This is for the refugees
the ones without a home
a boat out on the ocean
city street alone
are they not some dear mother's child
are they not you and I
are we the ones to bear this shame
are they this sacrifice.
Or are they just like falling leaves
who give themselves away
from dust to dust from seed to shear
and to another day
if I could have one wish on earth
of all I can conceive
t'would be to see another spring
and bless the falling leaves.
From John Denver's "Fallen Leaves"
Saturday, May 31, 2008
On journalism
"I try to connect with readers rather than governments, people rather than power. I believe that top-level policies of government are more apt to change when democratic pressures build from below. This becomes terribly complex, however, when the world is run not by elected officials but by the markets -- unaccountable, non-representative institutions controlled by unelected bureaucrats representing the interests of huge corporations that are often more powerful than some nation states."
P. Sainath, India's leading development journalist in an interview
6 November 2001
P. Sainath, India's leading development journalist in an interview
6 November 2001
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Dalai Lama at Colgate talks about inner happiness amid protests
The Dalai Lama no doubt draws crowd like a rock star.
The celebrity monk, during his 75-minute lecture avoided any discussions on the recent crackdown on the Tibetan monks in Lhasa by the Chinese government. Instead, he talked about peace and love, giggled quite often and called out to the people to look inwards in a not-so-perfect English. For most westerners, he was also quite "accented"
Over 5,000 people gathered to hear the monk tell them how to be happy. Funny though considering America is one of the wealthiest nations in the world and many would think if you can buy a house or a car and have a ranch or a holiday home, you would find happiness.
But seems the chase never ends. And American dream is busted for many. And then they turn to the east for spiritual guidance on how to be happy because the obvious did not work so well.
So they came, drawn by the promise of happiness at last, expecting a tiny monk whose country has been robbed him and can lay no claim to any material possessions, to help them find contentment, resolve their inner conflict and turn toward simplicity.
The Dalai Lama did not say anything different from what we, as Hindus, have been familiar with from the very begining. He did not offer any keys. Just a simple logical answer that has eluded the west for long. Capitalism and free market only breeds more desire, the never-ending desire to own, to add and to consume. It makes humans compete with each other, taking away the simplicity of relationships.
The long-standing argument against socialism is it kills the motivation, the incentive to strive for more. But it's not true.
Socialism is more human, more nurturing and more personal. The gap between the rich and the poor is appalling and is unfair because the resources of the world belong to all and not just to those with muscle power.
The Dalai Lama has often called himself a Marxist monk and has favored an ethical distribution of wealth.
On Tuesday, he repeated the same message that Buddhism, Jainism and Hinduism stand for. To attain inner peace, shun the external delights because greed brings suffering.
He also talked about Indian Constitution's interpretation of secularism, which does not separate religion from state but promotes equality for all religions and faiths and calls for no discrimination on the part of the state. That's unlike the west where state and religion are separate. To me, religion is at the root of all political beliefs and as such you can't separate the two. To understand and to make for an state where all have equality, one has to look at the two that have always been intertwined, entangled and will always remain so.
As usual, he avoided speaking directly on Tibet but he alluded to the issues though like the importance of culture, of allowing for equality of all religions and traditions.
When he was asked about the future of Tibet after he is dead, he said he will watch from heaven. Because, he is a reincarnation, maybe he believes another Dalai Lama will carry on the struggle for Tibetan people.
Many feel the struggle for Tibet will end after his death and it is a only a matter of time.
He clarified yet again he did not want separation for Tibet but only autonomy as outlined in the constitution so that Tibetans can practice their culture and religious beliefs.
"Whle world knows we don't want separation," he said.
For many Dalai Lama is a spiritual guru who can lead them to contentment, but he is also a political figure and as such courts controversy. There were protests outside the university. While one group addressed the political side of him, the other called him a hyocrite asking him to allow for religious freedom. The Dalai Lama banned the worship of Dorje Shugden years ago.
To me, as a politcal leader and spiritual leader of the Tibetans, he needs to consolidate his position. Another sect that worships a protective deity, may undermine his own stature.
About the protests, one more thing. At least the Chinese students are organizing. They did it through phone and emails and facebook but maybe in the future they will unite to protest the regime that has been blamed for many human rights violations.
This time, they were patriotic and were against the media distortion of China.
The future will bring about many changes though. I am hopeful.
The celebrity monk, during his 75-minute lecture avoided any discussions on the recent crackdown on the Tibetan monks in Lhasa by the Chinese government. Instead, he talked about peace and love, giggled quite often and called out to the people to look inwards in a not-so-perfect English. For most westerners, he was also quite "accented"
Over 5,000 people gathered to hear the monk tell them how to be happy. Funny though considering America is one of the wealthiest nations in the world and many would think if you can buy a house or a car and have a ranch or a holiday home, you would find happiness.
But seems the chase never ends. And American dream is busted for many. And then they turn to the east for spiritual guidance on how to be happy because the obvious did not work so well.
So they came, drawn by the promise of happiness at last, expecting a tiny monk whose country has been robbed him and can lay no claim to any material possessions, to help them find contentment, resolve their inner conflict and turn toward simplicity.
The Dalai Lama did not say anything different from what we, as Hindus, have been familiar with from the very begining. He did not offer any keys. Just a simple logical answer that has eluded the west for long. Capitalism and free market only breeds more desire, the never-ending desire to own, to add and to consume. It makes humans compete with each other, taking away the simplicity of relationships.
The long-standing argument against socialism is it kills the motivation, the incentive to strive for more. But it's not true.
Socialism is more human, more nurturing and more personal. The gap between the rich and the poor is appalling and is unfair because the resources of the world belong to all and not just to those with muscle power.
The Dalai Lama has often called himself a Marxist monk and has favored an ethical distribution of wealth.
On Tuesday, he repeated the same message that Buddhism, Jainism and Hinduism stand for. To attain inner peace, shun the external delights because greed brings suffering.
He also talked about Indian Constitution's interpretation of secularism, which does not separate religion from state but promotes equality for all religions and faiths and calls for no discrimination on the part of the state. That's unlike the west where state and religion are separate. To me, religion is at the root of all political beliefs and as such you can't separate the two. To understand and to make for an state where all have equality, one has to look at the two that have always been intertwined, entangled and will always remain so.
As usual, he avoided speaking directly on Tibet but he alluded to the issues though like the importance of culture, of allowing for equality of all religions and traditions.
When he was asked about the future of Tibet after he is dead, he said he will watch from heaven. Because, he is a reincarnation, maybe he believes another Dalai Lama will carry on the struggle for Tibetan people.
Many feel the struggle for Tibet will end after his death and it is a only a matter of time.
He clarified yet again he did not want separation for Tibet but only autonomy as outlined in the constitution so that Tibetans can practice their culture and religious beliefs.
"Whle world knows we don't want separation," he said.
For many Dalai Lama is a spiritual guru who can lead them to contentment, but he is also a political figure and as such courts controversy. There were protests outside the university. While one group addressed the political side of him, the other called him a hyocrite asking him to allow for religious freedom. The Dalai Lama banned the worship of Dorje Shugden years ago.
To me, as a politcal leader and spiritual leader of the Tibetans, he needs to consolidate his position. Another sect that worships a protective deity, may undermine his own stature.
About the protests, one more thing. At least the Chinese students are organizing. They did it through phone and emails and facebook but maybe in the future they will unite to protest the regime that has been blamed for many human rights violations.
This time, they were patriotic and were against the media distortion of China.
The future will bring about many changes though. I am hopeful.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
At Proctor's international night ...
Utica is a complex city. When I turn into Eagle Street and drive past Seymour Avenue, Taylor Avenue and into the inner city, it always looks familiar, almost inviting. Here's where I can identify with people, relate to what they have to say. Elsewhere, I feel uneasy, my accent and color taking over who I am.
But here, in the heart of the city that's been resusticated by refugees, almost salvaged from the ruin that it was headed to, I almost feel at home. It is a place where I can be. In a way, it's liberating.
Today, as I walked into Proctor's international night celebration, I saw cultures intermingling, but the mix, with all its influences, was strangely elemental, like it never let go of what was its own.
Burmese and Karen girls fused their ethnic tunics with western wear. To me, it made a statement almost. But it wasn't that pronounced. Maybe that's where the problem lies.
A Karen boy I met while I was walking to the gym, told me how proud he felt wearing his Karen shirt. On the way, an American friend asked him what was it that he was wearing. And he struggled to tell her ... looking for words that could define all that the blue tunic meant to him. He muttered "Karen shirt". The puzzled look on te girl's face wasn't encouraging and he looked confused as he searched his limited vocublary to fit the concept in.
It is our unifrom, he said to her. She still looked confused, not quite getting the "uniform".
Later, in the queue waiting to enter the gymnasium, he took off the shirt, folded it and put it in his pockets. Maybe he did not want to be bothered with too many questions.
When I asked him, he said he was feeling shy and just wanted to enjoy the evening.
Inside, it was quite the opposite. The assertion of cultural identity was strong.
There were booths set up that handed out ethnic food. Students who either came as immigrants, or were born into immigrant families such as the Polish or the German, and refugees, wore their traditional clothes and proudly displayed their culture, often through food, sometimes with dance.
Suddenly music took over. The nature of the music itself was indicative of the mix. At times, it sounded familiar. I was like Bollywood music. But then it took turns, with lots of beats. It then became techno.
A bunch of Somali Bantu girls took the center stage when they started to dance. Their long-flowing gowns were secured tightly at the waiset with a scarf. And they danced with abandon like they did not care. Afterall, it was their night. It was in celebration of diversity. They did not have to be demure then.
They danced a unique dance. It was part hip-hop but then it was also traditional. They pulled in the guys from the crowd, teased them, yet had their head scarves on. They shook their hips and did little twists.
For a woman standing next to me, it was almost a provocative dance. She whispered to me how her parents would have killed her if she danced like that.
What struck her was how the Somali Bantu community in Utica has remained true to their culture, she told me.
This is one group that always wears its own clothes, she said.
To the girls who danced, encouraged by the whistles and the cheers, nothing else mattered.
They were asserting their identity for all to see. Yes, they had arrived.
It was a touching moment when a Somlai Bantu boy danced, waving a Dominican Republic flag. For a momemt, it all seemed so perfect. This was a melting pot. Boundaries did not matter. Identities merged in.
But it is always an illusion. Integration does not come too easy.
But at least for a few moments, it was like living in a perfect world.
I saw familiar faces. They smiled at me. A young boy who had translated for me once when I had inteviewing Imam Ferhad Mujic who is not so proficient in English, came up to me to say hello.
I was just so happy to be there. At least nobody was noticing me. My own color was blending in with so many others that it did not matter. The Proctor gym that evening became the equivalent of a color-blind society.
But here, in the heart of the city that's been resusticated by refugees, almost salvaged from the ruin that it was headed to, I almost feel at home. It is a place where I can be. In a way, it's liberating.
Today, as I walked into Proctor's international night celebration, I saw cultures intermingling, but the mix, with all its influences, was strangely elemental, like it never let go of what was its own.
Burmese and Karen girls fused their ethnic tunics with western wear. To me, it made a statement almost. But it wasn't that pronounced. Maybe that's where the problem lies.
A Karen boy I met while I was walking to the gym, told me how proud he felt wearing his Karen shirt. On the way, an American friend asked him what was it that he was wearing. And he struggled to tell her ... looking for words that could define all that the blue tunic meant to him. He muttered "Karen shirt". The puzzled look on te girl's face wasn't encouraging and he looked confused as he searched his limited vocublary to fit the concept in.
It is our unifrom, he said to her. She still looked confused, not quite getting the "uniform".
Later, in the queue waiting to enter the gymnasium, he took off the shirt, folded it and put it in his pockets. Maybe he did not want to be bothered with too many questions.
When I asked him, he said he was feeling shy and just wanted to enjoy the evening.
Inside, it was quite the opposite. The assertion of cultural identity was strong.
There were booths set up that handed out ethnic food. Students who either came as immigrants, or were born into immigrant families such as the Polish or the German, and refugees, wore their traditional clothes and proudly displayed their culture, often through food, sometimes with dance.
Suddenly music took over. The nature of the music itself was indicative of the mix. At times, it sounded familiar. I was like Bollywood music. But then it took turns, with lots of beats. It then became techno.
A bunch of Somali Bantu girls took the center stage when they started to dance. Their long-flowing gowns were secured tightly at the waiset with a scarf. And they danced with abandon like they did not care. Afterall, it was their night. It was in celebration of diversity. They did not have to be demure then.
They danced a unique dance. It was part hip-hop but then it was also traditional. They pulled in the guys from the crowd, teased them, yet had their head scarves on. They shook their hips and did little twists.
For a woman standing next to me, it was almost a provocative dance. She whispered to me how her parents would have killed her if she danced like that.
What struck her was how the Somali Bantu community in Utica has remained true to their culture, she told me.
This is one group that always wears its own clothes, she said.
To the girls who danced, encouraged by the whistles and the cheers, nothing else mattered.
They were asserting their identity for all to see. Yes, they had arrived.
It was a touching moment when a Somlai Bantu boy danced, waving a Dominican Republic flag. For a momemt, it all seemed so perfect. This was a melting pot. Boundaries did not matter. Identities merged in.
But it is always an illusion. Integration does not come too easy.
But at least for a few moments, it was like living in a perfect world.
I saw familiar faces. They smiled at me. A young boy who had translated for me once when I had inteviewing Imam Ferhad Mujic who is not so proficient in English, came up to me to say hello.
I was just so happy to be there. At least nobody was noticing me. My own color was blending in with so many others that it did not matter. The Proctor gym that evening became the equivalent of a color-blind society.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
three years in America ...
Almost three years now
Three lost years of a lifetime in America
And I am yet to reclaim myself
I still have my accent
I still wear kohl in my eyes
Almost as if in denial
of a life that I am living
What brought me here
The promises, maybe
What else, I wonder
A piece of bread, a slice of memories
A cup of chai, brewed hard
just like at home
just like all my attempts of creating a homeland
I keep trying
But my one-room apartment is so American
the wallpapers, the wooden floors, the smoke alarms
I give up now and then
Of course it is a wretched life
But I continue on
Every now and then, I start to pack my bags
All the time, I put off buying new plates
The old ones are chipping off
I am going back, I tell myself
Just a few days more
And I wait
And I hope
And I continue
Three lost years of a lifetime in America
And I am yet to reclaim myself
I still have my accent
I still wear kohl in my eyes
Almost as if in denial
of a life that I am living
What brought me here
The promises, maybe
What else, I wonder
A piece of bread, a slice of memories
A cup of chai, brewed hard
just like at home
just like all my attempts of creating a homeland
I keep trying
But my one-room apartment is so American
the wallpapers, the wooden floors, the smoke alarms
I give up now and then
Of course it is a wretched life
But I continue on
Every now and then, I start to pack my bags
All the time, I put off buying new plates
The old ones are chipping off
I am going back, I tell myself
Just a few days more
And I wait
And I hope
And I continue
Jailed for protesting the Iraq war
Indeed dissent has died. And where students or others have tried to march or protest the five-year long war in Iraq, an experiment that cost many lives, they have been arrested, charged and isolated.
Even student associations have distanced themselves from those who marched to get their voiced heard. In Binghamton, on the fifth anniversary of the war, several marched to Vestal Pkwy. Nine were arrested. Police used force to disperse the crowd, silencing the voice in a typical "by the books" fashion.
America, always glorified in the books, the movies and tales, as the land of freedom where right to the freedom of expression is supreme. But when the police can charge you with disorderly conduct for being on the wrong side of the road and for being in a group that they feel is up to something, it is similar to a police state.
What bothers me is they want to spread democarcy all over the world and will spend trillions to fund unjust wars, but have seldom looked inwards to see where they are failing. Democracy is not when you think twice before expressing your doubts, your dispproval and when state institutions can lock you up on any pretext.
People have the right to assemble and speak out. Afterall, it is the freedom of expression. Then why humiliate them, arrets them and make them seem as a bunch of hooligans that were disrupting public life.
In this country, where lives are dictated by a series of numbers and everything is recorded, and when your life is ruined because of a bad credit score and if you have a criminal charge because maybe you marched once to protest an atrocity, you can't get a job, of course people will cave in, and seldom speak out.
Even student associations have distanced themselves from those who marched to get their voiced heard. In Binghamton, on the fifth anniversary of the war, several marched to Vestal Pkwy. Nine were arrested. Police used force to disperse the crowd, silencing the voice in a typical "by the books" fashion.
America, always glorified in the books, the movies and tales, as the land of freedom where right to the freedom of expression is supreme. But when the police can charge you with disorderly conduct for being on the wrong side of the road and for being in a group that they feel is up to something, it is similar to a police state.
What bothers me is they want to spread democarcy all over the world and will spend trillions to fund unjust wars, but have seldom looked inwards to see where they are failing. Democracy is not when you think twice before expressing your doubts, your dispproval and when state institutions can lock you up on any pretext.
People have the right to assemble and speak out. Afterall, it is the freedom of expression. Then why humiliate them, arrets them and make them seem as a bunch of hooligans that were disrupting public life.
In this country, where lives are dictated by a series of numbers and everything is recorded, and when your life is ruined because of a bad credit score and if you have a criminal charge because maybe you marched once to protest an atrocity, you can't get a job, of course people will cave in, and seldom speak out.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
On the fifth anniversary of Iraq war ...
On Marh 19, the United States entered into its sixth year of occupation of Iraq. President Bush hailed the war as a victory for the troops and essential for protecting American democracy. He called the surge successful. The war, it seems, will not end anytime soon.
And though they say there is a shift in the opinion about the war and people have spoken out against it, these have largely been on the internet. There have been peace protests and vigils but nothing like what the country witnessed during the Vietnam war era when thousands marched.
Taking to the streets is not how they do it here. And the voice of dissent is subdued now. American people are so burdened by the mundane worries of paying their bills and keeping numerous jobs, there's hardly room in their busy lives for dissent.
And though they say there is a shift in the opinion about the war and people have spoken out against it, these have largely been on the internet. There have been peace protests and vigils but nothing like what the country witnessed during the Vietnam war era when thousands marched.
Taking to the streets is not how they do it here. And the voice of dissent is subdued now. American people are so burdened by the mundane worries of paying their bills and keeping numerous jobs, there's hardly room in their busy lives for dissent.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Race is a reality
Most of us are in denial of what seems to be a pressing problem of our times. Racism is a powerful force, something deeply entrenched in institutions, mindsets and the culture. It is hard to not see it. Yet we choose to ignore it, shut our eyes and continue with our lives.
Something that is so blatant and out there is often overlooked. It is difficult to confront our own biases and our own prejudices towards others and so we consciously choose to ignore it. Nobody wants to be called a racist, even by themselves.
For the media, it is when the census releases some numbers, it is time to do a story and get done with it.
In one such case, I was assigned a story on diversity in the workforce. Simple enough. Call a few people, go out there interview "real" workers and then call experts. Get quotes. That's what journalism is limited to these days.
A tested formula for deadline writing. Because in shrinking newrooms where reporters are fast becoming an extinct species, you have a ton of other stuff to write. You can't chase one story. There is no "luxury" of working on one story as my editor once said to me. So real stories get buried in event coverage or usual town/school stuff.
But often one thing leads to another. In talking to people, in surfing the internet, in walking the streets, I stumbled upon the whys of the question of business ownership among minorities.
Of course, we had numbers. But nobody ever asked why these were so negligible in an area that claims to be so welcoming of diversity. There were only about 250 black-owned businesses in the region as the 2002 census data.
It wasn't difficult to understand why. This was a vicious cycle. With no start up capital, these individuals would have a tough time getting the loans. And then the discrimination is well too apparent.
Research has found that loan denial rates were high in such communities. Often, the members had encountered such racism in their interactions that it killed heir desire to be ambitious enough, discouraged them to open their own businesses.
This wasn't rocket science to figure out and I wonder why there wasn't anything on it earlier. Perhaps breaking news or town/city hall stuff took up most of the space in the newspapers along with advertisements.
Often it angers me ... this denial of such issues by those who can highlight it. But I guess journalism in today's world has come to mean breaking news and thousand stories related with one incident. Or maybe just looking for the usual scoops. In our bid to be the watchdog, we have shirked our responsibilty towards the larger community. Seems there are no takers for such stories because they make us feel ugly, tell us what a bad job we have done of making an equal society.
Something that is so blatant and out there is often overlooked. It is difficult to confront our own biases and our own prejudices towards others and so we consciously choose to ignore it. Nobody wants to be called a racist, even by themselves.
For the media, it is when the census releases some numbers, it is time to do a story and get done with it.
In one such case, I was assigned a story on diversity in the workforce. Simple enough. Call a few people, go out there interview "real" workers and then call experts. Get quotes. That's what journalism is limited to these days.
A tested formula for deadline writing. Because in shrinking newrooms where reporters are fast becoming an extinct species, you have a ton of other stuff to write. You can't chase one story. There is no "luxury" of working on one story as my editor once said to me. So real stories get buried in event coverage or usual town/school stuff.
But often one thing leads to another. In talking to people, in surfing the internet, in walking the streets, I stumbled upon the whys of the question of business ownership among minorities.
Of course, we had numbers. But nobody ever asked why these were so negligible in an area that claims to be so welcoming of diversity. There were only about 250 black-owned businesses in the region as the 2002 census data.
It wasn't difficult to understand why. This was a vicious cycle. With no start up capital, these individuals would have a tough time getting the loans. And then the discrimination is well too apparent.
Research has found that loan denial rates were high in such communities. Often, the members had encountered such racism in their interactions that it killed heir desire to be ambitious enough, discouraged them to open their own businesses.
This wasn't rocket science to figure out and I wonder why there wasn't anything on it earlier. Perhaps breaking news or town/city hall stuff took up most of the space in the newspapers along with advertisements.
Often it angers me ... this denial of such issues by those who can highlight it. But I guess journalism in today's world has come to mean breaking news and thousand stories related with one incident. Or maybe just looking for the usual scoops. In our bid to be the watchdog, we have shirked our responsibilty towards the larger community. Seems there are no takers for such stories because they make us feel ugly, tell us what a bad job we have done of making an equal society.
Monday, February 11, 2008
not a big deal - reality television
I would change a lot of things about my life if I could. But I can't so I'd rather make the best of it.
Living alone is not exactly a pleasant experience. You are stuck with the television for company in the lonely evenings when there is a winter advisory outisde and you would not want to risk your precious life for a trip to the coffee shop or the little neighborhood theatre.
Or with the internet because as they say it is the window to the world.
About reality televison, I must say it is good converstaion stuff. Like when I go to my hair stylist, I can endlessly discuss how Miss New York's breasts are not real because in the series that she first appeared in, she had much smaller assets than what she flaunts now and which could put Pamela Anderson's boob job to shame. And then there is Brett Michaels, the guy who lines his eyes with kohl and has a harem of strippers from all the world. Gosh ... if I had kids, I would throw the televison out of the window. Who would want the kids watching strippers fighting/striping for this rockstar of bygone eras ...
But then it is addictive I must admit. Because I want to know who is going home next and if Miss New York. And TLC's What Not to Wear team has pushed up my credit card bills because I now order clothes online that I think are age-appropriate and whatever else London and Kelley feel. And my wardrobe looks as if needs a $5,000 makeover.
They make the most out of single and ready to mingle sor of themes that probably resonates with a lot of the audience. Like Tila Tequila who did not know if she wanted a boy or a girl and ended up having a battle of the sexes that pushed up the ratings by some atrocious numbers. And there they wer fighting it out for little miss Tequila.
Then the true love drama. All these s-called celebs can't find true love so television will help them find one. Then there are these auditions where girls fight it out for flav ... with a huge clock tied around his neck.
But I watch them nontheless because it is mindless entertainment, which is what they say too, because it is reflective of a larger culture, a culture that puts notorious British Papparazzi to shame.
Nobody wants to be avergae. They all want to be taken seriously. Because their job is tough and they will show it you on relity televison how models have to strut out their stuff for a photo shoot to the point where it hurts and a tear or two appears around the made-up eyes.
Tyra Banks, in her America's Next Top Model, which I watch all the time, goes on and on about how serious the modeling business is and how models are misunderstood like a crusader out to correct all those isconceptiosn. Trust me, the world could do without all the rhetoric. Putting on a $20,000 Versace or Oscar De LA Renta gown on superbly toned body and posing in awkward positions is no rocket science.
Why are we so fascinated with knowing all about what's going on in other peoples' bedrooms? Is it because our lives are so bland, so boring that we need to vicariously through these celeb show them all shows.
And it never ends. We have seasons of them and they never find love too like us who never see the point of our own lives sometimes.
later...
Living alone is not exactly a pleasant experience. You are stuck with the television for company in the lonely evenings when there is a winter advisory outisde and you would not want to risk your precious life for a trip to the coffee shop or the little neighborhood theatre.
Or with the internet because as they say it is the window to the world.
About reality televison, I must say it is good converstaion stuff. Like when I go to my hair stylist, I can endlessly discuss how Miss New York's breasts are not real because in the series that she first appeared in, she had much smaller assets than what she flaunts now and which could put Pamela Anderson's boob job to shame. And then there is Brett Michaels, the guy who lines his eyes with kohl and has a harem of strippers from all the world. Gosh ... if I had kids, I would throw the televison out of the window. Who would want the kids watching strippers fighting/striping for this rockstar of bygone eras ...
But then it is addictive I must admit. Because I want to know who is going home next and if Miss New York. And TLC's What Not to Wear team has pushed up my credit card bills because I now order clothes online that I think are age-appropriate and whatever else London and Kelley feel. And my wardrobe looks as if needs a $5,000 makeover.
They make the most out of single and ready to mingle sor of themes that probably resonates with a lot of the audience. Like Tila Tequila who did not know if she wanted a boy or a girl and ended up having a battle of the sexes that pushed up the ratings by some atrocious numbers. And there they wer fighting it out for little miss Tequila.
Then the true love drama. All these s-called celebs can't find true love so television will help them find one. Then there are these auditions where girls fight it out for flav ... with a huge clock tied around his neck.
But I watch them nontheless because it is mindless entertainment, which is what they say too, because it is reflective of a larger culture, a culture that puts notorious British Papparazzi to shame.
Nobody wants to be avergae. They all want to be taken seriously. Because their job is tough and they will show it you on relity televison how models have to strut out their stuff for a photo shoot to the point where it hurts and a tear or two appears around the made-up eyes.
Tyra Banks, in her America's Next Top Model, which I watch all the time, goes on and on about how serious the modeling business is and how models are misunderstood like a crusader out to correct all those isconceptiosn. Trust me, the world could do without all the rhetoric. Putting on a $20,000 Versace or Oscar De LA Renta gown on superbly toned body and posing in awkward positions is no rocket science.
Why are we so fascinated with knowing all about what's going on in other peoples' bedrooms? Is it because our lives are so bland, so boring that we need to vicariously through these celeb show them all shows.
And it never ends. We have seasons of them and they never find love too like us who never see the point of our own lives sometimes.
later...
Monday, January 28, 2008
in new york city, traversing the streets where everything comes together - the colors, the languages, the dialects, the races ... or do they?
on Saturday night, we walked down a street in the wee hours of the morning where men chatted loudly outside strip clubs, where women leaned against the store windows with their cheap lights and bargained for a night's company, where smoke was dense and where immigrant restaurant owners kept busy hours selling kebobs, fajitas and spring rolls.
There, in that moment, everything dissolved. Because in that energy, in that mix, there was nothing distinct, nothing too different.
And it was liberating. the thick air, heavy with the cheap perfumes, cigarette smoke and all that slang was dizzying but yet I inhaled it quickly.
The Indian/Pakistani/ Bangladeshi neighborhood converged with an all-Hispanic one. In that 10-minute walk, it finally felt I was in a big city where there is scope for everyone, where there is space for everyone and where we can can all make it.
A half-an hour train ride away was a world where I only stared at tall buildings, designer showrooms and women carrying Gucci bags, their best foot forward in Jimmy Choo shoes ... and it seemed shut out ... something that's so out there
but back in the little restaurant, staring at the television that showed Bollywood songs, and sipping the thick, sugary and milky tea, in between mouthfuls of achari chicken and roti, it all seemed to come together ... to make sense ...
there is a world for everyone. Yes, and that's where we belong. We need to find ours.
Just as the old man spread out a worn blanket near the subway entrance, preparing for another night, his box with newspapers, food, and some clothes was tacked against the wall, he looked at ease with what he had, the little he had, a handful of the world. Perhaps he was grateful he got the spot. he nodded at me as i passed him.
There, in that moment, everything dissolved. Because in that energy, in that mix, there was nothing distinct, nothing too different.
And it was liberating. the thick air, heavy with the cheap perfumes, cigarette smoke and all that slang was dizzying but yet I inhaled it quickly.
The Indian/Pakistani/ Bangladeshi neighborhood converged with an all-Hispanic one. In that 10-minute walk, it finally felt I was in a big city where there is scope for everyone, where there is space for everyone and where we can can all make it.
A half-an hour train ride away was a world where I only stared at tall buildings, designer showrooms and women carrying Gucci bags, their best foot forward in Jimmy Choo shoes ... and it seemed shut out ... something that's so out there
but back in the little restaurant, staring at the television that showed Bollywood songs, and sipping the thick, sugary and milky tea, in between mouthfuls of achari chicken and roti, it all seemed to come together ... to make sense ...
there is a world for everyone. Yes, and that's where we belong. We need to find ours.
Just as the old man spread out a worn blanket near the subway entrance, preparing for another night, his box with newspapers, food, and some clothes was tacked against the wall, he looked at ease with what he had, the little he had, a handful of the world. Perhaps he was grateful he got the spot. he nodded at me as i passed him.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
snow and them and me
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.
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.
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 fiancรฉe, 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 fiancรฉe, 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.
รค 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.
รค 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
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