Distinctly M.I.A., but not

Ahem. I'm feeling a sudden urge to air a point of frustration. A question, really.

By now, anyone who has paid even the faintest attention to pop music has a pretty good idea of what M.I.A. sounds like. Her vocal stylings are unmistakable. She has a slick lip and a pitch-playful cadence that our ears register immediately.

So what the hell does Lady Gaga think she's doing in Wale's new song "Chillin'"? After listening to the song twice (admittedly not very carefully), I was shocked to learn that it was Lady Gaga's voice I was hearing and not M.I.A.'s. Lady Gaga somehow managed to lift M.I.A.'s signature vocal idiom right out of her throat without even attempting to personalize it. It's just straight M.I.A. Except that it's not.

To confuse matters further, Wale references M.I.A. in the song twice, first naming her in a pun and then pulling a line from "Paper Planes." Coincidence? I doubt it.

Food, Inc.

There's a new documentary film out about industrial agriculture called Food, Inc. If you have the opportunity to see it, I urge you to do so. Thanks to my roommate who works at the Pesticide Action Network of North America (PANNA), I attended an advance screening of it in San Francisco.

Yes, it's another one of those make-your-stomach-turn documentaries that relies on shock and awe. But it conveys its message beautifully, and we might as well be shocked. What I appreciate most about Food, Inc. is that it addresses the social justice side of food (never mind that the audience in my screening was, in the words of Van Jones, "lily white"). It doesn't blame low-income consumers who can't buy their way out of the ugly web of industrial agriculture or even on farmers who are so often beholden to corporate headquarters.

The question that remains in my heart is what we do now. We know that our present food system is hopelessly broken. Without a doubt, the highest burden is on those who hold the least power in society: immigrants, small farmers, and low-income urban communities. Yet these are the same people who have the least clout in the halls of power. They certainly aren't the ones paying full-time lobbyists to protect their interests. I suspect they'd do a better job than our current leaders in paving a more humane path from the crop to the kitchen table.

Sigh. Power to the people. Love, too.

A Hunger for Action

It’s a clear morning in May, and the lobbyists mushrooming on the State Capitol lawn are feeling lucky. Today is Hunger Action Day, an annual event organized by the California Hunger Action Coalition. From all across the state, anti-hunger advocates are converging in Sacramento to speak on behalf of over 5 million Californians who are hungry or who live on the brink of hunger.

For this, I have been awake since a bleary-eyed hour of morning that the sun refuses to dignify with its presence. I arrive in Sacramento mid-morning with a motley crew of advocates from the San Francisco Bay Area. Our group consists of staff and volunteers from the Alameda County Food Bank, the Senior Advocates for Hope and Justice from St. Mary’s Center in West Oakland, high school students from San Leandro, and a smattering of miscellaneous joiners. Our charter bus is the umpteenth to release its travelers face-first into the balmy air. Our uniform, for the half of us who bothered to wear it, is a bright orange t-shirt. (“Orange you gonna do something about hunger?”) We tote paper folders whose contents detail our legislative agenda and instruct us in the art of advocacy.

The first order of the day is a rally. Our group proceeds to an assemblage of folding chairs beneath an expansive white tent. The tent occupies prime real estate on the grassy lawn: it faces the steps of the State Capitol, which serve as our makeshift stage. Nearby, similarly outfitted groups tout their causes: “Say No to Stroke,” “You’re the Cure,” “Action on Water NOW!”

After an opening speaker, the rally is off to a slow start. Our counterparts representing other chunks of the state map are slowly trickling in. To pass the minutes between speakers and cheers, I take inventory of my neighbors. There are the kids from San Leandro high school (not San Diego High School, as they indignantly point out to those who mistake them for a nonexistent SoCal delegation). The girls wear their hair long and their jeans skinny. I recall an old pair of boot-cut jeans and try not to imagine how long it’s been since I was in high school.

I catch a glimpse of a man at the other end of the tent. He wears glasses, arm tattoos, and a beard. His skin is slightly weathered, but his smile makes him youthful. I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember where. “I knew you right away!” he says brightly when I approach him to bashfully admit that I can’t place him. His name is Paul, and he’s here with a group from St. Anthony’s Foundation in San Francisco, where I used to volunteer. The mystery is solved: I used to banter with him and the other boys in the steam-soaked scullery while wiping down tables and collecting bucketfuls of dirty dishes. “Come back sometime,” he tells me. “Even if it’s just once a month.” His invitation is so warm and full of gladness. I can hardly believe I’m so memorable.

Later that morning, Betsy Edwards from the Alameda County Food Bank kicks off the presentation of Hunger Fighter Awards. Each person recognized is invited to speak, and each tells a story that inspires me. One is a woman who used to receive food stamps. Now she serves as an Americorps volunteer at Lifelong Medical Clinic. Another is a community gardener-turned-farmer who sells the most affordable organic produce you can find in Los Angeles. He expresses disappointment that the government so often fails its people, but he lights up when he begins to enumerate the possibilities for community-based action. His voice rises, ignited. Let me show you what the people can do, says the fierceness of his tenor.

For me, it’s a young Asian-American Hunger Fighter from the Central Valley who steals the show. She speaks with an accent like my father’s, and her story swells my heart with awe. As a refugee on the Thai-Cambodian border, she and her family experienced the harsh reality of hunger. Once they immigrated to the United States, they started receiving food stamp benefits. At last! she thought. Never will my family face hunger again. Her troubles were finally over – or so it seemed until her father fell ill with a chronic health condition that eventually took his life. Her mother was diagnosed with diabetes. It became evident to the young woman that her family couldn’t afford the quality of food they needed to sustain their health. Today she works as a community health advocate in Fresno, California’s poorest county, where she has established a food assistance hotline. She pays special attention to issues of cultural sensitivity.

At the end of the presentation of the Hunger Fighter Awards, we break for bag lunches. Afterwards, the busload of Bay Area advocates breaks into teams to tackle legislative offices. My team has been assigned the office of Joan Buchanan, a member of the State Assembly representing San Ramon. During the office visit, seniors from St. Mary’s Center take turns speaking about food stamps and budget cuts, issues that often translate into real-life choices between necessities: food or utilities, meds or the phone bill. I corroborate their stories with my experience as a case management intern at St. Mary’s Center. Many of the seniors I work with receive disability benefits and depend on their meager monthly checks to survive; cuts would be devastating. Phillis Beltran, the Community Center Supervisor at St. Mary’s Center, speaks more generally about St. Mary’s Center and the Senior Advocates for Hope and Justice. She speaks with an openheartedness that seems to affect our audience, a single member of the staff of Assemblymember Buchanan’s office.

The staff person’s name is Dawn Adler. She used to be a social worker for children with sickle cell anemia. She wears a bright pink button-up shirt tucked beneath a gray suit jacket and thick-rimmed brown glasses. As the seniors who have come from St. Mary’s Center share their stories, she listens with calm professionalism. I watch her with curiosity, attempting to read the reactions written in her face. I wonder what it’s like to be on her side of the desk. I suspect she may be listening better than I would if I were in her position, receiving groups of constituents all day long. I wonder if, like me, she feels helpless sometimes. At one point, she tells us there’s only so much her office can do. It occurs to me that helplessness might be an illusion, an excuse to justify the iniquities of the society we live in. I wonder if part of the reason we’re here today is to blow all excuses apart.

Our visit is brief, twenty minutes quickly spent. We leave a folder of legislative recommendations for Assemblymember Buchanan. I forget to hand over an orange tucked in my messenger bag, a token from the California Hunger Action Coalition on the theme of “Orange you gonna do something about hunger?”

Boarding the bus back to the Bay Area, I feel a sense of relief. I don’t know whether it’s the sunshine or the stories I’ve heard that have healed me, but a hot-blooded hopefulness is coursing through my veins. We came for such a simple, unassuming reason: to speak our truth, and to claim that it matters. Maybe our visit today won’t make a damn bit of difference, and maybe it will. The only thing that’s certain is that our work is far from over.

I close my eyes and allow my mind to rewind through the events of the day. Somewhere in the capital of California, impassioned voices are echoing still in halls of power.

Relevantly Rumi

Because so few of us have time to actually contribute lengthy posts and due to the popularity of mini-posts a la Twitter and F'book status updates, I thought I would share this morsel of wisdom from Rumi. All of us are in a transitional phase of our lives in some way or another. Hence, this quote is particulary relevant as we try to figure out where to go from here and how to make the "here" and now a little bit more bearable if we don't have the luxury of going elsewhere.

"Let the beauty of what you love be what you do." - Jalal ud-Din Rum

Sita Sings the Blues

I'm watching Sita Sings the Blues, an animated film by Nina Paley. It's been DVR'd ever since the March television premier on PBS. And on this breezy, slightly overcast Sunday evening, I've finally gotten around to watching it. Hurray!

The quirky animated film is Paley's interpretation of the great Hindu epic, the Ramayana. The story of the epic is seamlessly accompanied by the 1920's jazz vocals of Annette Hanshaw and a modern fusion desi music. I have to say that the film is a wonderful feast for the eyes (the animation is so CUTE), remarkably humorous and also very touching. Paley uses the halting (yet fluidly humorous) storytelling of three shadow puppets (Paley's friends I presume) to narrate the story of the Ramayana. THIS is a highlight of the film and very enjoyable for a variety of reasons, among which is the candid commentary and divergent analysis of the shadow puppets. They engage viewers by cultivating an atmosphere of an intimate gathering of friends, replete with humor and vacillating discussion. The scenes illustrating the story of the Ramayana are intermingled with a parallel (and very personal) storyline that divulges the dissolution of Paley's own marriage, hence the tagline "the greatest break-up story every told." I'm not sure to what extent the film may be deemed sacrilegious by Hindus, but I thoroughly enjoyed it for some reasons beyond the accomplishment of excellent execution. First, because it is always a courageous feat for an artist to interpret and adapt a sacred cultural text outside of her own background. Second, because Paley lays out her personal connection to the story. Third, its brings forth the topic of cultural canons.

As Americans try to engage and understand the rest of the world, there is no better way of doing this than simultaneously attempting to learn more about the cultural canons of other nations and civilizations. We may not only learn a thing or two about other people, but ourselves too; Sita Sings the Blues demonstrates and encourages this kind of personalization in a good way. We can dispel the ignorance that may blur our own perspectives and also enhance our ability to empathize on many levels (individual, collective, etc) - if we do aim to be truly cosmopolitan people, this is a great way to do it.

Paley is bringing the Ramayana to a wider audience that will hopefully be intrigued enough to read more about Hindu epics and the faith itself. For that and more I really really appreciate and like this film.

You can attend a screening of a SSTB by checking on the website OR watch it online! check out the website: http://www.sitasingstheblues.com/

Next: Mother of the Believers

Musings from a lazy Saturday afternoon

My person: a pool, a biodynamic system of critters and chlorophyll. Silent and reflective, all that glimmers is a glassy sheen. See the water-walking insects leaving indentations on the surface. It gives a whisper of way but never quite breaks.

Of you, I ask something more. Don't just admire the cold stillness of my surface. All you see is your own damn reflection, your prejudices and preconceptions and self-professed tolerance confirmed. Don't just look at me; look into me. Tear through the water's skin. Let yourself feel the slippery rocks, the warmth of moisture that indicates a life like yours and unlike yours.

The (Interfaith) Faith Council

Many many heartfelt apologies for being the most delinquent member of this blog. Indeed, I have shirk'd. The last few months of crazy work weeks, instensive efforts to make friends, do good work, have fun - in short, live life - is culminating in what is going to be a profusion of prolific blog-writing for me. Just you wait, my friends. And I swear it's going to be meaningful. Some of it is going to be prosaic (muahaha). And other parts will just be plain ole fun.

Meanwhile, here's something that caught my eye at 2 AM and made me just a little bit happier about the events that are transpiring in our political capital. From the "On Faith" section of the Washington Post, a post from Eboo Patel.

The Faith Council Begins Its Work.

Excerpt:

It was exhilarating and exhausting at the same time. There was a palpable
sense that we live at a time of both profound possibility and also very real
peril. Just about everybody who spoke underscored two things: we need an
all-hands-on-deck approach, and there is no time to waste.

We've heard a lot about every other council and committee meeting, but here's one that has received very little attention in the media. Of course, the mainstream media doesn't really like to report on anything indicative of PROGRESS or cooperation, does it? In short, anything less than sensational and alarmists is simply not news-worthy these days. But this is important to me. And should be important to many others as well.

I would probably be just as ecstatic and optimistic as Eboo if I were on the faith council, trying forge some new paths toward greater awareness, understanding and religious pluralism. I don't ever remember hearing about a Faith Council during the Bush administration. Does anyone else? Like many other happy beginnings in the Obama administration (although we have yet to see the fruits of these efforts), l feel like the mere fact that these things are taking place - that people are being galvanized and re-energized into THINKING in more a optimistic, progressive and collaborative manner - is encouraging enough.

Listening: A Reflection

Is it possible to listen selflessly? During my first month of work at my new volunteer placement, I witnessed someone who did. The man who came in that morning was a practiced victim, even if a well-deserving one. His answers to my colleague's questions were peppered with tearful anecdotes and self-pitying asides. "All my friends have abandoned me," he wailed at one point. Every muscle in my body retaliated with a collective clench. "Give me a break," jeered my mind's voice. But my colleague's facial expression remained soft, even as the fellow continued to wax poetic on a theme of Woe Is Me.

Never have I seen myself as a particularly thoughtful listener. I'm constantly fighting the urge to speak, to have a voice, to make my point and my mark on a conversation. Rarely has wholehearted listening been an act of surrender I've wanted to make (somewhat ironic for a lifelong musician, no?). But my colleague has unwittingly offered me inspiration and a challenge.

What will it take for me to change? Patience? Compassion? Humility? Some combination of the three? And what will it cost? Am I willing to let down my guard and allow another person's experiences to permeate my own? Call it trite, call it kindergarten, but for me, it's one of the hardest things I'll ever do.

Does the first time really hurt?

The title of my blog post has absolutely NOTHING to do with what I'm going to write about. In my current job, I've quickly come to realize the power of a good headline to draw the reader in (evil laugh).

I've never been part of an "underground" movement, or blogged for that matter, so this is kind of exciting. For my first contribution to Chimerical Café, instead of responding to a cultural or political spark of some sort, I’d like to pay homage to Eclectic Swagger’s poetic daydreams; approval of colorful characters; unpretentious love of romance and dreamy prose; and of course, her total appreciation for my crazy mindless musings. I should warn you in advance that this is entirely TOO long for a blog post, but hey, I type FAST. Here goes…

Greetings, from Seattle, Washington, USA. Somewhere near the intersection of Queen Anne Avenue and Mercer Street, in the hip, bustling neighborhood of Lower Queen Anne, is a young, charmingly mysterious twenty-something male sitting at Café Ladro, drinking a piping hot double shot Yankee Dog, wearing a plaid button down with one sleeve rolled to the elbow, his fingers (making love) to a laptop covered in stickers of his favorite artwork, a box of cigarettes holding down his receipt. $3.25. The last four digits of his credit card number are 5683. He does not carry cash. He does however carry a spiral bound notebook, some mint flavored toothpicks and a very old movie ticket stub for the 3 p.m. screening of Vicky Cristina Barcelona at The Big Picture.

He took a young Cornish theatre student to that movie. They decided to make the afternoon show because she had tickets to a Massy Ferguson concert at the Vera Project that night. They are not together anymore, and we might never know why. She was a sophomore, too young to appreciate a good merlot, too old to wear Doc Martens, which she secretly did when picking up teriyaki from the place across her apartment or stretching canvasses in her basement. She was originally from Ellensburg, but came to Seattle to audition for a play about the sexual and emotional escapades of a Latvian immigrant at the underground Ballagan Theatre. She had lied to her mother, saying the audition was for The Lion King at the Paramount. Her mother had believed her. All she had wanted was the very best for her daughter.

The young boy at Café Ladro, now a bit jittery from the caffeine, does not know this, but a man in his late forties is sitting about two tables away, watching this boy send an instant message within nanoseconds of receiving one. This man is not in a good mood. He is in this trendy coffee shop because he senses the onset of a midlife crisis. He doesn’t love his wife; just her sweet pulled pork and mashed potatoes. He hates his job at the power plant, and wishes he could be a world scrabble champion or lead guitarist for a Beatles cover band. He used to run cross country for Oregon State, now he only runs to the mailbox and back, to pick up the monthly TV guide and REI coupons. He doesn’t understand why they call it a Yankee Dog, and not a Cup of Joe. He does not get why the boy has one sleeve rolled up, and not the other. He doesn’t understand why the boy does not carry cash. And he doesn’t understand why the boy broke up with his daughter.

Meanwhile, standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the café is a beautiful woman, half-Greek half-Irish. She says she’s 38, but is actually 47. She’s holding a blue umbrella to shield her new bangs from an annoying February shower. She was on her way to her car, parked a block away on Republican, but had to stop when she saw the young boy in the café window, still drinking his warm beverage, still typing. She could have recognized that plaid shirt anywhere. It was what he had worn on their first date in Chinatown, and what she had ripped off on their first night at his studio apartment. She knows she should keep walking, because the drive back home is a long one. But she stands frozen, drained, curious. He is much too young for her, and she now knows that. She sheds a tear, on the inside, but shakes it off right away. She wasn’t going to pull a Julia Roberts from across the street. After all, she was secretly hoping to run into him.

She jay walks across Roy Street, the lights of Counterbalance Park behind her creating more than a Hollywood moment. As she gets closer, the boy sees her, first her blue umbrella, then her face. She is wearing a big yellow scarf. He could recognize that scarf anywhere. It was what she had worn on a ferry ride with him to Bainbridge Island, and what she wore the night he asked if he could “draw her.” She had laughed at him, and his pathetic attempts to turn her on. Even so, it had worked.

He turns down his laptop screen as she walks in, and an odd reflex forces him to quickly put his cigarettes in his pocket, even though she knows he smokes. She walks right up to his table, and sits down across from him. She doesn’t say anything, instead taking a sip from his coffee in silence. He takes her hands, slowly, and looks at her. His eyes shamelessly trace the skin on her hands, the folds near her neck, the lines near her eyes. She grows uneasy. It has only been a few months since they last saw each other, but she knows that he notices how old she has gotten. She feels those big tears peer over her lower eyelids. She looks away, over his shoulder, and notices the man in his late forties staring at her. He is angry, confused. His blood pressure rises, from what he sees before his eyes and from years of sweet pulled pork. The man is her husband.

I am also in the café, looking at all of this unravel in silent contentment. I feel a little evil, a little guilty, a little sad. I quickly pen an ‘intermission,’ so I can get myself more coffee. The bearded man behind the counter asks if I’d like to make that a Yankee Dog. I politely decline. Part of me still feels sorry for the man who never made it to the World Scrabble Championships.

Listening Activism

Has anyone noticed that The Economist has been in full-blown freak-out mode lately? The cover of the most recent issue nauseated me. It was an unhappy reminder that even those who pride themselves on high-quality reporting employ sensationalist methods when it comes to their own dogmas. Valid arguments aside, it just looks to me like another manifestation of the same old thing: people feel threatened, people bark noisily to defend their territory, and no one gets anywhere.

One of my deeply held suspicions is that humanity will never make meaningful progress on today's global challenges until our dialogue evolves into something new. Nowadays there are plenty of folks who can and do prop themselves up as authorities on issues that interest them. Many can legitimately claim expertise in their areas. But what good is it to be one more impassioned voice in a maelstrom? How does preaching your opinions to a choir of amens and hallelujahs capture the hearts and minds of everyone else?

May I suggest an antidote: a cultural shift from dictating to empathic listening. Passivity, of course, is not the point. Mouthing off on your high horse about what's wrong with what everybody else is doing and thinking is about as passive as it gets. Want to see some powerful and cutting-edge ideas in action? Let's coax scholars out of their rabbit holes and into the streets. Let's have reporters get their hands dirty in the messiness of human joy and folly. There is no such thing as a passive observer. There are no impartial third parties. All we have is you and me and we. How we communicate must respect this reality; the medium must be as compelling and as useful as the message.

Barack Mubarak! (Happy...Barack? Obama-brations?)

in the Middle East? to the Muslim world? (or NOT! see above picture, posted on this blog via Sepia Mutiny via Reuters. I cannot do better than Vinod's caption: "Keep your hands off my 'tribs!'" Fo-shiz yo, these must be some of the few South Asians who don't like Bharat Obama)

Here is a full transcript of the interview from al-Arabiya's website. What are your thoughts?

Of course, the interview has already been analyzed and re-analyzed by political pundits. I've already heard a few Obama-philes today remark about the "absolute perfection" and poignancy of his words. But what I would like to hear more about is GOP/conservative reaction to this interview. I wonder if those people who thought/think he is Muslim are smuggly saying "oooh, I told ya! he's rubbin shoulders with them Ay-rabs now too!" Indeed, this is the first of numerous signs that will reveal Obama to be the anti-christ. (check out some seriously ooog-lay pictures here) Colbert is also doing a good job of playing up on another aspect of paranoia as I write this post:

"Our President has been KIDNAPPED by a terrorist group calling themselves 'al-Arabiya' television network...'we are not perfect?!' WHAT are they DOING to him??!"

I would also like to hear more about how Muslims outside of the Middle East (*fewer than 15% of Muslims are Arab) are reacting to the interview. As an American Muslim, I am elated that Obama chose to give his first interview as President to an Arab news-channel. The seminal nature of the act itself is just as significant as what he said, if not more so. But I do like (most of) what he said. It's just a matter of seeing if the policies reflect the words. I have hope that they will. I agree with an Arab commentator on NPR who described the significance of the interview quite aptly. In response to a question that highlighted rhetorical similarities between Obama and Bush, he said (in different words): the interview reflects a change in mentality - and a change in mentality is a change that will be appreciated in the Muslim world.

One of my favorite excerpts from the interview is below. This portion is particularly important because we had to deal with the Bush administration's complicity with (or shall we say espousal of?) the "clash of civilizations" ideology for eight freakin years - and that is exactly what OBL, his gundas and minions wanted. Now, we can only hope and pray that the number of people OBL can enlist to minion-ize will dwindle.

Q: President Bush framed the war on terror conceptually in a way that was very broad, "war on terror," and used sometimes certain terminology that the many people -- Islamic fascism. You've always framed it in a different way, specifically against one group called al Qaeda and their collaborators. And is this one way of --

THE PRESIDENT: I think that you're making a very important point. And that is that the language we use matters. And what we need to understand is, is that there are extremist organizations -- whether Muslim or any other faith in the past -- that will use faith as a justification for violence. We cannot paint with a broad brush a faith as a consequence of the violence that is done in that faith's name.

And so you will I think see our administration be very clear in
distinguishing between organizations like al Qaeda -- that espouse violence, espouse terror and act on it -- and people who may disagree with my administration and certain actions, or may have a particular viewpoint in terms of how their countries should develop. We can have legitimate disagreements but still be respectful. I cannot respect terrorist organizations that would kill innocent civilians and we will hunt them down.

But to the broader Muslim world what we are going to be offering is a hand of friendship.

City, Streets, People

Saturday was my first day of unemployment. It was also the day I went on a Street Retreat with the Faithful Fools, a "ministry of presence" in one of San Francisco's roughest and most notorious neighborhoods: the Tenderloin. I didn't have to be another color, age, or gender to have an intercultural experience. All I had to do was leave behind the trappings of privilege and wander into the the neighborhood. For a day, I became a part of the Tenderloin, and my neighbors embraced me.

Gerardo and David are homeless and stay at the Hospitality House. They saw me staring at the sculptures and watercolor paintings in the window. They smiled and asked what I was looking at. Then they told me that I could come back during the week and do artwork. "They'll give you the materials," they reassured me. "They'll give you support, too."

Krista and I crossed paths twice, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The second time I saw her, I was walking absentmindedly past a man waving a switchblade. I caught a strong whiff of marijuana in the wind. Krista shook her head and offered to walk me wherever I was going. On our way to Market Street, a panhandler asked her for spare change. She sneered in disdain. "Can't he see?" she remarked to me. "I'm out here, too. I'm hurting, too." I gave her a hug before we parted ways. "You look like a nice girl," she muttered, concerned.

An hour before the end of the retreat, an Asian fellow with a bowl haircut made me cry. He was sitting next to me on a bench outside the public library. I recognized him immediately as a regular at St. Anthony Foundation's Dining Room, where I volunteer twice a month. I also happen to have seen him sleeping in a doorway of a building on Market Street. As we sat quietly outside the library doors, he politely rejected offers of leftover food. He looked undisturbed, unassuming, even peaceful. His hair was dusty and unkempt, and there appeared to be a protrusion on his scalp. Every few seconds, his whole body convulsed.

I zipped up my rain jacket to hide tears. I ran into the library, then out again. I bolted towards City Hall, finally collapsing against a flagpole near the Victory Garden.

A woman passing by in an electric wheelchair asked me if I was all right. "Yes, thank you," I sputtered between sobs. "I mean, do you have someplace to live?" I didn't have breath to answer. She gave me her home address. "You're welcome anytime. It's just me and my son." I managed to nod and thank her. "You're not alone," she said as she turned her wheelchair and rolled away. I doubled over and wept.

Not looking back

I was sick of being shielded. I wanted to shed my privilege like a molted exoskeleton.

For five months, I had allowed myself to be insulated in a bubble of wealthy, college-educated liberals. In this bubble, it was fashionable to pay lip service to social justice. We talked endlessly about giving voice to women on the margins and empowering them to find solutions. But when put to the test, we didn't recognize injustice on our doorstep. Hell, we didn't recognize it in ourselves.

I wanted out. I wanted air. I wanted to rub shoulders with humanity in all its shame and glory. I came to this city to serve peace and justice with my hands and my heart. I devoted this year to burning down the walls between my work and the world's suffering, not erecting new ones.

So I quit my job. I'm unemployed and starting fresh.

The power of provocation... Part I

VIA EFF'BOOK, of course.

I, the fiery Mistress of Spices, updated my Facebook profile with the following status recently:

"People who don't pray, inform, protest or care about what is happening in Gaza are complicit with the murder of innocent civilians." (Will explain later.)

Today, a friend was kind enough to bring the following post from the very professional-looking ArtStar blog to my attention:

http://www.artstarblog.com/2009/01/why-its-totally-okay-to-not-care-about.html

Interesting perspective, no? Even before I scoffed in outrage at the argument or thought to draft a rebuttal, I found myself feeling very flattered at the notion of someone feeling strongly enough to write a whole post in response to - or perhaps, prompted by - my facebook status.

Getting a few people to think about the crisis (who might have not before) was my objective anyway. And, no, I won't apologize for what I wrote or said beyond that explanation.

But this turned out better than I thought it would. Ah, delicious controversy and dissent has taken an ephemeral facebook status to a greater audience. What fun! People are thinking, "damn, why is this girl so crazy? why she callin me a murderer? I didn't kill nobody." No, friends, you haven't actually killed anyone. But, yes, you are allowing it.

And now, for my long-winded response to the response:

Last week, I went to a discussion group meeting. The topic for the night was inspired by the recent commemoration of Ashura: Suffering. Kristin, a professor of Islamic/Muslim studies at Sarah Lawrence, opened the discussion with a historical overview of Ashura and posed a few critical questions. Here is a sample of Kristin's opening reflections:

The sufferings of the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson Husayn and his family
and followers in Karbala in the seventh century are remembered every year
by Shi‘i Muslims in the month of Muharram. The tragedy is reenacted in a
variety of literary, theatrical and processional ways. The memory of these
events is continually reconstructed as a means of personal religious
catharsis, a meaningful symbol of standing up to oppression, and as a way
to mobilize support and participation in political and military actions.
The themes of suffering and resistance to oppression have a particular
resonance for many Muslims in light of recent events in Gaza. As we are
once again supplied with endless pictures of the horrible suffering of
innocent civilians, calls for action, and the blaming of actors on all
sides, perhaps we can take a few moments to reflect upon the deeper issues
at stake.

For those of us living in comfortable circumstances, we might
ask ourselves in what ways we turn away from the suffering of others. Or, in what ways do we appropriate the sufferings of others for our own purposes? What would it mean to bear witness to suffering without demonizing some parties or acquiescing to incessant cycles of retaliatory violence? How does one respond to oppression without becoming an oppressor oneself? What constitutes a "healthy" conversation on suffering? What forms of photography, for example, bear witness to events in necessary ways and what forms provoke rage, disgust, or indifference in harmful ways? How does the Qur'an discuss the nature and phenomenon of human suffering and oppression, and the appropriate responses of believers?

It's difficult for me to attempt to summarize the whole thing but in this insufficient way: it was a long, beautiful, nuanced and varied discussion during which we addressed the concepts of justice, our perceptions of disabilities, tragedies and humility. We opened our understanding of these concepts by incorporating Hindu, Jewish and Buddhist concepts in addition to our own reflections about Islam. Inevitably, we were forced to express our frustrations and lamentations on the Gaza crisis from an emotional and spiritual, rather than political, perspective. And halfway through the discussion, a girl who was sitting in the corner of the room spoke up for the first time in response to someones foreseeable question about revenge and retribution.

"It is hard...it's hard not to be over there," she offered, with a perceptible quiver on her breath and a growing red flush spreading over her face. She leaned up in her chair, as if eager to get this off her chest: "I've lost five relatives over there so far...five people. And, you know, sometimes I think..." She paused for a brief moment before continuing as her eyes began to overflow with water. "I think that if I could castrate every Israeli soldier and every Israeli who is doing this do us I would feel better, I would feel some sort of contentment - as if it were justice. But that's not true. I know that they won't come back and I...I think about the Israeli soldiers who are my age, doing things that they don't really understand or want to do. Seeing things they don't want to see. It just doesn't solve things - it wouldn't help at all."

She looked down and the rest of us in the room looked around to gauge each other's reactions or stared off into the space of our own deep thoughts. I found my own eyes watering from the plethora of emotions that flooded my thoughts and confused me. Guilt, awe, anger, hopelessness, sadness. Most of all, I found myself reeling from the mere fact that this girl, who was justified in every way to be filled with rage and despair was also empathizing for the very people who were directly involved in the killing of her young cousins, uncles and aunts. I don't know what she's going through and none of us can even begin to fathom what's really going on in Gaza. But the pictures, the protests, the tears, the children, the mothers, the babies, the blood, the destruction, the wailing, the bombs, the destroyed schools, the hunger, the desolation of a heart that has lost everything meaningful in life... how do they make you feel? How would you have reacted to my new friend's revelation? And would you have been able to sleep that night, without some sort reflection or prayer asking for just a bit of respite, relief or hope for the Palestinians and peace in the region.

A new year, a new start?

Ideas for bringing more activity to this blog (only to be implemented by consensus, of course):
- Everyone takes a turn being the weekly "post leader" who provides a question, quote, poem, puzzle, etc. for others to respond to (say 5-10 min. max, seeing as we all lead busy lives). It could be fun, thought-provoking, political, frivolous... anything, really.
- Book club/reading group - We all read something together and post about it here.
- Everyone quits job or school to devote much-needed time to this blog and loved ones. =P

Thoughts?