Bombs and Brownies

Dear all,

Tonight's post is going to be brief, because I'm frightfully tired, but I need to write a little to get some thoughts out of my head. As some of you may have already heard, the largest Catholic church in Nepal was bombed yesterday. Two people were killed and another 14 were injured, among them one of the many Jesuits that I've come to love in my time here. It is a shocking and heartbreaking event that we are all still trying to deal with.

But before you all get too worried, let me assure you, I always attend the much smaller private mass in the Jesuits' residence, so despite the attack being on my parish, I've never actually been in the building that was bombed. Of course, it looks as if there will be a memorial mass held there soon and I will be in attendance, but after that I plan to continue attending the Jesuits' mass as the setting suits me better.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing about all of this is because I'm trying to understand my own reaction to it. You see, since the first phone call yesterday from a friend checking to see that I was safe, I've only been able to think about one thing: baked goods. Even from the shards of information about the bombing my friend told me over the phone, I knew it was our parish, I knew one of my priests was there, and I knew it was a big deal. But to my suprise, my first thought was "I want a cookie" and my second thought was, "I should bake brownies". And while the cookie lust has long since be satiated, the intense desire to drown the priests and the rest of the catholic community here in chocolate chip cookies, cupcakes and, of course, fudgy brownies has yet to subside.

I guess on some level it must be my small battle against helplessness; yes, there's nothing significant I can do, but I can still bake chocolatey happiness. On the other hand, one of the guilty pleasures I get out of going to the Jesuit mass, is helping some of the older priests afterwards at their breakfast. They remind me of grandfathers without grandchildren, and putting sugar in their tea or listening to their stories gives my Sunday mornings meaning. So perhaps that same nuturing need is just going in to overdrive. All the same, I feel as though the kitchen is calling to me and it's an urge I can't really understand.

In particular, I'm worried about the injured priest. He's not a local Nepali, which means he has no family here, and since I've visited others in Nepali hospitals, I know that the hospital does not provide food to patients. Instead, the families are expected to bring food from home for their loved ones. And this leads me to this equation One badly burned priest - family = brownies. Still, I'm trying to control myself, as I know 1) that the sisters from the Catholic school are doubtlessly fussing over him even more than I want to 2)that father may not be able to see visitors yet, and even if he is able, he may not be willing to see many people until the burns have had some time to heal and 3) that sometimes over eagerness to help just gets in the way. So I'm trying to control myself, at least for a day or two, so that I can see where and how I'm really needed.

That said, if any of you feel like sending some cookie recipes along, I'd sure appreciate them. They might be just the thing to calm me a bit. But all in all, I'm fine, as are most of the people I met with today. We are heartsore, but nothing more, and really I'm impressed by the patience and compassion with which the Jesuits are facing this challenge. So try not to fret, and just send some good thoughts our way.

I'm, of course, sending good thoughts back.

All my love,

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The Lure of the Exotic

Sometimes I try to see myself as some of you must see me. I try to explain my behavior the way some of you must…the way I in fact often explain the behavior of many friends who are far more adventurous than I, and this exercise often leaves me considering the term “exotic”. It is easy to believe that when people go off to live somewhere new or to learn about other people and other places, they have gone off in search of the exotic. We tell ourselves, they are looking for something new, exciting, perhaps even undiscovered in a place or a people we describe as exotic. We, as Americans, (or as Westerners as the literature would call us) have a strong sense of the exotic. There are the things we know; the shopping malls, the parking lots, the churches, the bowling alleys, and then somewhere, over there, there’s the exotic. Sometimes, that word calls to mind beaches and palm trees, but despite the images, for most of us, it has a much broader general meaning.

As anthropologists, we are trained to look more deeply at this type of “othering”, and called to ask ourselves and others what we’re really saying when we mark something as exotic. In a sense, it’s similar to the way some feminists deconstruct terms like “mankind” in order to find the unsaid or unacknowledged in those terms. And like the term “mankind”, exotic is in fact a very loaded word. When we claim something is exotic on a very basic level we mean something that is new and different. And yet, though I’ve never visited California, people would surely look askance at me if I described it as exotic upon arriving there. So at this point, let’s extend our definition to mean “not American” or better yet, “not European or American”, as I’m certain England generally doesn’t qualify as exotic either.



But let me throw a wrench in the works at this point, and ask about that little state of Hawaii. I think that many people would in fact describe Hawaii as exotic, particularly those who have yet to visit there. My first explanation of that description would go back to beaches, palm trees, and luscious weather, but I think that misses the mark. After all, there are plenty of dreamy vacation spots on the US mainland. So exotic can’t simply mean nice place to visit. But the answer does lie once again in our shared imagination of Hawaii. Hawaii is not just a place of beaches, and palm trees, and it’s not just a place that, at least in our minds, is free from strip malls and traffic jams. It is also the home of grass skirts. Of course, grass skirts are in and of themselves, really just a symbol of a whole slew of other cultural practices; dances, food, language, ect, but they are a potent symbol indeed. In one simple skirt, mainland Americans are able to contain the entire Hawaiian archipelago. And more to the point for this discussion, by recognizing that skirt as “exotic”, they label all of the islands of Hawaii and all of their inhabitants as exotic as well.

So now what do we mean when we say “exotic”? I think in some senses, we mean “tribal” or perhaps, “uncivilized”. And now the problem with the term, the hidden negativity, comes to light. Though I’ll allow a certain amount of glamour to the term exotic, in that it tends to carry with it some admiration of what we imagine to be a freer and more spiritual way of “tribal” life, I think above all else, “exotic” is really an unconscious judgment call based on a hierarchy of civilization that is firmly biased towards the “West”. Exotic is the word we use when we want to describe the pull of the “primitive” on civilized beings like ourselves. And in doing so, we place ourselves above those exotic peoples and places which we know little or nothing about, but which we imagine ourselves to understand quite well.

But why this long rant on a particular word? Nepal, for me, has never been exotic. I’ve never looked at it with the romanticism or criticism necessary to apply that term. But yet, today, for a moment, I caught myself mentally criticizing another’s adventure for its lack of exoticism as if exoticism were a necessary ingredient of all good adventures. In that moment, I bought into the stories I’d been told, and I relied on the symbols I’d been given by American culture without thinking. And so, as an act of atonement, and an exercise in careful critical thinking, I’ve written this small piece. I decided to share it with all of you because I know that at least a few of you will never cease to believe that it is not a yearning to experience the exotic that has brought me here. I doubt this post will be enough to convince you otherwise, but all the same, I challenge you to think about your preconceptions about Nepal, about Hawaii, and about any other place that strikes you as different enough to be exotic. At the very least, I challenge you to use the word, the image, and the symbol cautiously. Perhaps, you may find yourself, as I did, discovering more about yourself and the way you see the world, than you will about an exotic other.

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I have Mountains

Dear All,

As some (perhaps most) of you have heard, I've decided to stay on for at least another year here in Nepal. While is wasn't the most difficult decision I'd ever made, I can assure you a lot of thought has gone into it, and I'm as confident as I can be that this is absolutely the best thing for the me I am right now. But as at least one friend has very emphatically asked, "Why would I want to stay another year?". I'm not sure I'll do it justice, but let me try to explain.



I'll be the first to admit that at times life here is remarkably challenging. We face water shortages, electricity shortages, and as of late, even governance shortages. The weather is often hotter than any good Michigan girl should ever have to endure. I haven't had good ice cream, worn cowboy boots, or sang karaoke in longer than I care to count. I've danced to a swing song with a partner a grand total of two times and I've only had one shopping trip with the girls.

But, here, I have mountains. No matter where I am, they are always looming in the background, looking peaceful and calm, kind of the way I picture God to be. And when it rains here...well I'm yet to find the perfect words. But more than that, I have a job or rather, a project, that occasionally drives me to the brink of insanity, but in the end, always leaves me feeling contented and accomplished in ways I'd never even dreamed of before. I face a million challenges here, both as a foreigner and as a single woman, but with these challenges my confidence continues to grow. And though I've yet to climb Everest, I'm now certain that if I wanted to, I could. It's as simple as that. (I don't want to. Just for the record)

Here, I've also grown a family that I cherish and worry over as much as I do all of you. I've worried with them over the failing health of some of the older people in our family, and I've rushed to the hospital to welcome our newest nephew. Here, I have a group of friends who will sit with me when I have a concussion, who will shower me in chocolate on my birthday, and who will patiently explain everything that's happening in a Hindi movie, no matter how much it annoys the people around us. And yes, here I have my Buffalo, who is a constant source of support, comfort and laughter in everything I do.

None of these things alone would be enough to hold me here, so far away from all of you, and all the things at home I've always loved, but together, especially now as I continue to grow in to the academic, and the person I've always hoped to be, the pull is to much to resist. So I'm apologizing now for another year of missed birthdays, Christmas parties, and trivia nights, but I've no doubt in my mind, when I come near to you again, my new glow will be enough to convince you this time apart was all for the best.

Neither time nor space could ever dim my love for you,
Me

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No More Prime Minister!?!

Dear All,
“It’s a strange world I live in.” A friend wrote to me the other day. Today, I share that sentiment completely. This morning, as I came back from my Nepali reading class, I noticed one of the colorful rickshaws that typically carry tourists around town moving unusually slowly through the street. On second glance, I realized that instead of tourists, this particular rickshaw was carrying a large black Honda street bike. Apparently, I’d stumbled on the Nepali version of a tow truck. I instantly wished I’d had my camera, but at the same time, I was surprised by how normal the incident actually seemed to me. In fact, it still seems like a completely logical way of moving a broken down bike, despite the paradoxical appearance.

Later in the afternoon, I was at home with my roomie, and she asked me if I smelled anything burning. At first, I asked if she meant the incense I had lit, but she replied, “No, it smells like wood.” I went to the door where she was standing, and without even thinking, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Oh, torches.” She shrugged too and I went back to the chocolate chip cookie dough I was mixing as though nothing had happened. Yet, as I think about it now, it is indeed a strange place that we all have been living in for the past few weeks, since the government here in Nepal collapsed.



For those of you who may not have been following what’s been going on over here, let me catch you up. Just before my arrival in Nepal, the king abdicated his throne, and a full fledged democracy was put into place. After elections were held, it was determined that the Maoists, who had previously engaged in a ten year civil war and numerous guerilla tactics, were the dominant party and thus were tasked with heading the government and spearheading the creation of a new constitution for the “New Nepal”. But two weeks ago, the Prime Minister, the Army, and the President, all representing different interests came into conflict regarding who should be the army’s top commander. For a few days, following a news report based on leaked Army information, whispers of an eminent military coup crept through the city. My Nepali family and I kept a little closer to home than usual, and the baby’s cartoons were switched to news channels for about a week. Time went by, and the political squabbles intensified, but life in the city continued very much as it always had.

Finally, the Prime Minister tried to take power into his own hands, and he dismissed the Army Commander. The President immediately countered the move by declaring it unconstitutional and instructing the Army Commander to continue with business as usual. In a shocking move, the Prime minister then responded by resigning from his post. As this particular Prime Minister has been the most powerful man in the country for several years, (previously he was the leader of the Maoist rebel army), the move caused an uproar. The Maoist flocked to support their leader, and to counter accuse the President of behaving unconstitutionally (which is in and of itself interesting in that Nepal has only been operating under an interim constitution, because all progress towards a new full fledged constitution has been stalled by political infighting.)News reports from sources as varied as Nepal’s own Kantipur, to Al Jazeera, to the New York Times have been documenting the many strikes and protests which have followed the move. Even now, the city is dotted with protests and almost all of the political parties have been calling for the formation of yet another “new” government.

I could of course go into more detail about all this, but I suspect that at least some of you may be wondering how myself and others are affected by what is technically a state of complete anarchy. But to my surprise and delight, the affect is slight to say the least. Yes, there are protests almost every day, but they are easy to spot, and even easier to avoid. In fact, it feels a lot like trying to avoid a bad traffic jam back at home in the states. Basically, you just need to see where the streets start to become unusually packed with people, or notice when the traffic is uncommonly sparse, from there, it’s just a matter of determining what direction the strike is in and, of course, heading the other way. And other than the protests, daily life continues on pretty much just as it always has.

That said, I did witness one evening protest the other day. I was visiting Buffalo in his shop as I often do after I’ve finished the day’s work, and at first, it seemed as though there was nothing amiss. But then I saw several trucks loaded with policemen drive by. Not even five minutes later, the traffic on the road cleared (the police had set up blocks farther up the road). Another ten minutes went by before we could start to hear the chanting. The people were saying something in Nepali I didn’t understand, and Buffalo explained that it was because they were calling the President mean names, and that they were words a nice girl like me wouldn’t know. As the chanting got louder, so did the heat, and after another moment, the glow of hundreds of torches lit the street. For a full five minutes, people paraded by with torches, a few burning effigies of the president, and for a few women, their small children. And while the scene was a bit unsettling, it was far from frightening. The people were clearly angry with the government, not with each other, and the whole event had a very peaceful, though purposeful tone to it. In fact, throughout this whole ordeal, I have been continually impressed with the patience and endurance Nepalis exhibit in times of “crisis”. Dai explained it by saying that Nepalis have excellent coping skills. At times, I’m immensely impressed with the civility and calmness of the people around me, but I have to admit, that I also occasionally wonder if it is that same patience and tolerance which allows the discord in the government to continue as it does.

But in short, we’re all fine here and other than a rise in vegetable prices and an occasional detour, the difficulties are mostly the burden of the politicians at this point. While there were a few tense days, I never felt seriously afraid or concerned, and my life continues very much as it has for the past several months. So there’s no need to worry. In fact, I’m rather excited to be here at such a crucial point in Nepal’s history, especially when the people, if not the government, are handling it with such grace and fortitude.

Anyway, if you’re terribly curious about anything, please feel free to ask and I’ll be happy to elucidate. And on an unrelated note, I’ll be buying my plane ticket for a visit home in the beginning of Sept soon, so get ready, because here I come. In case you’re wondering, I miss hamburgers and ice cream the most, so if you want to meet up with me while I’m state-side, please plan on doing it at a burger joint or an ice cream parlor, otherwise I just might not have the time to meet you! :)
As always, sending my love your way!

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Auntie, Ma Sanchai Chu!

Dear all,

So I’m writing today out of a need for some literary catharsis rather than because I have anything terribly exciting to say. In fact, I’m afraid the story I’m about to tell will be a bit vague, because it involves people I hold to be very dear and I’m hyper sensitive to saying too much about them on the internet where the whole world can peek in on their lives. My sensitivity to this is heightened today by a post on one of the other blogs I follow, Janice's Blog. While the most recent blog post is unarguably an enjoyable story, I have to wonder about the prudence and sensitivity about posting it, particularly about a child. So as I also want to talk about a little one today, I hope you’ll excuse me for leaving out some of the details.

Anyway, many of you know that while I have an apartment which has been provided me by the Fulbright program, I often stay with my didi’s family in Satobato. I really enjoy staying with them because it makes my life in Kathmandu feel more homey, and because my Didi, my Dai and their beautiful two year old daughter are just a ton of fun and I love them to pieces. Staying with them has also really been a crash course in Nepali familial structure, and I’ve learned a lot of intimate details about the way Nepalis live that I think many other foreign students may miss out on. My involvement in Didi’s daughter’s life is a perfect example. In Nepali, the word for daughter is “Chori”, and while parents use the word to talk to their daughters, in sentences like “Daughter, come here.” or “Daughter, what are you doing?”, it’s culturally acceptable for many other relatives to also use the term “Chori” when addressing a small girl. Therefore, while I occasionally address my sister’s daughter by her name, I more often simply call her “Daughter”.

As I’ve written on before, kinship terms are indeed powerful words, and I’ve found that my use of this term has changed my perception of this bright little girl from being my niece, to being “our little one”. I find myself fussing over whether she’s behaving well at her preschool, what she’s eaten on a particular day, and how long of a nap she’s taken. And while I certainly don’t have as many responsibilities as her own mother when it comes to her care, I am much more involved than the typical American aunt. This has created a deeper bond, both with my Didi and with our Chori, and it’s an aspect of Nepali life I will always treasure and admire.



That said, I’ve also found that I now exhibit some very maternal feeling which I find hard to understand, as I’m (thankfully) not really a mommy. Tonight is a perfect case in point. This week I’ve been unable to stay even a single night at Didi’s house, and it looks as though the coming week will be much the same. So today, I called “home” to check in on everyone, and after chatting with Dai on the phone for a minute, a smaller gigglier voice came on the phone. “Auntie!”, she exclaimed. I started to respond, but before I could really say anything, she said “Auntie, ma sanchai chu.” In Nepali, this simply translates to “Auntie, I’m fine.” Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Ok, that makes sense.”, but that’s not at all how I responded. I was, at first, joyfully surprised, as our daughter had completed a full sentence perfectly, and even more excitingly, was learning what typical phone conversations consist of. The mommy in me beamed at how smart our two year old is getting to be. But as soon as I’d hung up the phone, I found myself feeling something else completely. I suddenly felt very very sad.

It was as if with that one sentence our daughter had crossed the border of babyhood, and was now fully a little girl. Of course, I’ve been watching this transformation with some excitement for the past several weeks now, but it was only after that brief window of absence that I realized just how much she was learning, and how quickly. And I’m excited to continue watching her grow and learn, but I’m also going to miss her baby talk. And for me, this is a strange sense of nostalgia to have. When I worked as a teacher, or even as I watched the younger kids in our family at home grow, I always noted these little achievements with pride and excitement. But now that it’s my own “chori”, I can’t fight a small sense of loss at this passing of time.

I know my own parents must also be reading this post with their own mixture of loss and pride. I’ve always been a challenging little girl to raise, but I think now that my achievements have pulled me so far from my family, the tug of both ends of the spectrum must be stronger. I know that’s true for me. The things I’ve accomplished here, and continue to accomplish, give me a sense of purpose and achievement I can’t ever imagine having obtained back home, but I’m still acutely aware of all the minutes I’m losing with all of you. Thankfully, occasionally, I can come here and write all these feelings out and send them along to you, and at least for me, it makes everything just a little bit easier.

Anyway, I guess I’m just saying what I’m always trying to tell you all; that I love and miss you no matter where I go or what I do.

Now on a lighter note: our daughter’s recent mastery of full sentences also means that I am once again in danger of being the weakest Nepali speaker in the house and if she keeps learning at this pace, she’ll be speaking English in no time. I’m trying not to let that wound my pride too badly, but I enjoyed having the ability to teach her new words in Nepali. I guess from now on, she’ll be teaching me. Oh well, at least I’ve still got her beat at reading! :)

All my love,

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