hands wet in the red clay of language

The one thing that everyone in the world needs is a teacher. People survive without healthcare, without lawyers, without material commodities, without technology…but they all need mentors, someone to show them and teach them about the world.
I am so happy that I have been able to fill this role for these girls. They impress me every day with their insight, strength, and intelligence. I’ve become good friends with some as well, and I know that I will keep in touch with them and that we will mark a new generation that seeks to empower and educate women all over the world, working across cultural barriers or country boundaries.
I had my last tutoring session today…the girls didn’t even need to come at all, but they ended up staying for almost two hours, just talking with me. I asked them whether they could help me learn to be a better teacher, and to give me feedback. They told me that I was a perfect teacher, that they loved my class, that I talked to them like real people and earned their respect, that they looked forward to my class even though they used to get tired at that time of day, and that they want me to come back as soon as possible to teach them more. I was so touched, I almost cried. They said that the discussion in my class was better than in any of their other classes, and one girl said that it had seemed like a women’s studies class, which is interesting because I hadn’t really intended it that way, but I guess that it really was. We covered so many different topics and ideas and theories, I’m surprised we packed it all in, and I appreciate how much effort they put into it, even though it was a remedial class. They even would stay for extra time, as long as I could spend teaching them. I managed to tell them how much they meant to me, and how much they had influenced me, and they told me that I am part of a larger sisterhood that will always welcome me with open arms, in any of their homes in so many different countries.
Then, they wanted to ask me about America and about my college, and about my life story…it’s only fair, because I’ve been having them write essays about their homes and about their meaningful memories or greatest aspirations, etc etc. I’ve been requesting electronic copies of all their work, and taking portraits of them to pair with their writing, so as to compile a comprehensive publication for our class. I also did this project with Mary’s Reading and Writing section, and I’m so impressed with the work they produced.
I’ll recount some of my lesson plans: We read the section in Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, on teaching. They had a hard time with the figurative or antiquated language at first, but then got the hang of it and really liked it. I had them write reaction essays to it, either responding to that section, or this quote: “Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it so that the other half may reach you.” The students teased me that I do that when I write thirty new vocabulary words on the board every class, but also said that I do a good job of providing synonyms and contextualizing words for them. I reassured them that sometimes even my American friends don’t know what I’m talking about…but, they also got the message that a good teacher “does not bid you enter the house of his wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind.” And they understand the core issues I wanted to impart to them, the most important vocabulary words…integrity, catharsis, immutable truth, relativity and subjective circumstance, and how to make one’s words sing on a page…the power of language as the most integral tool, communication and education as the means to change the world…I hope I practiced the teaching philosophy of “the teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness.” I do believe that they know how much I care for all of them, and wanted to get to know them each as individuals…
They also wrote essays on the place they would most like to travel to in the world; these were really fascinating to read, and I especially liked the ones about America. They have strange perceptions of it! I’m especially excited because one of my favorite students, an Afghani girl named Marvah, will be coming to Boston for a women’s leadership conference sponsored by Harvard. We are working together to extend her trip by a few days, so that she can come to New York City and I’ll meet up with her there, and show her around. She also showed me pictures of her home, and I know that I want to go to Afghanistan as soon as I can figure out a way to do it. She and the other Afghani students have all invited me there, and I hope that we can construct some kind of joint project together, perhaps for next summer. I’ve been helping them with the two-week workshop they’ve designed for this summer, and I know that it has the potential to grow and start something really powerful.
I also assigned an essay about the social problem each student feels most passionately about, and what they would change and how they would do it if they could. I’ll be uploading examples of these and other essays as well. We discussed feminism a great deal, and used a text I found in the CPGC publication from last year, written by another Bryn Mawr student named Sophia Guida. It’s called “Doing what we can,” and is about her interview with a woman named Ibu Mut, who had to take a job in Saudi Arabia as a domestic helper to feed her family. She was treated little better than a slave, and had to leave her family and home. She, like many women in that village and also in Bangladesh and Sri Lanka, are forced to live this way. I’ll quote directly from her article: “Many countries in other parts of Asia, as they undergo modernization and economic growth, also experience an equalizing of gender roles. As more and more ‘empowered’ women enter the workplace, their societies still expect someone (preferably another woman) to manage the household chores. Thus, the wealthier Asian nations have sought labor from the poorer nations to do the housework that their high-powered career women do not have time for. Hence, the Ibu Muts of the world have left home to seek these jobs as maids in career women’s homes…as women begin to enjoy greater access to what was formerly a man’s world, what happens to the work that is still “women’s work,” but needs to be done by somebody? As one woman gains the privilege of a good job in the man’s world, does a poorer woman have to take her place and do the work that she now does not have time for? Is this what ‘feminism’ looks like for a person like Ibu Mut?” Obviously, this article sparked a great deal of discussion, and many of the girls come from villages where this phenomenon takes place. It was fascinating to hear such different perspectives (first-hand) on feminism, and a far cry from what I’m used to learning in a classroom at Bryn Mawr.
The next class, we read an article about the Women’s Garden in Kabul, Afghanistan. The article was from the New York Times, and I asked them to respond to it in essay and in discussion. We debated whether the need for a garden is an admission of failure in itself, as well as the pros and cons of having genders separated. This is particularly pertinent at a women’s institution (both Bryn Mawr and AUW), and in a society where men and women have completely different social circles and strictures. This conversation then led into talks about repression and sexual violence, which was really difficult to talk about but also fascinating. They are so naïve and so wise beyond their years, all at once…
The article about the Women’s Garden was also sent to the entire student body, not just my class. I had forwarded it to some of the Afghani students, and this was a really meaningful email I got back from Parwanna:
“Dear Sarah,
My life was completely different in Kabul. I have never visited any entertainment places like Women's Garden in Kabul, but I have heard about it from my classmates and friends. I am really interested to visit this place and talk to my sisters in a secure place.
However, women members in my family are not supposed to go outside and enjoy their lives. I am also one of that women of my family. Honestly, no one from my family has visited it yet. However, this time 'Enshalla' I will take all of my women members of my family to this Garden. Because, this garden is only one place, where all women of Afghanistan from all nations and languages come together and share their problems . I love to go there and see Afghan women's united and their freedom while sitting under shad of the trees without scare and veils. I will go this time for visiting this place, if I could , I will take pictures and I will write about my visiting of Women's Garden in Kabul to you.And I believe that this time I will go because I have learnt how to act as an independant and educated woman.
I will be in touch with you in any cost. I will always write to you. Enshallah. I also hope to see you in my sweet homeland Afghansitan. Yeah, we will have a project together in Afghanistan next summer.”
As you can see, each class is full of meaningful contributions and invigorating ideas. I respect these women so much, and I look forward to seeing where their strength and intellect will take them. I’ll describe other classes soon, but these few sessions give you an idea…

travel plans

At this point I have changed my plans a fair amount, and I've researched extensively what would be safe options. For when Katherine and I are traveling around, we have made some different decisions so as to accommodate safety to a greater extent. First off, I have to go to Kolkata because that is where my flight home is from, but I will not be spending the two weeks there that I had intended.
July 17th is the graduation ceremony, and then I will be traveling by van (provided by AUW) with three other AA teachers. Although it means I'll have to spend a day in a hotel in Dhaka, I don't mind the extra cost because the trains are really uncomfortable and rather dangerous for a woman alone. Then, when I get to Dhaka, that really nice gentleman Micky will be taking care of me for the day; he's providing me a driver and taking me out to a nice dinner, as a farewell to Bangladesh. He is known to many of the faculty, and very paternal towards me, so I feel safe with him.
Then, Katherine and I decided to go to Thailand for a little over a week, so that we could get out of this area and see some beautiful places...tourism is extremely popular in Thailand, so they are used to westerners, and we are not such oddities. Also, travelers are infinitely safer there, and it is not a Muslim country, so we don't have to worry about covering all of our skin and wearing the headscarf. Pretty much all of the other teachers have spent time in Thailand, and it was the most highly recommended place out of anywhere within easy flying distance, for both safety and beauty. We will be arriving in Bangkok on the 19th, my flight getting there midmorning, and Katherine arriving an hour later, coming from Germany. We will then be taking a sleeper train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai; we booked a private cabin (with a lock) so that we will be safe there, even though the trains are reputed to be very well-patrolled and comfortable even in a normal seat. We booked a really nice hotel (which is still only about $15 a night, split between the two of us) called Chang Puak Hotel, and they will pick us up from the station. Look up pictures of Chiang Mai, it looks idyllic. The thing I am most excited about is that there is a large cat protection center, where you can play with baby lions and tigers (they don't get vicious until they are over a year old). There's also lots of beautiful jungle, mountains, marketplaces, and temples. We will be in Chiang Mai until the evening of the 26th, at which point we will return on the sleeper train back to Bangkok, and fly to Kolkata. In the interim (around the 22nd), my friend and mentor Tamanna will be joining us. She will be invaluable while we are in Kolkata, because she speaks Bangla, some Arabic, and Hindi, and knows her way around. We got lots of recommendations from the other teachers on where is okay to go in Kolkata (where to eat, shop, visit museums, etc), and booked a cheap but well-regarded hotel that's been reviewed on Lonely Planet. We'll all be staying together, and so it's even cheaper when the room is split three ways. Then, Katherine and Tamanna and I all have flights that leave the afternoon of August 1st, and I'll arrive back in JFK at 6am on August 2nd.

lapidary grief, all stone and silence

While we were at Mermaid, there was a fire at the university. We were getting ready to take the boat to the beach when Jenine got a call on her cell from one of the other teachers: “GET OUT OF THE BUILDING, FIRE, GET OUT GET OUT.” Click. Obviously, we were far away and safe, but we had no idea what was going on at the university. Fire safety has been one of the huge issues that everyone has been fighting for, because there are no fire escapes and the guards lock the doors, so none of us could get out of the buildings if there is indeed a conflation. Jenine and I were terrified, and couldn’t get in touch with anyone…we just sat and tried to calm down, and she chanted a Hindi prayer for peace and safety. It was almost surreal, the juxtaposition between tranquility and nature and the sound of the ocean and sunshine warming my skin, with the fear and worry and nausea of not knowing what was going on at the university…I started thinking about how fragile we all are, how human life is such a delicate thing that you can’t appreciate until it is put in jeopardy. This place makes you see it, you are slapped in the face with vulnerability, with how easily the body can be broken or maimed and emotions are even more ravaged. I feel like a raw nerve all the time here, sometimes I wish I could turn it off because it is just too much. While we were waiting to hear if everyone was safe, I couldn’t shake this image of all the people who are important to me in my life, twinkling like little ephemeral candles spread all across the world, and how far away I am from everything familiar and safe and how little control I have over my own safety or anyone else’s around me. I am sick of being scared here. Sometimes it is a little too much to handle, I feel it wearing on me…it feels like my consciousness has been rubbed with sandpaper and every fresh abrasion just cuts a little bit deeper. I’m nauseous all the time, and part of it is just my body shutting down from heat and exhaustion and insomnia and malnutrition, but a lot of it is psychosomatic. I just get physically sick when I see some things on the streets…when the beggars touch me with their crusted stumps for arms, I feel such revulsion and such guilt for it. When the dirty kids grab at me, I push them away, but that feels wrong. It is hard to look at these people—and they ARE human beings just like me—because their twisted limbs make me feel viscerally how much it hurts to have had your leg twisted literally behind your head and have to shuffle along in the dirt, dragging yourself by your gnarled hands…Jenine and I were talking about some of the mad women here, they wander around with wild hair and besmirched with dirt and pus and shit. They are barely clothed, sometimes naked, and often have chains around their legs. This is because they are chained to a wall and raped repeatedly. Jenine tried to give money to one, so that she could get some food, and the woman flinched away from it…the only solace I can find in thinking about them is that at least they are no longer in their bodies…they have so clearly left this world, they have no touch with reality anymore, and I hope that wherever their diseased and abused minds have taken them, they find more safety and solace there.
Once again, I find myself puzzling over how to deal with what I see and experience here. It is the hardest thing I’ve yet encountered, and I am heartsick and homesick a lot of the time. It also makes me angry in a way I’ve never been before, and I am searching how to harness that and channel it in productive ways. Sometimes I just want to lash out at the nearest person, because the men stare at me and they jeer at the girls and then even the administration has no regard for their lives and their safety (put some fucking fire escapes here! Just give a few less pamphlets to the rich donors, and stop with all the hierarchical academic bullshit, currying favor from big names like a dog while the focus drifts away from actual education). But, I know my frustrations are useless and toxic unless I take a deep breath and think about what I can actually accomplish. This place is a learning curve that is by necessity so sharp that you feel the drop in the pit of your stomach. My goal is just to retain the capacity for empathy and avoid constructing that protective shell, a wall that would turn me to stone so that I can’t feel for these people. And furthermore, speaking out against the unfairness, doing what little I can to alleviate it, and making sure it isn’t written off as yet another social problem that becomes distant and fades when people are ensconced in the comforts of America and academia and ‘normal’ life.
Sometimes I get really disheartened though. Last night I saw this little girl, she kept tugging on my arm, and I looked down and she had no feet. She had acid burns all over her legs, and she was tottering on crutches, barely supporting her own weight. It was like she was wearing high heels, but they were bone splinters instead. She kept asking for money, and I tried to offer her food instead, but she wouldn’t take it at first. It’s because she is working for someone, one of the slum lords who maim children to enslave them into begging, and reaps their profits…slumdog millionaire really is true. But finally, she and some other kids were willing to take food; Jenine and I got them ice cream. I know its not the healthiest thing, and they need vitamins and nourishment, but every kid deserves to have a treat once in awhile. And that was almost the hardest part, seeing this little girl laugh like a normal kid. And she is, she’s just human and probably seven or eight years old…And no matter what I do, what NGO’s I work for or articles I read in school or money I donate, I’ll never be able to give her a real childhood or her feet back or anything.

a day in the life

I’m just going to recount some of my memories from the past few days, so that I don’t lose track of them…so much happens all the time, and each day feels like years, I’m afraid I’ll forget all of my adventures if I don’t transcribe a few of them.
Jenine and I have been going fabric shopping, and we’ve found some incredible patterns and colors. My favorites are the cobalt blues, and I’ve gotten various kinds of Indian pants made. The markets are a bustle of activity, everyone screaming out their wares and trying to beckon you in…you know you will be ripped off, but at the same time, you marvel at how cheap everything is, and how beautiful. It always surprises me that, in a culture with so much ugliness and hardship, they have such gorgeous textiles and crafts. The markets also have a darker side though, because it is the perfect place for beggars to harass you. And at least for me, it always works, because I already feel selfish to be spending money on materialist goods when these people are hungry. The last time Jenine and I went, we were running around madly because we were late, and this old woman kept grabbing at us. Your initial instinct is abhorrent, because the beggars are dirty and they come too close and they tug at your clothing or your purse…but Jenine paused amist all the flurry and hurrying, and saw that the old woman was hungry. It is a good policy to never give money, because it might go to a slum lord or be used for drugs, but instead to provide food. We took the old woman to the adjacent store, and got her some daal. She was so thankful, and grasped our hands and touched her forehead and then her heart, and then each of ours. She had such a kind and gentle face, I think she might have been a little crazed, but in such a sweet way. She had drawn and wrinkled skin, which looked almost burnished over her high and sunken cheekbones, and the most merry and dancing eyes. She had only two teeth, which I got to see a lot because she was smiling all the time. I’ll never forget the feeling of her callused hands grabbing my face and pulling me towards her, looking into my eyes and saying something in Bangla about how she was thankful. The store owners brought us coffee, but it tasted like lead in my mouth, because I knew that she probably hadn’t had a hot cup of coffee in ages, so I gave it to her instead. She was so tickled to be able to sit at the table in the store with us, instead of being shooed out like trash. By this time, we had attracted quite a crowd (two Western women and a beggar, communicating with wide gestures and the barest minimum of verbal language), and a lot of the street children were looking longingly at us. We went to get them biscuits and mango juice, and as Jenine was in the store paying for it, this security guard came over and tried to scatter the children. I guess he thought they were pestering us, but he was so violent—he hit this little boy so hard with a stick that I thought the child’s arm was broken. I cried out and covered the kids with my arms, and then the man desisted and stormed off, probably cursing us in Bangla. Jenine came back out, and although the kids were frightened still, they were happy about what we gave them. There was also a man with a hunchback, which I’d never seen before. It was difficult to look at, because he was significantly shorter than me and had a perfect triangle made out of his spine, which seemed like a shiny mountain protruding from where the contours of his body should have stopped…we gave him some money too, because Jenine said it is okay to give to the disabled adults, as they cannot find work. Then, we rushed off to grab a CNG and finally escaped the maelstrom of humanity and smells and emotions and sensations…I feel so overwhelmed sometimes, I just want to cry. But we finally found solace, because we were headed to a poetry reading given by one of the other teachers, Victoria. It was a 36 page epic poem that she and another friend had written collaboratively, and it was absolutely stunning. I listened with my eyes closed in the lotus position, feeling the hard cold ground and the wet sticky air of the room, using it as a guided meditation and letting her words wash over me and cleanse me. The reading was held at a little store called Bishaud Bangla, an oasis of culture and aesthetics and arts…the man who runs the store is so courteous and kind, you can see his appreciation for beauty in his eyes, and the softness of his voice and the distinguished look of his salt and pepper beard, which doesn’t hide the smile lines creasing his cheeks. They sell handmade crafts of all varieties, and it’s also the best bookstore in all of Chittagong. After the poetry reading, we returned back to the university and had a good time hanging out all together and laughing and talking.
The next night was the teacher party, which was quite fun. It was held on the rooftop of the Peninsula hotel, the only nice hotel and bar in all of Chittagong. We had a good dinner, and swam in the pool on the roof, which is fifteen stories high and one of the tallest buildings. But, it was also hard to enjoy, because I kept thinking how opulent and selfish it was to spend the money for a party, when those funds should have been allocated for fire safety or something instead…
Then yesterday, which was the next day, I visited a Hindu temple with one of the students, and that was really interesting; I got some great photographs. After that, I went to visit the slum school, and took more great pictures…the kids are absolutely fascinated by my camera, and it seems to be the best way to bridge language barriers and play with kids regardless of age or culture. They kept shoving each other out of the way, trying to get individual pictures of themselves, but all the kids would cram themselves into the line of my lens and get so close to the camera I almost couldn’t even take a photo. The mothers, most of whom are cleaning staff at the university, are so sweet to me, and they treated me like a celebrity. They also want photographs taken, but they are more respectful about it, even wacking their children’s hands as the kids try to grab my camera. But I love taking photos for them, because they have no family portraits, so its really special for them to have pictures with their kids or of their wizened parents…I took a few pictures of these girls with their grandfather, and a few more of young mothers with their babies. One of the women treated me almost like a kid too, in a very sweet way—she walked over and started yanking at my clothes, straightening my dress and rearranging my orna, and wiping an invisible smudge from my face. I haven’t had that happen to me since I was five years old, and I didn’t stand for it well then either…but I was so surprised, I didn’t mind, because she meant well. All of the teenage girls were adorable too, they kept screaming “ma’am” (we joke that they are like sheep, bleating maaaaaa’aaaaam all the time), and gesturing for me to take pictures with them. They also greeted me by grabbing my face and giving me a kiss on each cheek, which was really endearing. The younger kids get distracted easily, so we bribed them with candy this time to make them sit still instead of rushing towards my camera; that way, I got some nice photos of them actually learning. I can really see how they’ve learned more just in the month that I’ve been here—even their mistakes are cute, because they use “hellohowareyou” as a way of saying they are excited to see you. I am going back every day this week, and also taking pictures of the classes held for the cleaning staff themselves.
Today, I took my first trip outside of the university by myself. I know it seems strange that I’ve been here for over five weeks and never gone outside alone, but it is really rather terrifying and I don’t speak the language and almost no one speaks English. I had to go to the Indian Embassy today to get my visa, and no one could accompany me. I was really nervous about it, especially because the Embassy could only see me at a specific time and I didn’t know where it was and they had guards with guns and a very intense process, but it was actually quite empowering. I will pick up my visa on Wednesday, so it’s all straightened out (after a few visits, because they didn’t tell me what I needed and they got confused as to whether I’m a student or teacher or intern or what). I hailed a rickshaw all on my own, and then went to King’s, the bakery shop. It was really nice to sit with a cup of coffee and a croissant, on my own outside for the first time since I arrived. I didn’t even realize how much I missed being on my own, having freedom and not being afraid to walk outside. I can’t wait to be able to drive to a grocery store and get food I like and that is clean, or go to a CVS and pick up medicine that I know will work. I’m homesick for the crisp smell of autumn and burgundy sweaters and the crunch of leaves and the way golden sunlight slants through Senior Row at Bryn Mawr and hot apple cider and French Onion Soup and my cell phone and the way my new books will crease the first time I open them…I feel guilty for wanting these things, because I look around me here and I know that these people will never get the opportunity to have such luxuries as a latte from Starbucks or an afternoon spent playing with musty manuscripts in the Rare Book room…I am nervous to come home and try to reintegrate into my life with my friends and my relationship and my family…it will seem strange to be within the narrow confines of a classroom again. But at the same time, I have to remember that the Bryn Mawr bubble is really a portal to the rest of the world, and although it feels selfish to spend hours analyzing a Renaissance fresco, I have a renewed confidence that I will use my education to benefit others. The other day, it was almost comical, I tried to give a five minute summary of what the European Renaissance entailed, and who Michelangelo was. Maybe that 300 level seminar with Professor Cast will come in handy…
Most of all, I want to remember what I wrote about in my grant application. The necessity of pairing privilege with responsibility, of vulnerability with compassion, cultural sensitivity while maintaining one’s core beliefs, all contextualized with the tenets of intellectualism and activism.

description and photos from Social Business Conference

My second trip to Dhaka was fun but also arduous and painful. Our journey there was long and uncomfortable, but there were moments of beauty—the girls all started singing and dancing to Hindi songs blasting from speakers on the bus, and I could feel the wind rushing in my hair and the sights and smells wash over me. It took over eleven hours for us to get there, drop the girls off at the guesthouse, and get to our hotel. Fatema, Matt, Brian, and the two Princeton interns and I all went out to dinner, which was quite good but ended up making us all sick. Then we came back and watched the world cup and talked late into the night. On Sunday, there was a nation-wide work stoppage, a strike against the results of the election. It wasn’t safe to leave the hotel, so unfortunately, we were confined there for the entire day. We all talked and laughed together though, and had a good time. Early Monday morning, we were picked up and brought to a five-star hotel where the conference was being held. It was extremely fancy, and security guards made us walk through metal detectors as we entered. Then, we were all given special passes to be there, and were led to an opulent assembly room, with a long stage and podium set up for the eminent speakers. In the entry hall, there were booths set up for all kinds of social businesses, subprojects of Grameen Bank. I can explain in more detail what social business is, if any of you don’t know or are interested. The conference had some of the most eminent businessmen in the world, not only those involved in social business, but also many prominent leaders. For some, they couldn’t actually attend the conference, so they had recorded speeches to direct to us; Bill Clinton was actually one of them. Then Muhammad Yunus spoke, and he was actually rather disappointingly arrogant. I understand that he is extremely successful and a Nobel Laureate, but at the same time, the entire conference seemed more like a publicity event for his new book than actually directed at educating young people with entrepreneurial aspirations. He even held it on his seventieth birthday, and everyone sang him happy birthday…very kitsch. But all in all, we had a good time, and I met a really interesting French girl who is interning with Danone Grameen. This is a social business that pairs Grameen bank in Bangladesh with the French yoghurt company, and they make a yoghurt that can be sold extremely cheaply and distributed to the poorest families in the country. The yoghurt is infused with nutrients to help with malnourishment, and seems like a great idea, until you remember that refrigeration is rare in the villages, electricity is erratic at best, and even distribution is problematic given road conditions…it seems like every time someone comes up with a solution, only more problems arise. But it’s still good to be exposed to such things. I also got Muhammad Yunus’ new book autographed, it felt very contrived but I did get a picture with him, that I don’t much care about but everyone else seems to think is cool. Then we had a delicious catered meal, and I got hit on by some Bangladeshi medical students…it seems I have “green card” written on my forehead.
Then, we all clambered back on the bus, and commenced the worst trip ever...it took thirteen hours. There was a lot of traffic, and the bus was stuffy and odorous to say the least. The bathroom stops are few and far between, and the most disgusting conditions you can imagine…then, everyone seemed to get sick all at once, just as we were stopped in deadlocked traffic. This was past midnight, and we were on a dark and potholed road, that was flooded because of the monsoon. A few of us climbed out of the bus to see what was wrong, but I went right back in because there were a lot of men milling about on the road. I started to get nervous, because if we were stopped for a long time, the battery of the bus would die and we couldn’t keep the lights on, and you can’t breathe if you close all the windows…Brian and the bus driver walked up over two kilometers, and they said that there had been an accident. CNG stands for compressed natural gas, and it is much cheaper than regular gas because it is highly flammable. A CNG (the small little green car things that you see in my pictures) apparently was hit by a truck, and it ended up exploding. I saw the remains of it on the side of the road, there was just a gaping smoking hole where the driver seat is…I don’t know if there had been any passengers or not, but they would not have survived if there were. It was a very strange feeling to pass by it, the lights giving the carcass of the CNG an ethereal shine to it, catching the smoke and reflecting off the rain…I kept thinking, “someone just died here, someone was just blown up right here…” it’s a strange thing to think about. I think I was already a little delirious from the fever that hit hard the next day (when I got the 103 temperature), because there was such a dreamlike and strange quality to the rest of the silent drive back…we finally got home past 3:30am, and I couldn’t sleep even then. Insomnia is worse when you have a lot on your mind.

Cox's Bazaar...heaven on earth

I can feel myself growing as a human being, becoming a better person, more thoughtful, conscious, with integrity and beauty and breadth. Cox’s bazaar seemed to be heaven on earth, and it is so strange that it can be juxtaposed with the horror of the city. Chittagong itself is just a huge slum, and I think in many ways, it is the most awful place I have ever been…
Mermaid is located 15 km outside of Cox’s Bazaar, the largest natural beach in the world. Pechar Dwip, Himchori, is just far enough away that you get the same kind of nature but without the tourist traps or the disturbance of many people. It was the most peaceful place I’ve been, and the first time I’ve felt safe since I got on the airplane in JFK.
Cox’s Bazaar was idyllic. There is no other way to describe it…the kids run around naked and there is no threat of violence or sexual undertones. The men are respectful and I do not feel like I need to swath my body to hide it from them. The staff was attentive but gave us privacy, and they have easy smiles and everything feels relaxed and happy. As you can see from my photos, it is mother nature’s finest handiwork…sandy beaches, epic skies, vivid colors and tastes and sunshine and storms…it is the real Bangladesh, away from the twisted corruption of Chittagong. Mermaid itself is an ethically and astutely run resort, incorporating ideals of fair trade, women’s empowerment, and eco-tourism. Eco-tourism, for those of you who are unaware, is defined as traveling responsibly to fragile, pristine, and usually protected areas without disturbing the natural eco-systems. Eco-resorts purport to educate and facilitate interaction with that native environment, provide funds for conservation, directly benefit the economic development and political empowerment of local communities, and foster respect for different cultures and for human rights. Mermaid certainly fit these criteria, and moreover, was luxurious without ostentation or infringement. All of the buildings and floors were made from recycled materials from the shipwrecking yards (for instance, the second-floor of our bungalow was made from part of the deck of a ship), and all the food was organic and locally-grown. They had the best fresh fruit drinks (papaya and mango were my favorites), and the food was by far the best I’ve had in this country. Every morning, they made crepes with honey and chocolate sauce, as well as fruit and omelets. The fish was also quite good apparently, and I really enjoyed pasta and kebob. I also got my first professional massage—it was so great. He used hot oils that smelled so good, and also oiled my hair which rejuvenated my curls from the harsh water here. The masseuse was extremely respectful, and I didn’t feel uncomfortable at any point.
Jenine’s friend Micky, the Bangladeshi businessman, also joined us for a day. He is so sweet and very fatherly; he treats me like a daughter (I’m just a few years older than his two kids), and he was very generous and treated Jenine and me to meals and a ride in his very nice car back to Chittagong. He is extremely influential and important in Bangladesh, but also so humble—he’s a good man who works very hard, and devotes so much of his time and money to philanthropy as well.
Jenine and I had a lot of good time on our own together too. We meditated, and she is teaching me a great deal about life and experiences and philosophies. She is a kind of spiritual teacher for me, and I look up to her a lot. We stayed in this bungalow right on the edge of the water, I had the bottom floor and she had the top, and we also had a private porch area and a deck where we could do yoga. The bathroom was so clean and fresh, and it had all these nice-smelling shampoos; it was also partly outside, and the shower was on top of this huge stone, which was really cool.
The most meaningful part of the whole trip for me was playing with the local kids. We met them when we took the boat from the resort to the beach, and at first they were very reserved. But slowly, they opened up to us…I’ve found that my camera is the perfect way to interact with kids, especially useful in overcoming language barriers. We played with them for hours the first day, but it was the second day that made the greatest impression on me. There was one little girl that really attached herself to me, and although I enjoyed playing with all of them, she has changed my life. I finally found my maternal streak, I guess. Neither of us spoke any language in common (except for two words I learned, “friend” and “sister”), but we managed to communicate for hours. She and the other kids would show me their treasures—shells, or a crab they caught, or some flowers. Jenine and I played in the ocean with them too, racing them in the waves and swimming with them. We also showed them some of the books we had brought along, they seemed fascinated even though I’m sure they couldn’t understand a word. My favorite little girl even tried on my shoes, and got such a kick out of us being the same shoe size. She would wander around, prattling about who knows what in Bangla, and she would ask me questions. I’d answer as earnestly as I could, and she would look up at me with complete concentration, all the while holding my hand in hers and prancing at my side. I taught her how to use my camera, and she definitely has an eye for composition! I was so proud of her, she took such great photos after just a short time. We really enjoyed taking them together; she would position our hands together or something (she was fascinated by the differences in our skin tones), and then have me take the picture. She also took two incredible self-portraits, very close to her face and showing her intense eyes. She took care of her little brother the whole time too—he is the naked one with the bells wrapped around his waist, playing with the machete. She was so caring with him, and she took some great portraits of him as well as her other brothers and friends. She even took one of her father, who was working on the beach. She tried to invite me to her home (I gathered that after awhile, I wasn’t sure where she tried to take me at first), but I decided it wouldn’t be such a great idea to go. She literally tried to drag me over, and got quite upset when I couldn’t come with her. She even started crying when it was time for me to leave…I felt so badly, and I felt like she gave me such a gift, I wanted to give her something too. I gave her one of my bracelets, and she looked so happy! She also shared it with her siblings, putting it on her brothers and taking photos of it on my camera. I really hope that she will remember me, that maybe someday I’ll be able to find her again, or at least that someday she might get the opportunity to have a camera of her own. She certainly deserves it, and I know she’ll capture the world either in her mind’s eye or hopefully with a lens. I actually miss her a lot, I’ve never had such an intense connection with anyone without the barest form of language…my last memory of her is when she and her friends were milling about our boat as we clambored in, and then all of a sudden, she popped up right behind me and yelled the word “surprise” in Bangla. She had a laugh like bells, and then tumbled into the sea and pushed our boat out into the water. She stood waving for awhile, gave me an impish smile, and then led the pack of boys away back towards the trees. She left an indelible mark on me, and I am grateful that I could at least record some of it with my camera…and I am so thankful that I could experience the catharsis of sand and sunshine and solace and deep connections.