy
so full that it engulfs all
all that come into that ever-sprawling city
adding suburbs after suburbs to its expanse
claiming the sea too
for land to house us all
who come to it to be consumed
taken away, swept away
the energy unmatched, unthinkable
the waves...
they are huge
unbound and strong
yet frustrate themselves trying to take over the city
the city...its buildings stand tall
overlooking, assessing the waves in their regalia
mocking them in their space
"back off"...they say
it is night time in the city
and lights reflect on the waves, the sea is never calm
maybe it takes from the city's throbbing energy
so full that it engulfs all
all that come into that ever-sprawling city
adding suburbs after suburbs to its expanse
claiming the sea too
for land to house us all
who come to it to be consumed
taken away, swept away
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
a shard of poetry that encompasses the refugee experience
buraambur composed by Hawa Jibril in Toronto
Indeed Canadians welcome refugees
And do not let them starve
Yet one is always unsatisfied and broke
For the little we get
Hardly suffices our food and shelter.
They are strange people coming from everywhere
Never notice you or even greet you
Each one keeps to himself
Always hastily locking his door.
I feel isolated and sick with loneliness
Deprived from my beautiful Africa
And the land of my inspirations and songs.
I must be contended with the fate
That my God has reserved for me.
Indeed Canadians welcome refugees
And do not let them starve
Yet one is always unsatisfied and broke
For the little we get
Hardly suffices our food and shelter.
They are strange people coming from everywhere
Never notice you or even greet you
Each one keeps to himself
Always hastily locking his door.
I feel isolated and sick with loneliness
Deprived from my beautiful Africa
And the land of my inspirations and songs.
I must be contended with the fate
That my God has reserved for me.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
i call out to the dead
I see the dead
sometimes...
many times
in my dreams they come
and at times linger on
even in my dreams
i know they are long dead
but they don't scare me
not more than a mice would
I saw my granmother once
my aunt propping pillows
so that she could sit up
she was back
and the mattress, rolled over since she died, was being spread again
gangajali dusted the room
lit some incense too
and my grandmother looked around
i caught her eye
and we looked at each other for a long time
i wanted to ask her
how was the land of the dead?
why do you return?
And will you go back again?
Sometimes the dead call out to me
and I listen
the calling faint and muffled
and I wake up
and find nobody
They are the ghosts of my past
dead long ago when I was just a child
now they revisit me
and we talk
I am always in the old rooms where they once lived
where my grandmother chewed her betel nuts
and my grandfather read his law books
They don't come to where I live
perhaps they would feel misplaced too like me
if they did
so i travel to them
And I long for those conversations
but they haven't come in a long time
and I wonder why
And I call out to them
come visit me
come to me from whereever you are
and let's talk about home and the past
I am a dweller of the past
like them I do not belong anywhere
like them i am restless too
they are the living dead
and i am a walking ghost
sometimes...
many times
in my dreams they come
and at times linger on
even in my dreams
i know they are long dead
but they don't scare me
not more than a mice would
I saw my granmother once
my aunt propping pillows
so that she could sit up
she was back
and the mattress, rolled over since she died, was being spread again
gangajali dusted the room
lit some incense too
and my grandmother looked around
i caught her eye
and we looked at each other for a long time
i wanted to ask her
how was the land of the dead?
why do you return?
And will you go back again?
Sometimes the dead call out to me
and I listen
the calling faint and muffled
and I wake up
and find nobody
They are the ghosts of my past
dead long ago when I was just a child
now they revisit me
and we talk
I am always in the old rooms where they once lived
where my grandmother chewed her betel nuts
and my grandfather read his law books
They don't come to where I live
perhaps they would feel misplaced too like me
if they did
so i travel to them
And I long for those conversations
but they haven't come in a long time
and I wonder why
And I call out to them
come visit me
come to me from whereever you are
and let's talk about home and the past
I am a dweller of the past
like them I do not belong anywhere
like them i am restless too
they are the living dead
and i am a walking ghost
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
the smells of my past
the smell is a connector
everytime the rain falls and the grass is soaked
and the earth is drenched
the smell seeps in my house, my lungs and my soul
and my spirit dances with complete abandon
drunk with the smell
enchanted with its richness
it is same smell, the smell of my being
I breathe in too much
and quickly too
and keep doing it
Because I know soon the sky will be clear
and the light will pierce through the intricate web of dreams and memories
I wove in my drunken stupor
and the dance will come to a halt
the cruel, brutal light
so bright it hurts the eyes
and scorches the soul
it rips apart my little world
like a hot rod through flesh
then I turn inwards
to shut off that light
i rummage through the stuff in my old suitcase
a black one, the straps coming off
the buckles rusted
i sniff through the papers, i scan the pictures
somewhere in those old letters, crinkled books, faded photos
I live
drugged by the weak smells
Someplace in those little pockets of the old suitcase
my childhood lingers
waiting to be rescued
that suitcase, tucked away in the closet
with all its smells and sights
is my escape
and my solace
a retreat and a refuge
everytime the rain falls and the grass is soaked
and the earth is drenched
the smell seeps in my house, my lungs and my soul
and my spirit dances with complete abandon
drunk with the smell
enchanted with its richness
it is same smell, the smell of my being
I breathe in too much
and quickly too
and keep doing it
Because I know soon the sky will be clear
and the light will pierce through the intricate web of dreams and memories
I wove in my drunken stupor
and the dance will come to a halt
the cruel, brutal light
so bright it hurts the eyes
and scorches the soul
it rips apart my little world
like a hot rod through flesh
then I turn inwards
to shut off that light
i rummage through the stuff in my old suitcase
a black one, the straps coming off
the buckles rusted
i sniff through the papers, i scan the pictures
somewhere in those old letters, crinkled books, faded photos
I live
drugged by the weak smells
Someplace in those little pockets of the old suitcase
my childhood lingers
waiting to be rescued
that suitcase, tucked away in the closet
with all its smells and sights
is my escape
and my solace
a retreat and a refuge
Monday, April 23, 2007
the unseenamerica exhibit
When I attended the unseenamerica NYS class, I did not anticipate so many would turn up at the refugee center to see the pictures. The pictures were hung in the hallway and it was like a journey of its own...offering a glimpse into a refugee's life in a strange land. The connections with the past were so visible...the eagerness to merge with the new also visible in the smiles.
And i went around comparing the similarities in my own little house with those in those haunting pictures.
The story was published in Utica Observer-Dispatch April 21. I am copying the text here.
Refugees capture lives through lens
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
csinha@utica.gannett.com
UTICA- The photograph of a refugee sleeping at the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees taken by Bosnian refugee Tatjana Kulalic touched Hamilton College student Rita Tran.
Tran was among those Friday taking in the unseenamerica NYS project on display at the refugee center. The caption of Kulalic's photo described how refugees are always waiting for something.
"It hit me that you are always waiting," Tran said. "The pictures are so simple yet they tell you a lot."
For many community members, the exhibit of about 50 photos shot by 15 refugees offered insight into the struggles of adapting to a new culture, new weather and new people. Hamilton College student Emily Powell said the pictures showed how hard it is for refugees trying to cross over to a different country and another culture.
unseenamerica NYS, a project that gives cameras to working-class people so they can document their lives, worked with refugees in the Utica area to put together the exhibit. It is open for public viewing until Memorial Day.
The pictures show everyday life in a refugee household, pictures of snow and the city of Utica.
Sylvia Wilson, a visiting chaplain from Atlanta at Hamilton College, said she had heard of the strong refugee presence in the area. She learned about their lives through the photos that hung in the hallway at the refugee center.
"They are beautiful snapshots of these people and their lives," she said.
All the pictures had captions underneath them written by refugees describing the scene or the context.
Joan Carlon, who came from Syracuse, said the descriptions were powerful.
"It is compelling ... to give up everything and try to change," she said.
Connie Frisbee Houde, a photographer who helped with the project, said she loved the diversity communicated through the descriptions.
"You get a view into the person who took these," she said. "They are looking at it in a different way."
Utica is home to many refugees from around the world, and refugees make up about 15 percent of the city's population. Through projects such as unseenamerica NYS, the refugee center is trying to showcase the region's new residents to the community, said Daniel Sargent, director of multicultural affairs at the center.
One of the refugee center's missions is to help refugees lead a dignified life and Sargent said the exhibit supports that mission. A refugee's life is not just about struggles, and they can be artists, too, he said.
"It is going to add sophistication to the refugees," he said. "Rarely do we see refugees having a sublime vision."
Sidi Chivala, whose pictures were on display, said he was excited to see so many people at the show.
To him, the photographs served as a bridge to the community and helped local residents understand where refugees are coming from.
"People know who I am," he said. "Now they will have a background."
And i went around comparing the similarities in my own little house with those in those haunting pictures.
The story was published in Utica Observer-Dispatch April 21. I am copying the text here.
Refugees capture lives through lens
By CHINKI SINHA
Observer-Dispatch
csinha@utica.gannett.com
UTICA- The photograph of a refugee sleeping at the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees taken by Bosnian refugee Tatjana Kulalic touched Hamilton College student Rita Tran.
Tran was among those Friday taking in the unseenamerica NYS project on display at the refugee center. The caption of Kulalic's photo described how refugees are always waiting for something.
"It hit me that you are always waiting," Tran said. "The pictures are so simple yet they tell you a lot."
For many community members, the exhibit of about 50 photos shot by 15 refugees offered insight into the struggles of adapting to a new culture, new weather and new people. Hamilton College student Emily Powell said the pictures showed how hard it is for refugees trying to cross over to a different country and another culture.
unseenamerica NYS, a project that gives cameras to working-class people so they can document their lives, worked with refugees in the Utica area to put together the exhibit. It is open for public viewing until Memorial Day.
The pictures show everyday life in a refugee household, pictures of snow and the city of Utica.
Sylvia Wilson, a visiting chaplain from Atlanta at Hamilton College, said she had heard of the strong refugee presence in the area. She learned about their lives through the photos that hung in the hallway at the refugee center.
"They are beautiful snapshots of these people and their lives," she said.
All the pictures had captions underneath them written by refugees describing the scene or the context.
Joan Carlon, who came from Syracuse, said the descriptions were powerful.
"It is compelling ... to give up everything and try to change," she said.
Connie Frisbee Houde, a photographer who helped with the project, said she loved the diversity communicated through the descriptions.
"You get a view into the person who took these," she said. "They are looking at it in a different way."
Utica is home to many refugees from around the world, and refugees make up about 15 percent of the city's population. Through projects such as unseenamerica NYS, the refugee center is trying to showcase the region's new residents to the community, said Daniel Sargent, director of multicultural affairs at the center.
One of the refugee center's missions is to help refugees lead a dignified life and Sargent said the exhibit supports that mission. A refugee's life is not just about struggles, and they can be artists, too, he said.
"It is going to add sophistication to the refugees," he said. "Rarely do we see refugees having a sublime vision."
Sidi Chivala, whose pictures were on display, said he was excited to see so many people at the show.
To him, the photographs served as a bridge to the community and helped local residents understand where refugees are coming from.
"People know who I am," he said. "Now they will have a background."
echoes...
"Whenever I leave Bosnia,
I feel I am guilty of something;
I feel time, not contentment,
And it's worse
Than the worst injection.
I have several Bosnian friends
who fall ill when they leave the country.
In Bosnia nothing disgusts me.
I could eat from the floor here in Bosnia."
by Bosnian poet Goran Samardzic
I feel I am guilty of something;
I feel time, not contentment,
And it's worse
Than the worst injection.
I have several Bosnian friends
who fall ill when they leave the country.
In Bosnia nothing disgusts me.
I could eat from the floor here in Bosnia."
by Bosnian poet Goran Samardzic
the spirit shall run amuck
ahh...the people, so many of them
they tire me
i feel awkward
Often times I don't know how to act
or to react
so many personalities
they split me
and stifle me
i feel gagged
and choked too
my spirit reined in
my soul entangled
but the mesh shall not hold me long
aah..the people...
they measure you
they take you in
they interpret you
body, mind and soul
and you are at display
you need to breathe
break free
tell them all
think all you can you fools, do all you can you bearers of wisdom
the spirit shall break free
and run amuck
I am the child of the wild
I am the child of unrealized dreams
while in the womb, my mother whispered to me
how she wanted me to be free
I was bred to be untamed
like a wild horse let loose
a disruptive force
within and without
you shall not hold me down
no god...do what you will
the spirit shall rise yet again
and run amuck
the heart will bleed
the soul will hurt
and hurt bad
but the spirit will be untouched
and will run wild
they tire me
i feel awkward
Often times I don't know how to act
or to react
so many personalities
they split me
and stifle me
i feel gagged
and choked too
my spirit reined in
my soul entangled
but the mesh shall not hold me long
aah..the people...
they measure you
they take you in
they interpret you
body, mind and soul
and you are at display
you need to breathe
break free
tell them all
think all you can you fools, do all you can you bearers of wisdom
the spirit shall break free
and run amuck
I am the child of the wild
I am the child of unrealized dreams
while in the womb, my mother whispered to me
how she wanted me to be free
I was bred to be untamed
like a wild horse let loose
a disruptive force
within and without
you shall not hold me down
no god...do what you will
the spirit shall rise yet again
and run amuck
the heart will bleed
the soul will hurt
and hurt bad
but the spirit will be untouched
and will run wild
Saturday, April 21, 2007
to my nana
The radio was always on in his room
the only sign of life in the old house
the dark green paint on walls, peeling off in places
the rusting window grills
and the unswept corridors
all seemed ancient and cold
in the living room
drops of rain fell through the cracks in the ceiling
they sounded like the ticking of a clock
distinct yet not noisy
Here I spent so many days
i came almost every weekend
dragged by my mother
i would have preferred to stay back instead
in my house where there was a television
and the luxury of no prolonged power cuts
here there were too many mosquitos
and my hands ached with all the slapping and fanning
I fanned myself with a newspaper
it used to be hot
There was no fridge
no television too
only an old radio that played old songs
and blared the news
I fretted
I grumbled
yet I would be here
everything had dust, tons of them
I sneezed a lot
Sometimes, nana would take me with him when he went to buy vegetables and kerosene oil
i tagged along, helped him carry the bags
in time i started counting the money and handing it over to the vendors
as nana could not see very well
yet he walked proud, head held high
i knew it required effort
i knew he was hurting
but he would not grab the stick
then he picked it up one day
and would not go anywhere without it
i still went with him
because he still needed eyes
at home, he poured out whiskey from a small bottle that he kept hidden somewhere in his dusty bookshelf
and drank alone
i sat there for lack of anything else to do
and he talked of matthew arnold
and of shakespeare
In time
during one of those visits
don't know when or how
We started talking
nana and i
He wrote me letters
i wrote to him too
and we talked about poetry when I visited the old house
sometimes, he would let me read to him from one of the books
I studied literature because he did
I wanted to be him
and wanted him to know I understood Matthew Arnold's Dover Beach too
that i could understand my nana
and i felt for him
And then one day
he died
it was a silent death
he died in his sleep
i found his diaries later
and i reconstructed his life
bit by bit
a painful journey for me too
I looked for my name
i was scattered in those pages
no special mention
just a log of when we visited
So many years later
I miss my nana
i know we could have talked at length now
now that i have grown up
among so many things
and with the radio in the background
we would have talked about Maxim Gorky, about Karl Marx
and over those whiskey glasses, i know he would have loved to recite from Dover Beach
and I know i would have understood
the only sign of life in the old house
the dark green paint on walls, peeling off in places
the rusting window grills
and the unswept corridors
all seemed ancient and cold
in the living room
drops of rain fell through the cracks in the ceiling
they sounded like the ticking of a clock
distinct yet not noisy
Here I spent so many days
i came almost every weekend
dragged by my mother
i would have preferred to stay back instead
in my house where there was a television
and the luxury of no prolonged power cuts
here there were too many mosquitos
and my hands ached with all the slapping and fanning
I fanned myself with a newspaper
it used to be hot
There was no fridge
no television too
only an old radio that played old songs
and blared the news
I fretted
I grumbled
yet I would be here
everything had dust, tons of them
I sneezed a lot
Sometimes, nana would take me with him when he went to buy vegetables and kerosene oil
i tagged along, helped him carry the bags
in time i started counting the money and handing it over to the vendors
as nana could not see very well
yet he walked proud, head held high
i knew it required effort
i knew he was hurting
but he would not grab the stick
then he picked it up one day
and would not go anywhere without it
i still went with him
because he still needed eyes
at home, he poured out whiskey from a small bottle that he kept hidden somewhere in his dusty bookshelf
and drank alone
i sat there for lack of anything else to do
and he talked of matthew arnold
and of shakespeare
In time
during one of those visits
don't know when or how
We started talking
nana and i
He wrote me letters
i wrote to him too
and we talked about poetry when I visited the old house
sometimes, he would let me read to him from one of the books
I studied literature because he did
I wanted to be him
and wanted him to know I understood Matthew Arnold's Dover Beach too
that i could understand my nana
and i felt for him
And then one day
he died
it was a silent death
he died in his sleep
i found his diaries later
and i reconstructed his life
bit by bit
a painful journey for me too
I looked for my name
i was scattered in those pages
no special mention
just a log of when we visited
So many years later
I miss my nana
i know we could have talked at length now
now that i have grown up
among so many things
and with the radio in the background
we would have talked about Maxim Gorky, about Karl Marx
and over those whiskey glasses, i know he would have loved to recite from Dover Beach
and I know i would have understood
seeking refuge...
the city offered no refuge
i came here to disappear
to dilute the spirit
to dissolve the soul
a soul battered by the betrayal
but i must think of it no more
i keep the pictures in my drawer
handy, within reach
so that i can remember how i looked like then
i looked happier
the smile is stretched
it is full
now it is a measured smile
i guess i am still recovering
I walk around
alone
but i feel free
the city is cruel
like me it is on extremes
the winter is harsh
the summers brutal
often times, the air is stifling, dry and still
I drive around in the strange city
hang out with like souls
who are fleeing their past
like me, they are escapists too
and sometimes I smoke with them
that's when we bond
the smoke mixes - curling up, thinning into the strange air
and our experiences too
they are escaping a real war
their lands torn by strife
I am escaping the war within
but we are all seeking some refuge
i am refugee by choice
they are refugees by force
i came here to disappear
to dilute the spirit
to dissolve the soul
a soul battered by the betrayal
but i must think of it no more
i keep the pictures in my drawer
handy, within reach
so that i can remember how i looked like then
i looked happier
the smile is stretched
it is full
now it is a measured smile
i guess i am still recovering
I walk around
alone
but i feel free
the city is cruel
like me it is on extremes
the winter is harsh
the summers brutal
often times, the air is stifling, dry and still
I drive around in the strange city
hang out with like souls
who are fleeing their past
like me, they are escapists too
and sometimes I smoke with them
that's when we bond
the smoke mixes - curling up, thinning into the strange air
and our experiences too
they are escaping a real war
their lands torn by strife
I am escaping the war within
but we are all seeking some refuge
i am refugee by choice
they are refugees by force
Friday, April 20, 2007
where are the ghosts?
in the cold winter nights, we would huddle, sit around a small fire
power cuts were normal
and at these times, darkness was welcome
and umesh would tell us stories
stories of his village
tales of ghosts
and tales of ghost busters
no, these were common folk
perhaps more daring than us
and through the flames i sneaked looks at others
they shuddered and yet clamored for more
the old witch in the tree
the one who roamed near the tamarind trees
and when it was time in the evening for women to cook dinner
would suddenly come down and demand food
a greedy witch
they told me long ago to look at the feet
they should be turned backwards, they said
and umesh confirmed
we talked about how my uncle once passed through a ghost
seven feet tall who asked for tobacco
in the cold winter nights, the tales sent an extra chill down our spines
but we still gathered
after umesh was done with the cooking
and had lit his fire
and folks at home were in their own worlds
it was a ritual
tales were aplenty
i suspect he made some up too
i had never seen ghosts
i felt umimportant in those little meets
but that was being a child
more fearless than now i guess
i live alone now
in a strange city
a city that is no america
i see all sorts of people around me
but no ghosts
and i miss umesh
sometimes i watch movies and read about ghosts
and i keep the light on
lest a ghost came by
but i still fall asleep
guess the ghosts are never coming
and the images I can't conjure
it is not the same
there is no fire
there are no little people around me
with expectant eyes and gaping mouths
hands shivering and faces dark and bright
the fire playing tricks
the eyes lit and yet brooding
there was a fear of going to the bathroom then
when all urged busy mothers to stand guard
in that innocence we underestimated the power of ghosts
what could our mothers do if one actually thought of paying a visit
and while in the bathroom, in the light of the candle
the shadows seemed weird
and we shouted at intervals
to assure oursleves
you never know the power of human voice
it cracks through the ominous shadows on the walls
where lizards elongated by the wavering light
seemed unnatural and unkind
it was long ago
when umesh and others were around
i remember he got me hooked to tea
and i have been drinking over-brewed tea ever since
out of habit and out of fondness
here i wander sometimes
most times
trying to pass those weary hours
in my house, in my little apartment
with the old sunflower wallpaper
the hours seem longer
i don't have a watch
i don't want to keep hours
i don't wait for nothing
it is a lull i am going through
only the change in the light
keep me in the realm of the time
and i wander even more
i believe in search of the ghosts of my childhood
power cuts were normal
and at these times, darkness was welcome
and umesh would tell us stories
stories of his village
tales of ghosts
and tales of ghost busters
no, these were common folk
perhaps more daring than us
and through the flames i sneaked looks at others
they shuddered and yet clamored for more
the old witch in the tree
the one who roamed near the tamarind trees
and when it was time in the evening for women to cook dinner
would suddenly come down and demand food
a greedy witch
they told me long ago to look at the feet
they should be turned backwards, they said
and umesh confirmed
we talked about how my uncle once passed through a ghost
seven feet tall who asked for tobacco
in the cold winter nights, the tales sent an extra chill down our spines
but we still gathered
after umesh was done with the cooking
and had lit his fire
and folks at home were in their own worlds
it was a ritual
tales were aplenty
i suspect he made some up too
i had never seen ghosts
i felt umimportant in those little meets
but that was being a child
more fearless than now i guess
i live alone now
in a strange city
a city that is no america
i see all sorts of people around me
but no ghosts
and i miss umesh
sometimes i watch movies and read about ghosts
and i keep the light on
lest a ghost came by
but i still fall asleep
guess the ghosts are never coming
and the images I can't conjure
it is not the same
there is no fire
there are no little people around me
with expectant eyes and gaping mouths
hands shivering and faces dark and bright
the fire playing tricks
the eyes lit and yet brooding
there was a fear of going to the bathroom then
when all urged busy mothers to stand guard
in that innocence we underestimated the power of ghosts
what could our mothers do if one actually thought of paying a visit
and while in the bathroom, in the light of the candle
the shadows seemed weird
and we shouted at intervals
to assure oursleves
you never know the power of human voice
it cracks through the ominous shadows on the walls
where lizards elongated by the wavering light
seemed unnatural and unkind
it was long ago
when umesh and others were around
i remember he got me hooked to tea
and i have been drinking over-brewed tea ever since
out of habit and out of fondness
here i wander sometimes
most times
trying to pass those weary hours
in my house, in my little apartment
with the old sunflower wallpaper
the hours seem longer
i don't have a watch
i don't want to keep hours
i don't wait for nothing
it is a lull i am going through
only the change in the light
keep me in the realm of the time
and i wander even more
i believe in search of the ghosts of my childhood
lemon tree and kites
Can’t measure time
It does not keep pace with me
Or is it that I can’t catch up with it
Three decades, almost
And I still feel like climbing the lemon tree
As a child I used to
And now want to be perched somewhere among those thorny branches
Hanging those hand-painted Santa Claus cutouts
I want to fly the kites again
With my little brothers
And though I could hardly ever get it in the air
I want to be able to look at the horizon full of colorful kites again
It does not keep pace with me
Or is it that I can’t catch up with it
Three decades, almost
And I still feel like climbing the lemon tree
As a child I used to
And now want to be perched somewhere among those thorny branches
Hanging those hand-painted Santa Claus cutouts
I want to fly the kites again
With my little brothers
And though I could hardly ever get it in the air
I want to be able to look at the horizon full of colorful kites again
Thursday, April 19, 2007
one night as always...
Losing it...
i am on the edge tonight
as eliot said "my nerves are bad tonight"
i am suspended in time
and i want to gaze into the future
i m impatient tonight
tell me
someone tell me
am i staying in here
or should i start packing stuff
and start disposing off things
but i just bought them
and i am still paying instalments on them
i am calling the astrologer tonight
maybe she can tell
who can tell?
i wonder
who else can?
I think of nothing...
the blank screen, the familiar keyboard and the now-cold cup of coffee stare at me
they are waiting - all of them
but i sit and smoke into the endless night
thoughts have left me
but memories still hound me
and they haunt me too
there are so many things that come in flashes
i see the lizards on the walls
i see the smoke curling up from the cheap cigarettes that the rickshaw-walla smoked underneath the parapet of my house
i see the old paint on the walls, the cracks in the door and the dirty fans
i see faces - known and unknown
but they are all so familiar
i see them all
and see them again and again
i don't want to think
there is no end to it
it makes me yearn
it makes me miserable
i am stuck
in time, in place and in thought
in action too
what can i leave behind to claim what i left behind
is there something at all
but will what i left behind be still intact in the moment
my friends have kids now
my boyfriend has another girlfriend now
and my little brothers are dating women now
One cousin is 6-feet now
i feel old
and i feel cheated
when i stepped out, i assumed i could step back in
and all will be the how i left them...in that moment, in that space, in those surroundings
i feel i am losing it too
my memory is unreliable
i can't verify it
i can't go back in time
and i have been traveling in time always
maybe i should just sip the coffee and wait for life to come back
in the meanwhile, i should continue this existence
i am on the edge tonight
as eliot said "my nerves are bad tonight"
i am suspended in time
and i want to gaze into the future
i m impatient tonight
tell me
someone tell me
am i staying in here
or should i start packing stuff
and start disposing off things
but i just bought them
and i am still paying instalments on them
i am calling the astrologer tonight
maybe she can tell
who can tell?
i wonder
who else can?
I think of nothing...
the blank screen, the familiar keyboard and the now-cold cup of coffee stare at me
they are waiting - all of them
but i sit and smoke into the endless night
thoughts have left me
but memories still hound me
and they haunt me too
there are so many things that come in flashes
i see the lizards on the walls
i see the smoke curling up from the cheap cigarettes that the rickshaw-walla smoked underneath the parapet of my house
i see the old paint on the walls, the cracks in the door and the dirty fans
i see faces - known and unknown
but they are all so familiar
i see them all
and see them again and again
i don't want to think
there is no end to it
it makes me yearn
it makes me miserable
i am stuck
in time, in place and in thought
in action too
what can i leave behind to claim what i left behind
is there something at all
but will what i left behind be still intact in the moment
my friends have kids now
my boyfriend has another girlfriend now
and my little brothers are dating women now
One cousin is 6-feet now
i feel old
and i feel cheated
when i stepped out, i assumed i could step back in
and all will be the how i left them...in that moment, in that space, in those surroundings
i feel i am losing it too
my memory is unreliable
i can't verify it
i can't go back in time
and i have been traveling in time always
maybe i should just sip the coffee and wait for life to come back
in the meanwhile, i should continue this existence
Monday, April 16, 2007
it is all praise...
"In the men of Hind the usages of Hind are praiseworthy. In the men of Sindh those of Sindh...
Ways of worship are not to be ranked as better or worse... It is all Praise, it is all right."
Ways of worship are not to be ranked as better or worse... It is all Praise, it is all right."
dear god....are u listening
"Dear God, Life is Hell"
doesn't that sum all of it?
And what if I ever reached that stage of calling God a "Dear" and yet tell him how his world is so screwed up...wouldn't that be liberating???
For now, my search for a nice, non-conspiring God continues....
"Dear God, Life is surely hell or worse."
Well, it is what it is and we are part of what we lost. so it drags on in hopes that someday i will redeem myself...though i am fuck-up when it comes to redeemable qualities...
Away from everything that I ever felt connected with...it surely is hell.
where are you Dear God? Are you there where they say you are? Maybe I could pay you a visit and bribe you to keep my sanity intact in the maze of worlds i live in...help me sort out one world - complete and whole.
"Dear God, where is heaven?"
Is it my lost home I left by choice and now missing it so bad that it seems heaven-like in my mind?
Find me a heaven...dear God... and I will never complain again...:)
but i wonder...and i wonder with a mind corrupted with knowledge and diffused with emotions and rendered incoherent...i can't trace my thoughts...they come and go and i can't hold on to them so i vomit it all on this screen lest they never come back again
If there is a God, why can't I see him or her ever...
If there is justice, why are millions dying in Darfur or of AIDS or in the war...
Why do we just wait and watch and sip our drinks in the comfort of our living rooms and denouce it all...we suck
Where are the questions to my answers? where will i find a solution...if there is any...will i just be lost in a maze of questions...is the doom near?
I am despairing, i can't save myself from the insanity that is around me...i am losing my innocence...drowning it all in a glass of margarita over those never-ending, inconclusive discussions on the ills of the world, the palgue of our profession...
I seek myself...my humanity, my happiness, my solitude
i want to run away. to retire before i lose myself
i am closing in...fortifying myself...the needle is piercing my skin, the pain is soothing, the slumber is welcome
I want to abandon it all...the knowledge because it corrupts...it makes me tread cautiously, it makes me careful...politically correct...i want to speak out, i can't, i feel muffled...my thoughts are random, i fear being branded as incoherent
It is like losing it all...it is like coming under anasthesia, the pungent smell is engulfing me, indifferent to and shutting out the smell of blood, of sweat...it is all around me, spreading itself on my identity...it is numbing me, killing my senses, my touch...
doesn't that sum all of it?
And what if I ever reached that stage of calling God a "Dear" and yet tell him how his world is so screwed up...wouldn't that be liberating???
For now, my search for a nice, non-conspiring God continues....
"Dear God, Life is surely hell or worse."
Well, it is what it is and we are part of what we lost. so it drags on in hopes that someday i will redeem myself...though i am fuck-up when it comes to redeemable qualities...
Away from everything that I ever felt connected with...it surely is hell.
where are you Dear God? Are you there where they say you are? Maybe I could pay you a visit and bribe you to keep my sanity intact in the maze of worlds i live in...help me sort out one world - complete and whole.
"Dear God, where is heaven?"
Is it my lost home I left by choice and now missing it so bad that it seems heaven-like in my mind?
Find me a heaven...dear God... and I will never complain again...:)
but i wonder...and i wonder with a mind corrupted with knowledge and diffused with emotions and rendered incoherent...i can't trace my thoughts...they come and go and i can't hold on to them so i vomit it all on this screen lest they never come back again
If there is a God, why can't I see him or her ever...
If there is justice, why are millions dying in Darfur or of AIDS or in the war...
Why do we just wait and watch and sip our drinks in the comfort of our living rooms and denouce it all...we suck
Where are the questions to my answers? where will i find a solution...if there is any...will i just be lost in a maze of questions...is the doom near?
I am despairing, i can't save myself from the insanity that is around me...i am losing my innocence...drowning it all in a glass of margarita over those never-ending, inconclusive discussions on the ills of the world, the palgue of our profession...
I seek myself...my humanity, my happiness, my solitude
i want to run away. to retire before i lose myself
i am closing in...fortifying myself...the needle is piercing my skin, the pain is soothing, the slumber is welcome
I want to abandon it all...the knowledge because it corrupts...it makes me tread cautiously, it makes me careful...politically correct...i want to speak out, i can't, i feel muffled...my thoughts are random, i fear being branded as incoherent
It is like losing it all...it is like coming under anasthesia, the pungent smell is engulfing me, indifferent to and shutting out the smell of blood, of sweat...it is all around me, spreading itself on my identity...it is numbing me, killing my senses, my touch...
find me a home
I Belong There
by Mahmoud Darwish
I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird's sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to
her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a
single word: Home.
And I wonder where do I belong...
"I don’t belong here…
in America...
I am torn as always
It has been a constant…being split
I live in my world, in my mind’s space
My mother is young still and my father is smoking still
but no...wait...now my father has gray hair and my mother has wrinkles
the walls in my house are yellow now...not biege
I can't find it. I mean my old home, where I belonged
No...this is not my home
I live as if I live in a motel...
some bags are still packed...some boxes I never opened
i wait...i wait to go back
but where?
And as always, I am running from one end to another finding a hook maybe
I never belonged here
I never belonged there either
The home is an idea, an idea adorned by memory
And I crave it so…
Will that craving ever end? Will this madness ever go?
Find me a home, a home where I am not a misfit, a home that can contain me
So that I am no longer torn and shuttling between worlds
Maybe I should learn to walk without memory
by Mahmoud Darwish
I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird's sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to
her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a
single word: Home.
And I wonder where do I belong...
"I don’t belong here…
in America...
I am torn as always
It has been a constant…being split
I live in my world, in my mind’s space
My mother is young still and my father is smoking still
but no...wait...now my father has gray hair and my mother has wrinkles
the walls in my house are yellow now...not biege
I can't find it. I mean my old home, where I belonged
No...this is not my home
I live as if I live in a motel...
some bags are still packed...some boxes I never opened
i wait...i wait to go back
but where?
And as always, I am running from one end to another finding a hook maybe
I never belonged here
I never belonged there either
The home is an idea, an idea adorned by memory
And I crave it so…
Will that craving ever end? Will this madness ever go?
Find me a home, a home where I am not a misfit, a home that can contain me
So that I am no longer torn and shuttling between worlds
Maybe I should learn to walk without memory
here in this moment i live in a million different worlds
i move in time
but something is still
in the mind it is the home, in the heart it is a mix of the real and the aspirational
i try hard to shrug and walk away but like the car seat belt, it tugs at me...if i break free too hard, it locks me in
and that's the state in live in...and it makes me a cripple because i don't know which world to inhabit
a world which is rendered dream-like because I am not in it or a world that i move in but which is so unreal and almost barbaric because it ties me down
maybe i don't want to know either
maybe if i knew, i would not admit it
if i admitted it, maybe i would hate myself
self-hate is unbearable sometimes
self-loathing is hellish
i still continue my travel through memories, thorugh time and through space
no bookings to be done, no itineries to be planned
i travel by instinct. one second i am here, the other second i am somewhere else
only in my mind, i move and i move without inhibitions
a nomadic existence is not appealing anymore
in my sleep i am in those parts and in my waking hours i am in these parts
the transition is hard but i do it everyday. it tires me...all these journeys
i adapt, i re-adopt and I let go
and it continues
the worlds are different and walking in and out of them consumes me
i am traveler in time, i guess
one part is past, one is present
there is no future
permanence eludes me and i wonder why
am i damned? will i always be doing this back and forth journeying in time and mind?
damn it if i am damned and doomed
but something is still
in the mind it is the home, in the heart it is a mix of the real and the aspirational
i try hard to shrug and walk away but like the car seat belt, it tugs at me...if i break free too hard, it locks me in
and that's the state in live in...and it makes me a cripple because i don't know which world to inhabit
a world which is rendered dream-like because I am not in it or a world that i move in but which is so unreal and almost barbaric because it ties me down
maybe i don't want to know either
maybe if i knew, i would not admit it
if i admitted it, maybe i would hate myself
self-hate is unbearable sometimes
self-loathing is hellish
i still continue my travel through memories, thorugh time and through space
no bookings to be done, no itineries to be planned
i travel by instinct. one second i am here, the other second i am somewhere else
only in my mind, i move and i move without inhibitions
a nomadic existence is not appealing anymore
in my sleep i am in those parts and in my waking hours i am in these parts
the transition is hard but i do it everyday. it tires me...all these journeys
i adapt, i re-adopt and I let go
and it continues
the worlds are different and walking in and out of them consumes me
i am traveler in time, i guess
one part is past, one is present
there is no future
permanence eludes me and i wonder why
am i damned? will i always be doing this back and forth journeying in time and mind?
damn it if i am damned and doomed
Monday, March 26, 2007
Immigration hike...Do you care?
The Bush government wants the immigration fees to be increased almost by 86 percent and has not considered the low-income groups especially refugees how they will be hit by such a measure. As an immigrant writing on refugees, I wrote the story and numerous story chats and you view those here http://www.uticaod.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070326/NEWS/703260338/1001
have highlighted why America is the way it is. People just don't get it or are too disconnected to get it. They live in their cocoons and feel America is the land of milk and honey and all immigrants and refugees come here because they become free here and "melt in the pot".
If you just point out it is unjust system, they will quickly brand you as a communist, which I don't mind in the least. So ill-informed are these people that it actually makes me sad.
The article was published in Utica Observer-Dispatch March 26, 2007. I am copying the text for your perusal.
Region's new citizens face hike in fees
Refugee center protests increase
March 26, 2007
By CHINKI SINHA
UTICA — Refugees and immigrants in the region are rushing to apply for citizenship and green cards in advance of a planned 70 percent increase in immigration fees.
Many refugees will need to save a full month's pay to afford the proposed fee that would approach $1,000 in many cases, according to the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees, which is protesting the increase.
The cash-strapped U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services agency says it has no choice but to raise the fees because the agency is spending far more than it takes in.
Zawning Win, a refugee from Myanmar (formerly Burma), who applied two weeks ago for his green card, said the increase is inconsiderate.
"It is so expensive. I don't know why they increase the fees," he said. "It is difficult for us to survive already."
Win has no medical insurance. With his income, it is often difficult to pay for rent, car insurance, telephone bills, water and food, he said.
Refugee center Executive Director Peter Vogelaar has sent letters to New York Democratic Sens. Hillary Rodham Clinton and Charles Schumer, as well as to U.S. Rep. Michael Arcuri, D-Utica.
These letters convey the impact of the increase on refugees, many of whom work low-wage jobs.
'An economic necessity'
The federal government says the higher fees are needed because Citizenship and Immigration Services relies on fees for its budget.
"It is an economic necessity," agency spokesperson Shawn Saucier said. "We understand the hardships."
In 1988, Congress created a user fee account for the former Immigration and Naturalization Service, making it a fee-based agency. Since then, the immigration benefit operation has no access to appropriated funds for its daily operations.
There was an increase of around 76 percent in immigration fees in 1998, Saucier said.
Those applying for citizenship can ask for a fee waiver, which depends on a number of factors including household income, number of dependents and the discretion of the officer, Saucier said.
Limited options
Vogelaar said the 70 percent increase will make it difficult for many refugees in the region to maintain a legal immigrant status.
A person working 40 hours a week and 20 days a month at the minimum wage makes barely more than $1,000. Because many refugees are not conversant in English, it is difficult for them to get other well-paying jobs.
Professor Nestor Rodriguez of the University of Houston said the proposed increase will more likely hit refugees and low-income immigrant groups who will have to resort to loan sharks to pay the fees.
"It may not be bad for people who have good jobs," said Rodriguez, who is also the director of the university's Center for Immigration Research.
"They may have to give up something like health care or food to pay," he said. "It is like tax — it will burden those who can afford it the least. There is a disconnect between the people who are raising the cost and the people who have to pay."
'Not able to vote'
About 15 percent of Utica's population consists of refugees from all over the world.
Refugees have contributed immensely to Utica's economy, Vogelaar said. But the increase is a detriment to refugees gaining citizenship and reaping benefits as taxpayers and citizens, he said.
"They can legally remain here, but their investment would never be realized," he said. "They are not able to vote."
In the last couple of months, Azira Tabucic, who works in the immigration department at the refugee center, has received an unusually high number of applications for citizenship and green cards.
Around 65 applications were received in January, and even now as many as 40 are waiting to be processed, Tabucic said.
"People are applying ahead of time," Vogelaar said.
Saucier said the revenues from the new fee structure will help improve services and eliminate delays.
But Jorge Osterling, a professor at George Mason University, said the increase is against the philosophy of granting asylum to people fleeing political insurgencies, religious persecution and executions in their countries.
"You can't offer help and protection and then charge them like this," he said.
THE IMPACT
•The Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees helps around 400 people gain citizenship every year.
•Currently, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services fees are $400, including $75 for biometrics or fingerprinting for a citizenship application.
•The charges have increased four-fold in the last nine years from $95 in 1998.
•Now, the federal agency is proposing a further increase of 70 percent, to $675.
However, the fees for filing for adjustment of status, which is the first step toward gaining citizenship for many immigrants, is going to go up even more significantly. The fees are $400 currently, but if the new increase comes about, it would be $985 including the cost for biometrics.
Source: Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees
have highlighted why America is the way it is. People just don't get it or are too disconnected to get it. They live in their cocoons and feel America is the land of milk and honey and all immigrants and refugees come here because they become free here and "melt in the pot".
If you just point out it is unjust system, they will quickly brand you as a communist, which I don't mind in the least. So ill-informed are these people that it actually makes me sad.
The article was published in Utica Observer-Dispatch March 26, 2007. I am copying the text for your perusal.
Region's new citizens face hike in fees
Refugee center protests increase
March 26, 2007
By CHINKI SINHA
UTICA — Refugees and immigrants in the region are rushing to apply for citizenship and green cards in advance of a planned 70 percent increase in immigration fees.
Many refugees will need to save a full month's pay to afford the proposed fee that would approach $1,000 in many cases, according to the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees, which is protesting the increase.
The cash-strapped U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services agency says it has no choice but to raise the fees because the agency is spending far more than it takes in.
Zawning Win, a refugee from Myanmar (formerly Burma), who applied two weeks ago for his green card, said the increase is inconsiderate.
"It is so expensive. I don't know why they increase the fees," he said. "It is difficult for us to survive already."
Win has no medical insurance. With his income, it is often difficult to pay for rent, car insurance, telephone bills, water and food, he said.
Refugee center Executive Director Peter Vogelaar has sent letters to New York Democratic Sens. Hillary Rodham Clinton and Charles Schumer, as well as to U.S. Rep. Michael Arcuri, D-Utica.
These letters convey the impact of the increase on refugees, many of whom work low-wage jobs.
'An economic necessity'
The federal government says the higher fees are needed because Citizenship and Immigration Services relies on fees for its budget.
"It is an economic necessity," agency spokesperson Shawn Saucier said. "We understand the hardships."
In 1988, Congress created a user fee account for the former Immigration and Naturalization Service, making it a fee-based agency. Since then, the immigration benefit operation has no access to appropriated funds for its daily operations.
There was an increase of around 76 percent in immigration fees in 1998, Saucier said.
Those applying for citizenship can ask for a fee waiver, which depends on a number of factors including household income, number of dependents and the discretion of the officer, Saucier said.
Limited options
Vogelaar said the 70 percent increase will make it difficult for many refugees in the region to maintain a legal immigrant status.
A person working 40 hours a week and 20 days a month at the minimum wage makes barely more than $1,000. Because many refugees are not conversant in English, it is difficult for them to get other well-paying jobs.
Professor Nestor Rodriguez of the University of Houston said the proposed increase will more likely hit refugees and low-income immigrant groups who will have to resort to loan sharks to pay the fees.
"It may not be bad for people who have good jobs," said Rodriguez, who is also the director of the university's Center for Immigration Research.
"They may have to give up something like health care or food to pay," he said. "It is like tax — it will burden those who can afford it the least. There is a disconnect between the people who are raising the cost and the people who have to pay."
'Not able to vote'
About 15 percent of Utica's population consists of refugees from all over the world.
Refugees have contributed immensely to Utica's economy, Vogelaar said. But the increase is a detriment to refugees gaining citizenship and reaping benefits as taxpayers and citizens, he said.
"They can legally remain here, but their investment would never be realized," he said. "They are not able to vote."
In the last couple of months, Azira Tabucic, who works in the immigration department at the refugee center, has received an unusually high number of applications for citizenship and green cards.
Around 65 applications were received in January, and even now as many as 40 are waiting to be processed, Tabucic said.
"People are applying ahead of time," Vogelaar said.
Saucier said the revenues from the new fee structure will help improve services and eliminate delays.
But Jorge Osterling, a professor at George Mason University, said the increase is against the philosophy of granting asylum to people fleeing political insurgencies, religious persecution and executions in their countries.
"You can't offer help and protection and then charge them like this," he said.
THE IMPACT
•The Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees helps around 400 people gain citizenship every year.
•Currently, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services fees are $400, including $75 for biometrics or fingerprinting for a citizenship application.
•The charges have increased four-fold in the last nine years from $95 in 1998.
•Now, the federal agency is proposing a further increase of 70 percent, to $675.
However, the fees for filing for adjustment of status, which is the first step toward gaining citizenship for many immigrants, is going to go up even more significantly. The fees are $400 currently, but if the new increase comes about, it would be $985 including the cost for biometrics.
Source: Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees
my dilemmas as a journalist
When I see story chats on my stories on refugees and immigrants, I feel saddened by the intolerance. There is rampant ignorance about issues and many people don't understand basic things like refugee status, immigration and world politics. It gets to me sometimes and I am tempted to defend my case but the objectivity clause in the journalism school that was programed into us, makes me hesitate.
There is no such thing as objectivity. Humans can't be.
I can no longer sit back and view those comments. I was never a taer for the objectvity logic. By the choice of topics or in the process of writing where we sift through a ton of quotes to find one that fits sour view of the story, we are not being objective.
to be continued...
There is no such thing as objectivity. Humans can't be.
I can no longer sit back and view those comments. I was never a taer for the objectvity logic. By the choice of topics or in the process of writing where we sift through a ton of quotes to find one that fits sour view of the story, we are not being objective.
to be continued...
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Running to be one with all...pushing for integration at all levels
The Boilermaker Road Race is the biggest annual event in Utica. Until 2005, refugees were not a part of it though the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees has been working in the region since 1979 and has resettled close to 11,000 refugees in the Mohawk Valley.
In 2006, refugees cheered on the runners at Culver Avenue and this year, a handful of them are training to run. For them, it is not just a race but a way to prove to themselves and to the community they are very much part of Utica. The race symbolizes being one with all.
I met Hasan and others during the course of other stories. And I was surprised to see their dedication toward integration at all levels. It was then that I thought of writing this story, which was published in Observer-Dispatch March 17, 2007.
I am copying the text and the link below
http://www.uticaod.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070317/NEWS/703170322/1001
Pride drives refugees to run Boilermaker
Want to make name for community
March 17, 2007
By CHINKI SINHA
UTICA — Last year during the Utica Boilermaker Road Race, Somalian refugee Abdi Talas Hasan stood along the International Mile and cheered on the runners.
This year, he will be joining those runners.
"I saw no Somali Bantus among them," he said.
Participating in the nation's largest 15K road race is yet another sign of refugees' increasing integration into the Mohawk Valley. Peter Vogelaar, executive director of the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees, said their participation acknowledges and showcases the diversity in the community.
The resource center and Boilermaker officials created the International Mile on Culver Avenue in 2006 to acknowledge the region's growing population of refugees. For the refugees, the race is not only about running or winning, but showing the community they're very much part of Utica's life.
From cheering on runners, it was a natural next step for them to hit the road and join the race.
"I want to support Utica, show that we can do something," said Sidi Chivala, a Somali Bantu, who will run the Boilermaker July 8 this year. "Utica is our home."
There are around 350 Somali Bantus in Utica, and at least a handful of them will run the Boilermaker Road Race this year for the first time. The refugee center is offering to help refugees with the logistics of registering for the race.
Murjan Abdulahi, a Somali Bantu, is training hard with four other Somali Bantus.
"I want to win and get the name...for the people to know I am here," he said.
Earle Reed, who is the founder of the race, said it was wonderful that refugees will run this year.
"This is the race that has diversity," he said. "Refugees running are a great facet to our 30th anniversary."
Hasan, Abdulahi's cousin, who interpreted for him, said the race was important to them because it was a way to make their presence felt in the community.
"We want the people to know Somali Bantus are a large group here," he said.
Their excitement is evident. Hasan's voice trembles with the enthusiasm that pushes him in the harsh winter to go practice at Mohawk Valley Community College on weekends.
They run for an hour, stretch and support each other with hopes of winning the race. Last year when Kenyans won the race, Hasan felt proud. He spent many years in Kenyan refugee camps and said it felt like his own victory.
"I was watching them run...I was happy when they won," he said.
In October 2006, Hasan was sure he was running and he asked others from his community if they wanted to join him. He got together a group of five men, who now practice over the weekends at MVCC.
There are no trainers and no dieticians for these men. They have turned to a traditional diet to build stamina for the race, Hasan said.
"We call it seema," he said. "It is ground maize cooked in water with meat and vegetables."
They eat it twice a week to build muscle and drink lots of water.
Hasan knows the race is going to be tough. There have been moments during practice that he has felt exhausted and felt he could no longer run, but the desire to earn recognition for his community has kept him going, he said.
"I know I will be hot, but I will keep running," he said, the resolve showing in his clutched fists and his determined eyes.
Reed said Boilermaker officials will do their best to include more refugees in the race.
"It is a win-win deal for us," he said. "They are a part of us."
Tips for first-time runners
•Run with a friend. It will will motivate you more.
•Never go for a run after eating solid food.
•Drink lots of fluids.
•Start slow. Don't run too fast too soon. A one-mile run is a good starting point.
Source: Earle Reed, founder of the Boilermaker Road Race
Copyright ©2007 uticaOD.com All rights reserved.
In 2006, refugees cheered on the runners at Culver Avenue and this year, a handful of them are training to run. For them, it is not just a race but a way to prove to themselves and to the community they are very much part of Utica. The race symbolizes being one with all.
I met Hasan and others during the course of other stories. And I was surprised to see their dedication toward integration at all levels. It was then that I thought of writing this story, which was published in Observer-Dispatch March 17, 2007.
I am copying the text and the link below
http://www.uticaod.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070317/NEWS/703170322/1001
Pride drives refugees to run Boilermaker
Want to make name for community
March 17, 2007
By CHINKI SINHA
UTICA — Last year during the Utica Boilermaker Road Race, Somalian refugee Abdi Talas Hasan stood along the International Mile and cheered on the runners.
This year, he will be joining those runners.
"I saw no Somali Bantus among them," he said.
Participating in the nation's largest 15K road race is yet another sign of refugees' increasing integration into the Mohawk Valley. Peter Vogelaar, executive director of the Mohawk Valley Resource Center for Refugees, said their participation acknowledges and showcases the diversity in the community.
The resource center and Boilermaker officials created the International Mile on Culver Avenue in 2006 to acknowledge the region's growing population of refugees. For the refugees, the race is not only about running or winning, but showing the community they're very much part of Utica's life.
From cheering on runners, it was a natural next step for them to hit the road and join the race.
"I want to support Utica, show that we can do something," said Sidi Chivala, a Somali Bantu, who will run the Boilermaker July 8 this year. "Utica is our home."
There are around 350 Somali Bantus in Utica, and at least a handful of them will run the Boilermaker Road Race this year for the first time. The refugee center is offering to help refugees with the logistics of registering for the race.
Murjan Abdulahi, a Somali Bantu, is training hard with four other Somali Bantus.
"I want to win and get the name...for the people to know I am here," he said.
Earle Reed, who is the founder of the race, said it was wonderful that refugees will run this year.
"This is the race that has diversity," he said. "Refugees running are a great facet to our 30th anniversary."
Hasan, Abdulahi's cousin, who interpreted for him, said the race was important to them because it was a way to make their presence felt in the community.
"We want the people to know Somali Bantus are a large group here," he said.
Their excitement is evident. Hasan's voice trembles with the enthusiasm that pushes him in the harsh winter to go practice at Mohawk Valley Community College on weekends.
They run for an hour, stretch and support each other with hopes of winning the race. Last year when Kenyans won the race, Hasan felt proud. He spent many years in Kenyan refugee camps and said it felt like his own victory.
"I was watching them run...I was happy when they won," he said.
In October 2006, Hasan was sure he was running and he asked others from his community if they wanted to join him. He got together a group of five men, who now practice over the weekends at MVCC.
There are no trainers and no dieticians for these men. They have turned to a traditional diet to build stamina for the race, Hasan said.
"We call it seema," he said. "It is ground maize cooked in water with meat and vegetables."
They eat it twice a week to build muscle and drink lots of water.
Hasan knows the race is going to be tough. There have been moments during practice that he has felt exhausted and felt he could no longer run, but the desire to earn recognition for his community has kept him going, he said.
"I know I will be hot, but I will keep running," he said, the resolve showing in his clutched fists and his determined eyes.
Reed said Boilermaker officials will do their best to include more refugees in the race.
"It is a win-win deal for us," he said. "They are a part of us."
Tips for first-time runners
•Run with a friend. It will will motivate you more.
•Never go for a run after eating solid food.
•Drink lots of fluids.
•Start slow. Don't run too fast too soon. A one-mile run is a good starting point.
Source: Earle Reed, founder of the Boilermaker Road Race
Copyright ©2007 uticaOD.com All rights reserved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)