I feel sad that I found Laura Hershey's work so late in the day, after she had passed on. I have not been able to let go of this poem since I read it, and felt it really needed to just keep spreading.
You Get Proud by Practicing
by Laura Hershey
If you are not proud
For who you are, for what you say, for how you look;
If every time you stop
To think of yourself, you do not see yourself glowing
With golden light; do not, therefore, give up on yourself.
You can get proud.
You do not need
A better body, a purer spirit, or a Ph.D.
To be proud.
You do not need
A lot of money, a handsome boyfriend, or a nice car.
You do not need
To be able to walk, or see, or hear,
Or use big, complicated words,
Or do any of those things that you just can’t do
To be proud. A caseworker
Cannot make you proud,
Or a doctor.
You only need more practice.
You get proud by practicing.
There are many many ways to get proud.
You can try riding a horse, or skiing on one leg,
Or playing guitar,
And do well or not so well,
And be glad you tried
Either way.
You can show
Something you’ve made
To someone you respect
And be happy with it no matter
What they say.
You can say
What you think, though you know
Other people do not think the same way, and you can
keep saying it, even if they tell you
You are crazy.
You can add your voice
All night to the voices
Of a hundred and fifty others
In a circle
Around a jailhouse
Where your brothers and sisters are being held
For blocking buses with no lifts,
Or you can be one of the ones
Inside the jailhouse,
Knowing of the circle outside.
You can speak your love
To a friend
Without fear.
You can find someone who will listen to you
Without judging you or doubting you or being
Afraid of you
And let you hear yourself perhaps
For the very first time.
These are all ways
Of getting proud.
None of them
Are easy, but all of them
Are possible. You can do all of these things,
Or just one of them again and again.
You get proud
By practicing.
Power makes you proud, and power
Comes in many fine forms
Supple and rich as butterfly wings.
It is music
when you practice opening your mouth
And liking what you hear
Because it is the sound of your own
True voice.
It is sunlight
Wen you practice seeing
Strength and beauty in everyone,
Including yourself.
It is dance
when you practice knowing
That what you do
And the way you do it
Is the right way for you
And cannot be called wrong.
All these hold
More power than weapons or money
Or lies.
All these practices bring power, and power
Makes you proud.
You get proud
By practicing.
Remember, you weren’t the one
Who made you ashamed,
But you are the one
Who can make you proud.
Just practice,
Practice until you get proud, and once you are proud,
Keep practicing so you won’t forget.
You get proud
By practicing.
More can be found about Laura Hershey, including her publications and how to order them, on her webpage: www.laurahershey.com
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Remembering Usama…
“I should go…”, still seated, he pauses for a moment, looks towards the people walking in and out, almost as if he expects to see Usama among them, then finding him in a unique Usama-story or fond memory, he turns back to tell me all about it. He needed to talk about you, and I needed to listen and remember you and mirror the conservative smile lightening his sad grey face. It felt like we were two survivalists huddling around our memories of you to keep warm. The somber arrangements were very fitting of your stature, but they were too contradictorily dark to your generally buoyant nature. We missed you and we needed to bring you back through your stories.
It was natural that you were thus the hero of our stories, but what quickly emerged was that you were a hero in each of the stories. Calming one crisis with absolute logic, or wittily restoring dignity in another; deflecting our irrationality with kind humour, and encouraging us instead to colour outside the line and look at it all a little differently. When my brother first met you and asked what it was that you did, your spontaneous response was “I play”, and that’s how you made everything seem. I always thought I’d arrived on the scene too late to have had stories with you, but as I started to cling on to what my memory contained of you, I was happy to find that there were a few there… What I will hold on to most avidly is that excited feeling in the last few minutes as I would be approaching your house, when the same thought always came to my mind: “I wonder what Usama will be teaching me today…” Any day that revived my anticipation of wonder and reminded me just how vast the world was, was a good day.
I will miss you, Usama.
It was natural that you were thus the hero of our stories, but what quickly emerged was that you were a hero in each of the stories. Calming one crisis with absolute logic, or wittily restoring dignity in another; deflecting our irrationality with kind humour, and encouraging us instead to colour outside the line and look at it all a little differently. When my brother first met you and asked what it was that you did, your spontaneous response was “I play”, and that’s how you made everything seem. I always thought I’d arrived on the scene too late to have had stories with you, but as I started to cling on to what my memory contained of you, I was happy to find that there were a few there… What I will hold on to most avidly is that excited feeling in the last few minutes as I would be approaching your house, when the same thought always came to my mind: “I wonder what Usama will be teaching me today…” Any day that revived my anticipation of wonder and reminded me just how vast the world was, was a good day.
I will miss you, Usama.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Abandoning Hope
I am going to throw out a theory that collections are outcomes of good intentions. Perhaps a better, and less politically correct, synonym for collections is ‘piles’. The piles that grow around your desk, next to your favourite armchair, or on top of the laundry hamper in the bathroom, on the kitchen counter, next to the washing machine, or just behind the door. These piles of newspapers, articles, missing parts, slightly broken pieces of unrecognizable function, bags, gift-wrapping paper, ribbons, half-used notepads, pens you didn’t like and have been meaning to pass on to someone who might – let’s face it, they really are just piles of stuff. They were not accumulated with the mind of a collector or archive-r or any such noble notion, but simply out of the pure good intention that they will be read, used, fixed, distributed.
In my attempt to organize one such pile, I bought a new wicker basket, carried it by hand when I travelled, and arrived to find that it did not fit under my coffee table, nor was it sufficient to hold my dusty and overflowing collection of newspaper supplements and magazines. Acting of their own accord, my hands smoothly switched from packing to throwing away. The time had come to abandon all hope – I was never going to find the time or the motivation to read all that was contained in what had become more than 5-years’ worth of collecting, nor was it necessarily interesting to read any more. It was time.
Having spent years with the misguided belief that I would miss these papers, or miss out on some nugget of wisdom or crucial knowledge for not having read them, I was a little surprised to find how oddly (and paradoxically) liberating it was to just eliminate them completely. This little epiphany unraveled an ‘energizer bunny’ sweep of the house and all its crevices as all piles, in all their different shapes, forms and functions, were duly eliminated or downsized to a bare minimum. And let me tell you something, not only did I feel liberated, but equally refreshed and rejuvenated.
As it turns out, abandoning hope is the flip side of embracing clean slates and clearing the ‘pending’ guilty conscience checklist, and truly could not have felt better. This got me to wonder what else was piling up somewhere in our worlds and would inevitably lighten our load and spirits if we were to abandon it?
Not surprisingly when living in a country such as mine, my first thoughts strayed to politics and politicians, and the daydream led me through the possibility of pressing an imaginary ‘reset’ button (more like an ‘eject’ button) and the clean slate that would follow. I am sure that we, as citizens and voters, would soon fall into the same patterns as I will with my slowly creeping piles, but I also know that having gone through the purging process, we would be wiser as to what we would choose to take a chance on and keep, and what we would throw out on the spot. Just picture the process devoid of any additional considerations of the length of time we’d held on to it/them, or the single creative but impractical idea (or hope) we’d had when we stumbled on it/them – elements that frequently give piles a false sense of value.
So before you discount abandoning hope as an escapist, defeatist measure, I suggest that you first gauge its ‘purging’ value, and assess if you really are holding onto treasures, or just deadweights.
In my attempt to organize one such pile, I bought a new wicker basket, carried it by hand when I travelled, and arrived to find that it did not fit under my coffee table, nor was it sufficient to hold my dusty and overflowing collection of newspaper supplements and magazines. Acting of their own accord, my hands smoothly switched from packing to throwing away. The time had come to abandon all hope – I was never going to find the time or the motivation to read all that was contained in what had become more than 5-years’ worth of collecting, nor was it necessarily interesting to read any more. It was time.
Having spent years with the misguided belief that I would miss these papers, or miss out on some nugget of wisdom or crucial knowledge for not having read them, I was a little surprised to find how oddly (and paradoxically) liberating it was to just eliminate them completely. This little epiphany unraveled an ‘energizer bunny’ sweep of the house and all its crevices as all piles, in all their different shapes, forms and functions, were duly eliminated or downsized to a bare minimum. And let me tell you something, not only did I feel liberated, but equally refreshed and rejuvenated.
As it turns out, abandoning hope is the flip side of embracing clean slates and clearing the ‘pending’ guilty conscience checklist, and truly could not have felt better. This got me to wonder what else was piling up somewhere in our worlds and would inevitably lighten our load and spirits if we were to abandon it?
Not surprisingly when living in a country such as mine, my first thoughts strayed to politics and politicians, and the daydream led me through the possibility of pressing an imaginary ‘reset’ button (more like an ‘eject’ button) and the clean slate that would follow. I am sure that we, as citizens and voters, would soon fall into the same patterns as I will with my slowly creeping piles, but I also know that having gone through the purging process, we would be wiser as to what we would choose to take a chance on and keep, and what we would throw out on the spot. Just picture the process devoid of any additional considerations of the length of time we’d held on to it/them, or the single creative but impractical idea (or hope) we’d had when we stumbled on it/them – elements that frequently give piles a false sense of value.
So before you discount abandoning hope as an escapist, defeatist measure, I suggest that you first gauge its ‘purging’ value, and assess if you really are holding onto treasures, or just deadweights.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Little War Drummer Boys
Though that was my favourite Christmas carol, I am not referring to that little drummer boy, nor to the soldier-looking nutcracker, nor to any other military type Christmas character (why are there so many?). We have, in Lebanon, spawned our very own species of drummer boys that only beat to the news of war. Most of the time, if not always, when they start beating, there’s usually no-one behind them – no troops whose arrival is being announced, no decrees or referendums being carried by messengers, no convoys of arms, or goods, or investments for which to make way. The sad thing is, if they beat long enough and hard enough, any or all of these do suddenly appear behind them, as if from nowhere.
Talk of war creeps into all conversations with practically anybody. I was at a dinner party recently when one of the guests asked another, who happens to be one of my mentors, what he thought about the possibility of war. The guest was right to ask my mentor, a knowledgeable reference, who then proceeded to give him a rather impressive, holistic and scientific analysis of the situation, indicating that based on historical patterns and power balances, nothing in the current situation pointed to the possibility of a war the like of which has been drummed into the ether. Joining this conversation was another sweet man, younger than my mentor but of comparable intelligence and critical thinking, lacking a historical depth in his analysis, and the objectivity that comes with age, but no less impressive in the arguments he presented. Though his analysis was on clearly parallel lines to those of my mentor, he could not completely silence the thoughts of war ricocheting off the back of his mind and could not conclude by fully discounting the possibility of war.
As I stood listening to this exchange, I felt that I was being presented with a representative sample of the population in Lebanon. My mentor represented the 0.05% who were able to detach from their emotions and political affiliations and assess the situation based on patterns and an intuitive know-how that only experience nurtures; the sweet man engaging him in the analysis represents 10% of the population who are aware and smart enough to pull the facts together into a critical analysis but have not yet attained that additional fifth dimension that allow them to stand back a little from their chosen ideology. The guest, the originator of the question, represents the remaining 89.95% of the population who express their concern for the situation by asking the question to someone whom they think knows better, and gains nothing from the rich discussion that he instigated (watching it as he was like a tennis game) other than retaining some statements that he will then go on to repeat in other conversations where someone else in his percentage category will ask the question. Some of those will be asking the question out of their pain, finding little comfort in any of the answers, recognizing that something is just not right but they can’t understand it or figure out what to do about it. My heart aches for them and for their continued suffering because, quite frankly, I feel their pain.
You will notice that this representative sample does not include the drummer boys. I have serious doubts that the drummer boys still belong to the general populace as they seem to have inhabited another plane that magically never touches the ground. And while I wait for the 0.05% and the 10% to bring others into their categories, I look forward to the day when we can confiscate the drummer boys’ drumsticks, and burn them to a silent crisp.
Pa-ra-pa-pum-pum…. Here we come.
Talk of war creeps into all conversations with practically anybody. I was at a dinner party recently when one of the guests asked another, who happens to be one of my mentors, what he thought about the possibility of war. The guest was right to ask my mentor, a knowledgeable reference, who then proceeded to give him a rather impressive, holistic and scientific analysis of the situation, indicating that based on historical patterns and power balances, nothing in the current situation pointed to the possibility of a war the like of which has been drummed into the ether. Joining this conversation was another sweet man, younger than my mentor but of comparable intelligence and critical thinking, lacking a historical depth in his analysis, and the objectivity that comes with age, but no less impressive in the arguments he presented. Though his analysis was on clearly parallel lines to those of my mentor, he could not completely silence the thoughts of war ricocheting off the back of his mind and could not conclude by fully discounting the possibility of war.
As I stood listening to this exchange, I felt that I was being presented with a representative sample of the population in Lebanon. My mentor represented the 0.05% who were able to detach from their emotions and political affiliations and assess the situation based on patterns and an intuitive know-how that only experience nurtures; the sweet man engaging him in the analysis represents 10% of the population who are aware and smart enough to pull the facts together into a critical analysis but have not yet attained that additional fifth dimension that allow them to stand back a little from their chosen ideology. The guest, the originator of the question, represents the remaining 89.95% of the population who express their concern for the situation by asking the question to someone whom they think knows better, and gains nothing from the rich discussion that he instigated (watching it as he was like a tennis game) other than retaining some statements that he will then go on to repeat in other conversations where someone else in his percentage category will ask the question. Some of those will be asking the question out of their pain, finding little comfort in any of the answers, recognizing that something is just not right but they can’t understand it or figure out what to do about it. My heart aches for them and for their continued suffering because, quite frankly, I feel their pain.
You will notice that this representative sample does not include the drummer boys. I have serious doubts that the drummer boys still belong to the general populace as they seem to have inhabited another plane that magically never touches the ground. And while I wait for the 0.05% and the 10% to bring others into their categories, I look forward to the day when we can confiscate the drummer boys’ drumsticks, and burn them to a silent crisp.
Pa-ra-pa-pum-pum…. Here we come.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Long Farewell
It has now been two weeks since I’ve been back in Beirut, three weeks since I left Jaffna, and the last installment to my Jaffna diaries remains suspended in images that still inhabit my dreams, and memories that resist being committed to paper, where the stillness of the printed word will solidly put them in ‘the past’ and out of my ‘anecdotal present’.
I was lucky to recognize how happy I would be to come back to Beirut, because leaving Jaffna was not easy by any measure. My Sunday walks through the town, originally conceived as a mode of therapy to get me out of the house on the very still weekends, became such a joy of adventurous exploration, and such generous scenery for my amateur photography, that my departure countdown included checking off the imminent end to these little pockets of simple joy.
My initial feeble attempts at socializing with my non-international colleagues had borne fruit when I wasn’t looking. Weekend lunches for the ladies at the only house where there were no men (mine) became such fun that I wondered why we hadn’t had that many more during my short tenure. One of these lovely ladies commented that it felt as if we were childhood friends, and I must admit that my mind refused to compute why leaving Jaffna meant that there would be an end to these light-hearted gatherings that felt like part and parcel of my every day. The men, sweet as they are, were never invited to these gatherings, where I could picture their soft shyness getting in the way of any fun (for them, undoubtedly providing much fodder of fun for us), and I always wished when in their presence that I spoke better Tamil so that I could share a joke and put them more at ease. Their own witty jokes, whispered in Tamil under their breath, and given away only by the bursts of laughter that follow, were always so refreshing in our larger gatherings, even if I didn’t ‘catch’ the joke. The dynamics echoed those of an extended family, with members that are different and diverse, but also supportive and loving.
Two weeks in Beirut, and three weeks since I left Jaffna, I find that I miss the cultural criss-cross that we (I) had finally learned to maneuver, and the calm, warm company of my little Jaffna family.
Funnily enough, my last couple of weeks in Jaffna, ticking away louder than a Swiss cuckoo clock, resisted sentiments of ‘endings’ and kept hinting of yet more ‘beginnings’. The biggest task attached to my departure had to do with selling my electrical appliances and houseware, and I was lucky to find a buyer who was more than willing to take it all. He had, in fact, just arrived to Jaffna, and moved into a large, renovated and very empty house just days before I was due to leave. He wasn’t my replacement or even in my agency, which made the sudden barrenness of my flat, emptied of its possessions, ring of his new tenure in Jaffna rather than the end of mine. I was delighted to share with him stories of the various acquisitions, some as rare finds in Jaffna markets (which were stark around the time of my arrival) and others as ‘essential’ tools that were carried back from Beirut or Colombo. I smiled as I realized that he would one day sell them to someone else arriving in Jaffna, and that I had in some small way contributed to the comfort of future waves of internationals in this charming and remote Northern town.
Packing my office, however, was unlike any of my previous experiences. In the past, I would be packing with a sinking feeling as I came across pieces of project ideas that I never got to see through, or projects in their sensitive phases weighing me down with guilt that I may not have done enough to ensure their safe continuation. In the past, I would be ‘loudly’ labeling files and boxes so that the contents don’t get buried in a shroud of ill-knowledge, and so that my conscience is not burdened with the possibility of losing that which had been entrusted to me. In the past, however, I was working mostly on my own, and among the many thrills of working in a team is being able to pass on said files and boxes to them, sharing the odd project idea that did not come to life during my stay, and leaving it all in their capable hands. The programme was running before I arrived, and would successfully continue after I left. My empty desk, with all its files happily migrated to other inboxes, looked as it did when I arrived. Without any traces of me, it rang of someone else’s new beginning, and I hoped that their experience would be just as happy.
In so many ways, I was grateful that I could slide out of the office relatively painlessly, because I could not have been more emotionally drained from farewells to colleagues and partners. It is always humbling to find that you have been ‘seen’ and appreciated, and immeasurably rewarding to be told that you have made an impact. It was enough to make me wonder whether I was wise to leave this for a new adventure where I had no guarantees of success! But that was just a mere tickle compared to how blessed and lucky I felt.
Lucky! HA! The joke there lies in the past, in the beginning, when I first landed in Jaffna and became physically ill in my first few days, probably a shock to my system from the travel, the heat, and the ‘gasp’ at what would be my home for the coming year. The joke is that I should have greeted this experience in that way, and that, a year later, I would be unable to look back and speak of anything but my gratitude for my good fortune to have been there, because there was nothing hard that wasn’t balanced out – or even outweighed – by a little luxury, kindness or typical Jaffna charm.
It was not easy to leave Jaffna. The finality of my departure sunk in like a ton of bricks as I was being driven to the airport, a trip that was normally light-hearted because it meant I would be going somewhere with hot-water showers and fresh meat, was now just plain sad. It finally dawned on me that I would not tread these streets again with my camera in hand, that I would not be seeing these lovely people any time soon, and that I may never have an adequate reason to come back to this sweet charming town that will forever occupy a chapter in my personal history. As I shook hands with the air force staff, who had been so kind in various trips in and out of Jaffna, trying to modestly emphasize that I was leaving for good and receiving nothing more than a light, though warm, goodbye in return, I realized that I was one of many expats they have met and bade farewell to over the years, that this event that I was viewing as momentous was something of a routine for them. I realized that, when all is said and done, Jaffna had made a bigger impact on me than I did in return, and that it was the perfect swan song for one phase of my life as I returned home with a clean slate and dreams of drastic changes. And I shall always feel lucky and grateful…
I was lucky to recognize how happy I would be to come back to Beirut, because leaving Jaffna was not easy by any measure. My Sunday walks through the town, originally conceived as a mode of therapy to get me out of the house on the very still weekends, became such a joy of adventurous exploration, and such generous scenery for my amateur photography, that my departure countdown included checking off the imminent end to these little pockets of simple joy.
My initial feeble attempts at socializing with my non-international colleagues had borne fruit when I wasn’t looking. Weekend lunches for the ladies at the only house where there were no men (mine) became such fun that I wondered why we hadn’t had that many more during my short tenure. One of these lovely ladies commented that it felt as if we were childhood friends, and I must admit that my mind refused to compute why leaving Jaffna meant that there would be an end to these light-hearted gatherings that felt like part and parcel of my every day. The men, sweet as they are, were never invited to these gatherings, where I could picture their soft shyness getting in the way of any fun (for them, undoubtedly providing much fodder of fun for us), and I always wished when in their presence that I spoke better Tamil so that I could share a joke and put them more at ease. Their own witty jokes, whispered in Tamil under their breath, and given away only by the bursts of laughter that follow, were always so refreshing in our larger gatherings, even if I didn’t ‘catch’ the joke. The dynamics echoed those of an extended family, with members that are different and diverse, but also supportive and loving.
Two weeks in Beirut, and three weeks since I left Jaffna, I find that I miss the cultural criss-cross that we (I) had finally learned to maneuver, and the calm, warm company of my little Jaffna family.
Funnily enough, my last couple of weeks in Jaffna, ticking away louder than a Swiss cuckoo clock, resisted sentiments of ‘endings’ and kept hinting of yet more ‘beginnings’. The biggest task attached to my departure had to do with selling my electrical appliances and houseware, and I was lucky to find a buyer who was more than willing to take it all. He had, in fact, just arrived to Jaffna, and moved into a large, renovated and very empty house just days before I was due to leave. He wasn’t my replacement or even in my agency, which made the sudden barrenness of my flat, emptied of its possessions, ring of his new tenure in Jaffna rather than the end of mine. I was delighted to share with him stories of the various acquisitions, some as rare finds in Jaffna markets (which were stark around the time of my arrival) and others as ‘essential’ tools that were carried back from Beirut or Colombo. I smiled as I realized that he would one day sell them to someone else arriving in Jaffna, and that I had in some small way contributed to the comfort of future waves of internationals in this charming and remote Northern town.
Packing my office, however, was unlike any of my previous experiences. In the past, I would be packing with a sinking feeling as I came across pieces of project ideas that I never got to see through, or projects in their sensitive phases weighing me down with guilt that I may not have done enough to ensure their safe continuation. In the past, I would be ‘loudly’ labeling files and boxes so that the contents don’t get buried in a shroud of ill-knowledge, and so that my conscience is not burdened with the possibility of losing that which had been entrusted to me. In the past, however, I was working mostly on my own, and among the many thrills of working in a team is being able to pass on said files and boxes to them, sharing the odd project idea that did not come to life during my stay, and leaving it all in their capable hands. The programme was running before I arrived, and would successfully continue after I left. My empty desk, with all its files happily migrated to other inboxes, looked as it did when I arrived. Without any traces of me, it rang of someone else’s new beginning, and I hoped that their experience would be just as happy.
In so many ways, I was grateful that I could slide out of the office relatively painlessly, because I could not have been more emotionally drained from farewells to colleagues and partners. It is always humbling to find that you have been ‘seen’ and appreciated, and immeasurably rewarding to be told that you have made an impact. It was enough to make me wonder whether I was wise to leave this for a new adventure where I had no guarantees of success! But that was just a mere tickle compared to how blessed and lucky I felt.
Lucky! HA! The joke there lies in the past, in the beginning, when I first landed in Jaffna and became physically ill in my first few days, probably a shock to my system from the travel, the heat, and the ‘gasp’ at what would be my home for the coming year. The joke is that I should have greeted this experience in that way, and that, a year later, I would be unable to look back and speak of anything but my gratitude for my good fortune to have been there, because there was nothing hard that wasn’t balanced out – or even outweighed – by a little luxury, kindness or typical Jaffna charm.
It was not easy to leave Jaffna. The finality of my departure sunk in like a ton of bricks as I was being driven to the airport, a trip that was normally light-hearted because it meant I would be going somewhere with hot-water showers and fresh meat, was now just plain sad. It finally dawned on me that I would not tread these streets again with my camera in hand, that I would not be seeing these lovely people any time soon, and that I may never have an adequate reason to come back to this sweet charming town that will forever occupy a chapter in my personal history. As I shook hands with the air force staff, who had been so kind in various trips in and out of Jaffna, trying to modestly emphasize that I was leaving for good and receiving nothing more than a light, though warm, goodbye in return, I realized that I was one of many expats they have met and bade farewell to over the years, that this event that I was viewing as momentous was something of a routine for them. I realized that, when all is said and done, Jaffna had made a bigger impact on me than I did in return, and that it was the perfect swan song for one phase of my life as I returned home with a clean slate and dreams of drastic changes. And I shall always feel lucky and grateful…
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Glorious Sunday
Last night saw the farewell party of one of my closer Jaffna friends, marking her last Saturday in town. It was a beautiful evening with the rare attendance of practically all the internationals, only one being away on leave, and as I looked around the group, I realized that most of the old faces had left and been replaced, and that I too would be leaving my seat relatively soon. This has come to mind more than once since I announced I would not be renewing my contract, and I found myself already nostalgic for certain Jaffna-isms, wanting to take extra care in affixing particular details firmly in my memory.
This Sunday had made its way on that list, tying together all the bits and pieces that made it a practically perfect day. A gentle respite from the beating sun and the messy winds and sporadic, aggressive rains, it is the first day in my 10 months in Jaffna that I was able to turn my air-conditioner off all day, letting the whole world delightfully pass through my windows. For reasons that escape me, the streets were quieter today, the activity seemingly filtered to the necessary and purposeful. It was almost reminiscent of my first days here during the curfews and blockades, and I say ‘almost’ as the assuredness and humour of today’s activity made it much lighter. Even the inquisitiveness with which I was being observed on my weekly walk was a sweet change from the earlier anxious – and dare I say, suspicious – stares. A restraint that usually laced the town and its people appeared to have lifted today, and everything and everyone moved in perfectly choreographed laps, confidently looking ahead rather than over their shoulder, meekly.
That rhythm took over the rest of my day as I returned home to attempt a dish for the third time (this time assisted with better quality ingredients), listening to show tune soundtracks, and a comforting hum of activity from my neighbours’ equally quiet Sunday. Tuning into an internet classical music station, I rewarded my improved cooking results with a cup of coffee on the balcony with my new novel. Pausing between paragraphs to turn a page, I looked up at the swaying trees that were silently keeping me company, and the contrasting red-cement colours of the buildings, I could suddenly hear the lazy sounds from the crows, chipmunks and other permanent residents of these grounds, and realized at that moment that this was a perfect Sunday.
This little town that I have called ‘home’ for the better part of a year presented me with a glorious gift, and as I write this, I remain ever grateful.
This Sunday had made its way on that list, tying together all the bits and pieces that made it a practically perfect day. A gentle respite from the beating sun and the messy winds and sporadic, aggressive rains, it is the first day in my 10 months in Jaffna that I was able to turn my air-conditioner off all day, letting the whole world delightfully pass through my windows. For reasons that escape me, the streets were quieter today, the activity seemingly filtered to the necessary and purposeful. It was almost reminiscent of my first days here during the curfews and blockades, and I say ‘almost’ as the assuredness and humour of today’s activity made it much lighter. Even the inquisitiveness with which I was being observed on my weekly walk was a sweet change from the earlier anxious – and dare I say, suspicious – stares. A restraint that usually laced the town and its people appeared to have lifted today, and everything and everyone moved in perfectly choreographed laps, confidently looking ahead rather than over their shoulder, meekly.
That rhythm took over the rest of my day as I returned home to attempt a dish for the third time (this time assisted with better quality ingredients), listening to show tune soundtracks, and a comforting hum of activity from my neighbours’ equally quiet Sunday. Tuning into an internet classical music station, I rewarded my improved cooking results with a cup of coffee on the balcony with my new novel. Pausing between paragraphs to turn a page, I looked up at the swaying trees that were silently keeping me company, and the contrasting red-cement colours of the buildings, I could suddenly hear the lazy sounds from the crows, chipmunks and other permanent residents of these grounds, and realized at that moment that this was a perfect Sunday.
This little town that I have called ‘home’ for the better part of a year presented me with a glorious gift, and as I write this, I remain ever grateful.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
(One) Wedding & a Funeral
It has been a while since I’ve written, and I think the reasons are clear. After you’ve been living in one place for a while, working with, buying from and socializing with its people, all that once appeared different and new and worthy of writing about fades into the background and becomes, well, ordinary. And even if a gaudily displayed store-front or a group of sleeping goats creating a breathing street divider formation captures your attention, they are no longer enough to warrant being written about.
You have, for all practical purposes, become a resident of your new environment – albeit one that still sticks out like a sore thumb – and you notice this when you receive the highest form of anointment symbolizing that they too consider you one of them: you get a wedding invitation.
With only a few single colleagues at the office, we always joked that we should have a wedding before our beloved boss moves to another post. We really did like our boss, so I’m not sure what humorous hand of fate set the ‘auspicious’ date for our colleague’s wedding two weeks after she left Jaffna. In any case, this didn’t dampen the happy event, nor my anthropological curiosity as to all the rites and rituals involved: how was it arranged? What are the events leading up to the big day? What role do the brothers and sisters play? And most importantly: what do I wear?!
I already knew the answer to that one, but was hoping that the reply would inadvertently recruit a volunteer to help me shop and then dress in the celebratory saree. My evil plot worked and from that point forward, my entire obsession with the wedding was in my saree. I would listen lightly as the elements of dowry and contract and blessings were explained to me, remaining fixated on “and where would we be sitting at that time? Would we be in our saree by then?” The first weekend I was supposed to go with my recruited volunteer to pick a saree, a general strike was declared in Jaffna, and I took it very personally, considered it plain sabotage! But that only served to strengthen my resolve and I took notes from a colleague as to what I need to look for, what questions to ask, and so on. I thought I was all prepared when, through some twists of opportunity, she was able to come shopping with me. Very fortunate considering it was much much more complicated than her instructions had led on. You see, it’s one thing to go looking for a saree you think you might like, but it demands much more imagination to visualize the flat section at one of the ends as the shirt, and what part of this flowing material appears where when you’re fully dressed. As a true ‘do-it-yourself’ experience, there are more bits and pieces, none of which I could have imagined – there’s the lining for the shirt, the full-length saree skirt, and forget whatever jewelry or accessories you already have, you must make a special trip to a tiny store stocked up to the ceiling in sets of necklace/ ring/ earrings, bangles and bindis. Out of all of these, I think the only item that will travel back home with me are the funky coloured bangles; the whole time I was trying out the rest I was hoping I wouldn’t develop a sudden rash. One wedding, one-time-wear.
I won’t go into the details of the stressful last minute making and refitting of the saree shirt, which was finished the day before the wedding, and I truly wish I could go into the details of dressing up in the saree, but I think it might be easier for me to re-learn organic chemistry. My wonderful recruited volunteer was on hand to help me get dressed, and after the second pleat that I am still convinced was held up by pure magic, I could no longer follow the folds and wraps and pins that she was effortlessly maneuvering around me. The whole time I was in the saree, I couldn’t figure out what was connected to what, which meant that I was vigilant about stepping on this, or pulling on that for fear that the falling dominos train would unhinge a limb or something. This became rather exhausting, especially as I also had to keep in mind where I left my shoes, which had to be removed before we walked into the wedding hall, and to avoid unseemly leg cramps as we ‘elegantly’ sat on the ground. In fact, I was so distracted and tired that I stopped asking what was happening to the betrothed couple at the front of the room as blessings were being bestowed and a slew of offerings were being made. It was somewhat liberating because I could then just watch my friend go through this process, and take in that we were witnessing a pivotal moment in her life. In the years to come, and already now a couple of months later, what I remember most is how busily and intricately everything was decorated – the stage, their chairs, them – and how swiftly and generously every single visitor was offered a delicious lunch on an environmentally friendly banana leaf.
Either as reflection of the similar meanings we hold for rites and rituals, or a reflection of my one main concern, I had an almost identical first-reaction-question to the funeral as I did to the wedding: what do I wear? Whereas my energy for the wedding was siphoned into the saree, for the funeral it was the details of orchestrating a group visit to the location, which was out on one of the islands. It is heartening to find that colleagues who are consistently late for meetings will arrive early to the rendez-vous point for a funeral, and more so to find that people do take on responsibility and initiative as we negotiated our way to cut through a 2km line of waiting tourists, on to a packed cargo boat, and finding three tuc-tucs on the island which we squeezed into for the final leg of the journey. There is little I can write about the funeral here to do it justice, and in some ways, less that I want to remember. The guttural, distressed wails of our colleague as she flailed her arms over the body of her dead brother continue to haunt me, and I am comforted only by the procedures that were explained to me in which the life of the deceased and his body are honored before being sent to their final resting place.
On the way back from our long morning, I was still pondering the traditions and symbols that had been explained to me for the better part of an hour while at the funeral, and I felt emboldened to ask a few more questions about other symbols. And about one in particular that had consumed me for a while: throughout my walks through Jaffna, I would occasionally see a 2 liter plastic soda bottle, filled with water and hung outside the front gate of a house. The bottles were different colours, and sometimes the water was coloured a bright fuschia or food colouring green, and I never understood what they were for. After a morning where everything that was being done around me spoke of a deep meaning, I asked about the mysterious symbol behind these bottles and finally got my answer in two simple words: “dog’s pee”. Convinced I had misheard I asked again, and was told that people hung them to stop the dogs from peeing at their gates.
Symbolic mystery solved. I guess sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar.
You have, for all practical purposes, become a resident of your new environment – albeit one that still sticks out like a sore thumb – and you notice this when you receive the highest form of anointment symbolizing that they too consider you one of them: you get a wedding invitation.
With only a few single colleagues at the office, we always joked that we should have a wedding before our beloved boss moves to another post. We really did like our boss, so I’m not sure what humorous hand of fate set the ‘auspicious’ date for our colleague’s wedding two weeks after she left Jaffna. In any case, this didn’t dampen the happy event, nor my anthropological curiosity as to all the rites and rituals involved: how was it arranged? What are the events leading up to the big day? What role do the brothers and sisters play? And most importantly: what do I wear?!
I already knew the answer to that one, but was hoping that the reply would inadvertently recruit a volunteer to help me shop and then dress in the celebratory saree. My evil plot worked and from that point forward, my entire obsession with the wedding was in my saree. I would listen lightly as the elements of dowry and contract and blessings were explained to me, remaining fixated on “and where would we be sitting at that time? Would we be in our saree by then?” The first weekend I was supposed to go with my recruited volunteer to pick a saree, a general strike was declared in Jaffna, and I took it very personally, considered it plain sabotage! But that only served to strengthen my resolve and I took notes from a colleague as to what I need to look for, what questions to ask, and so on. I thought I was all prepared when, through some twists of opportunity, she was able to come shopping with me. Very fortunate considering it was much much more complicated than her instructions had led on. You see, it’s one thing to go looking for a saree you think you might like, but it demands much more imagination to visualize the flat section at one of the ends as the shirt, and what part of this flowing material appears where when you’re fully dressed. As a true ‘do-it-yourself’ experience, there are more bits and pieces, none of which I could have imagined – there’s the lining for the shirt, the full-length saree skirt, and forget whatever jewelry or accessories you already have, you must make a special trip to a tiny store stocked up to the ceiling in sets of necklace/ ring/ earrings, bangles and bindis. Out of all of these, I think the only item that will travel back home with me are the funky coloured bangles; the whole time I was trying out the rest I was hoping I wouldn’t develop a sudden rash. One wedding, one-time-wear.
I won’t go into the details of the stressful last minute making and refitting of the saree shirt, which was finished the day before the wedding, and I truly wish I could go into the details of dressing up in the saree, but I think it might be easier for me to re-learn organic chemistry. My wonderful recruited volunteer was on hand to help me get dressed, and after the second pleat that I am still convinced was held up by pure magic, I could no longer follow the folds and wraps and pins that she was effortlessly maneuvering around me. The whole time I was in the saree, I couldn’t figure out what was connected to what, which meant that I was vigilant about stepping on this, or pulling on that for fear that the falling dominos train would unhinge a limb or something. This became rather exhausting, especially as I also had to keep in mind where I left my shoes, which had to be removed before we walked into the wedding hall, and to avoid unseemly leg cramps as we ‘elegantly’ sat on the ground. In fact, I was so distracted and tired that I stopped asking what was happening to the betrothed couple at the front of the room as blessings were being bestowed and a slew of offerings were being made. It was somewhat liberating because I could then just watch my friend go through this process, and take in that we were witnessing a pivotal moment in her life. In the years to come, and already now a couple of months later, what I remember most is how busily and intricately everything was decorated – the stage, their chairs, them – and how swiftly and generously every single visitor was offered a delicious lunch on an environmentally friendly banana leaf.
Either as reflection of the similar meanings we hold for rites and rituals, or a reflection of my one main concern, I had an almost identical first-reaction-question to the funeral as I did to the wedding: what do I wear? Whereas my energy for the wedding was siphoned into the saree, for the funeral it was the details of orchestrating a group visit to the location, which was out on one of the islands. It is heartening to find that colleagues who are consistently late for meetings will arrive early to the rendez-vous point for a funeral, and more so to find that people do take on responsibility and initiative as we negotiated our way to cut through a 2km line of waiting tourists, on to a packed cargo boat, and finding three tuc-tucs on the island which we squeezed into for the final leg of the journey. There is little I can write about the funeral here to do it justice, and in some ways, less that I want to remember. The guttural, distressed wails of our colleague as she flailed her arms over the body of her dead brother continue to haunt me, and I am comforted only by the procedures that were explained to me in which the life of the deceased and his body are honored before being sent to their final resting place.
On the way back from our long morning, I was still pondering the traditions and symbols that had been explained to me for the better part of an hour while at the funeral, and I felt emboldened to ask a few more questions about other symbols. And about one in particular that had consumed me for a while: throughout my walks through Jaffna, I would occasionally see a 2 liter plastic soda bottle, filled with water and hung outside the front gate of a house. The bottles were different colours, and sometimes the water was coloured a bright fuschia or food colouring green, and I never understood what they were for. After a morning where everything that was being done around me spoke of a deep meaning, I asked about the mysterious symbol behind these bottles and finally got my answer in two simple words: “dog’s pee”. Convinced I had misheard I asked again, and was told that people hung them to stop the dogs from peeing at their gates.
Symbolic mystery solved. I guess sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Not Home for the Holidays
In most families, traditions only come to life around the holidays. In my family, the only holiday that has gained any particular tradition over the years has been, ironically, Christmas. As a diasporic family, we never seem to be around each other for any of the other Eids, but have managed to meet up every year around Christmas, with only the occasional exception. Continuing to adapt with the times, our childhood Christmas traditions evolved from Christmas Eve to a Christmas lunch, and from pizza and ice cream (there was other food there, but that’s what we most enjoyed as children) to turkey and wine. The elements that remained are what I would consider the fun-fillers – decorating the tree with the kids, singing a Christmas carol or two (off key, of course), some group games, and presents (you are never too young or too old to get excited about unwrapping a present) – though, granted, these didn’t always take place with my family… and not always in the same country. Nonetheless, tradition reigned, and defined the holiday for me.
So you can understand that nobody batted an eyelid when I was in mid-air, traveling around Eid Al Adha, and nobody was really concerned with my plans for New Year’s eve. Staying in Jaffna for Christmas, however, had somehow set off a chain of events that led to nobody flying home from Christmas, and altering the traditional Christmas lunch altogether. Though I did feel some guilt at having been indirectly behind this, I must confess that I was also a little consoled by the fact that I would not be missing one of OUR Christmases. It was not my first choice to be here for Christmas, but since I was, and since there would not be anything of our usual Christmas taking place, I set out to try to make it as much fun as I could. For me, at least.
I was happy to find that Jaffna and its population of Christians were preparing for a good time (the Hindus and Muslims hardly seemed to notice). My first sign was not the few very plastic looking Christmas trees, the blindingly gauche ornaments, or the frantically blinking lights, but the blow-up Santa dolls that appeared out of every other shop window. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw a blow-up Santa doll (at least not one that wasn’t a marketing gimmick, towering over pedestrians) and thought how appropriate the choice was for this rainy season. I wasn’t too far off as they were sold out before I had the chance to lay my hands on one. In the end, I restrained myself from the slippery slope that was the strange variety of Christmas decorations, and stuck to my simple favourite: Christmas lights, which adorned the stretch of windows in my little flat (and have made for a cheery nightlight!).
Next task was to try to pull a Christmas celebration together. To make sure that something did happen on Christmas, I had announced early on that any celebration would take place in my house. The preference among the internationals who were also hanging around for Christmas (and whom I lovingly referred to as ‘the Leftovers’) was to celebrate the eve. And so it was… It took me a minute to realize that Dec 24 was a working day and that I wouldn’t be able to prepare much, and another minute to place an order with a local caterer I had found. By the third minute I was smiling at the thought that this is exactly what I would have done had I been in Beirut, and realized that in this isolated peninsula in the north of the island that is Sri Lanka, I had found ways for Jaffna to meet my own habits!
I was a little concerned as to what would keep two Dutch people, one Tanzanian, one Indian, one Indonesian, one Italian, one German and one Turk-German sufficiently entertained all the way till midnight, but the celebration was grand fun. One of the lowlights was realizing that nobody else had heard (or could sing along to) the 12 Days of Christmas, one of the highlights was finding that we could sing Silent Night in our native languages (I resorted to English), and did so in a rather decent (and touching) choral attempt. There were, thankfully, other highlights – the makeshift presents, the youtube stroll for all sorts of Christmas songs – I no longer recall all of them, but I do know that midnight rolled in without us noticing. We were left with one last part to our Jaffna Christmas experience: midnight mass in Tamil.
We did not arrive in time to see the children carrying in baby Jesus into the manger that dominated the front half of the huge church, and we sadly missed the singing as well. When we arrived, the rather large congregation was just settling in for the sermon, seated in the pews, on the ground and on the stairs in burst of brightly-coloured new clothes, children parents and grandparents were momentarily distracted by us before relegating their full attention to the bishop at the altar. It was sweet, and humbling, and the fact that I could not understand the language meant that I could let my mind wander to what the bishop might be saying, which, to be honest, made it a much more interesting sermon than any other I have attended.
His line of thought lasted much longer than mine, so we soon gave in to our lingual ignorance, hugged each other goodnight, and headed home.
It was a lovely night…
So you can understand that nobody batted an eyelid when I was in mid-air, traveling around Eid Al Adha, and nobody was really concerned with my plans for New Year’s eve. Staying in Jaffna for Christmas, however, had somehow set off a chain of events that led to nobody flying home from Christmas, and altering the traditional Christmas lunch altogether. Though I did feel some guilt at having been indirectly behind this, I must confess that I was also a little consoled by the fact that I would not be missing one of OUR Christmases. It was not my first choice to be here for Christmas, but since I was, and since there would not be anything of our usual Christmas taking place, I set out to try to make it as much fun as I could. For me, at least.
I was happy to find that Jaffna and its population of Christians were preparing for a good time (the Hindus and Muslims hardly seemed to notice). My first sign was not the few very plastic looking Christmas trees, the blindingly gauche ornaments, or the frantically blinking lights, but the blow-up Santa dolls that appeared out of every other shop window. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw a blow-up Santa doll (at least not one that wasn’t a marketing gimmick, towering over pedestrians) and thought how appropriate the choice was for this rainy season. I wasn’t too far off as they were sold out before I had the chance to lay my hands on one. In the end, I restrained myself from the slippery slope that was the strange variety of Christmas decorations, and stuck to my simple favourite: Christmas lights, which adorned the stretch of windows in my little flat (and have made for a cheery nightlight!).
Next task was to try to pull a Christmas celebration together. To make sure that something did happen on Christmas, I had announced early on that any celebration would take place in my house. The preference among the internationals who were also hanging around for Christmas (and whom I lovingly referred to as ‘the Leftovers’) was to celebrate the eve. And so it was… It took me a minute to realize that Dec 24 was a working day and that I wouldn’t be able to prepare much, and another minute to place an order with a local caterer I had found. By the third minute I was smiling at the thought that this is exactly what I would have done had I been in Beirut, and realized that in this isolated peninsula in the north of the island that is Sri Lanka, I had found ways for Jaffna to meet my own habits!
I was a little concerned as to what would keep two Dutch people, one Tanzanian, one Indian, one Indonesian, one Italian, one German and one Turk-German sufficiently entertained all the way till midnight, but the celebration was grand fun. One of the lowlights was realizing that nobody else had heard (or could sing along to) the 12 Days of Christmas, one of the highlights was finding that we could sing Silent Night in our native languages (I resorted to English), and did so in a rather decent (and touching) choral attempt. There were, thankfully, other highlights – the makeshift presents, the youtube stroll for all sorts of Christmas songs – I no longer recall all of them, but I do know that midnight rolled in without us noticing. We were left with one last part to our Jaffna Christmas experience: midnight mass in Tamil.
We did not arrive in time to see the children carrying in baby Jesus into the manger that dominated the front half of the huge church, and we sadly missed the singing as well. When we arrived, the rather large congregation was just settling in for the sermon, seated in the pews, on the ground and on the stairs in burst of brightly-coloured new clothes, children parents and grandparents were momentarily distracted by us before relegating their full attention to the bishop at the altar. It was sweet, and humbling, and the fact that I could not understand the language meant that I could let my mind wander to what the bishop might be saying, which, to be honest, made it a much more interesting sermon than any other I have attended.
His line of thought lasted much longer than mine, so we soon gave in to our lingual ignorance, hugged each other goodnight, and headed home.
It was a lovely night…
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