Gaia Community: Barbara Raisbeck's Blog

Madness Meditation

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 12:19:59 GMT

From my third story room – at Hotel Arjun – I have a birds-eye view of the street below. The Main Bazaar; one of the busiest places in Delhi. Complete madness reigns in the street. Never a hollow space. Every square inch covered with life. As I stand in silence and watch the moving landscape, I think to myself that I can learn all lessons here. In quiet observation. Free of judgment, anxiety, thought. Just watch, listen, learn. Removed from it, while also a part of it.

Traffic, of all kinds, never ceases. Meandering cows (and their splattering dung), feral dogs (who sleep during the day after a busy night of running wild in packs), relentless beggars, ware hawkers, slick salesman, motor and cycle rickshaws, bicyclists, scooters, trucks, tractors, wedding processions, motorcycles, ox-pulled carts, global travelers. Everyone jostling to claim their space in the chaos.

Music blares, but still the cacophonic horns trump the melodic notes rising skyward. Sometimes a dozen horns at a time. Vying for the right-of-way on a road barely wide enough for one midsize vehicle. When two pass each other, with a motorcycle in between, cows and pedestrians on either side, the mind nor eyes can bend to accommodate the seamless way they pass each other without mishap. Indians will tell us, ‘everything is possible in India’. Indeed.

Shops line both sides of the street, most of them selling colorful wares to travelers, though Gulam, a Kashmiri travel/tour merchant tells me that eight years ago it was primarily a street for the locals. A lot of bangle shops for Indian women. Now most anything can be had here. As I wander down and back up the street, I am offered a sundry of fried foods, cotton clothing, mendhi tattooing, tours to anywhere in India, tobacco (or hashish if I need something stronger), chai, pashmina shawls and carpets from Kashmir, jewelry, taxi rides, maps, fresh fruit, or chances to redeem myself by filling a beggars cup or by giving rupees for chapattis (Indian flat bread). A tapping on the back of the arm followed by a small voice asking for alms. Matted-hair women with a sleeping child attached to them. Wide-eyed three and four-year olds tugging at my sleeve with unapologetic pleas for money. Working the street for a living. Tiny little outstretched hands crusted with their dirty life.

The verve seeps into and fills my room, keeping it lit up with commotion at all hours. Bouncing off my walls and marching on the marble floors. Stealing through every open crevice. It’s only when I judge it, absorb it, that it affects me. I have learned to let it flow by me with relative ease, unaffected by the madness. Watching it from above or strolling in step with it in the street, it has become my meditation.

Tags: beggars, delhi, Hotel Arjun, india, Kashmir, madness, Main Bazaar, meditation, mendhi, rickshaw, rupee

The Life from my Hair

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 12:12:38 GMT

It had been several days, maybe a week since I last washed my hair. The one bucket of semi-lukewarm water at the last two hotels was only adequate for essential bathing. Which meant my hair had to wait. Run a wet comb through it, style it into place and call it good. With each passing day the styling was becoming easier; dust and sweat make for a potent hair gel.

Today was the day; there was sufficient hot water to wash my hair! Brilliant tiny, steamy droplets bounced off the surface of my coated tangled tresses. While working the water through the snarled mass, the eyes of a turbaned man appeared. Followed by a wandering, horned cow blocking traffic. And then children wanting to shake my hand and inquire about my name and country. Women freely smiling. Or lightly scoffing. Depending on the city. Smiling in Bundi. Stern stares other places. Spiky-haired boars rooting through mounds of garbage. Along with several cows, long-necked white birds, dogs and their puppies. Monkeys swinging from tree to fortress wall. Dark alleys winding into the night. Birds swooping overhead. Pigeons cooing. Men ogling. A motorcycle transporting an entire family whizzing by. Starry skies unobscured by city lights. All of it there, in my hair, coming out as the water penetrated deeply. Released bit-by-bit. Birds flying out. Shooting stars. Night turning into day. Shaking it loose. Washing it free. The life from my hair.

Tags: india

Opening to India

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 14:49:01 GMT

I've finally, after a series of mishaps, made it to India. Possibly the setbacks were there to hone my patience and perseverance, to ready me for the trials to come.

India is a pungent teacher of patience and fortitude. Her revolutions move in mysterious convolutions that defy logic. Not unlike the winding alleyway to my hotel that confuses me in it's curving path that veers in many directions that all ultimately lead to the same place. Being lost. In order to find. India teaches that. To lose yourself - your notions, truths, ideals, beliefs. Just let them all go, at least suspend them while traipsing within her perimeter. Not judging nor expecting, but rather observing, accepting. And feeling how fluently that moves in the psyche as compared to the way biases find places in our minds and bodies to latch onto and cause turmoil.

In some ways, India is like another home. There's a familiarity of myself here. It's the rawness of life that resonates with me, in its myriad forms - beautiful, grotesque, otherworldly. The systematic stripping away of distractions and compulsions; attachments that keep us from being fully present.

India wasn't a lifelong dream for me, or a place that I felt drawn to. But one day in a hospice training, with the question posed – "What would you do with your life if you had one year to live?" – I heard myself answering, "I'd go to India". I cannot really say where that answer came from; maybe I threw it out there because it sounded so outlandish. And wouldn't we want do something completely out-of-character and crazy if we knew that we were on our way out? Our one last hurrah that would float us above the pain in the final moments.

Nine months after making that proclamation – long enough for the idea to gestate – I was in India. And totally out of my zones that shield and comfort me. Nearly the moment that I touched ground, ghosts starting coming out of my closet, one-by-one, surrounding and taunting me. Without the safety net of distractions, they made themselves visible and were not easily placated. India does that. Shows us where our suffering lies.

She shows us her suffering as well. I remember the odd looks and inquiries I received from the participants in the hospice training, wanting to know why on earth I'd choose to spend my final days immersed in a place of such great suffering. I still get that – people wanting to know, why India?

The only way I can answer is, in suffering, in our own or being a witness to it, there is an opening that occurs. That opening can consume or liberate us. Or both. Consume, then liberate. And just at the moment that we think we've been liberated, the consumption starts again. The suffering doesn't just end, even when we beg it to. But I have learned that to observe it, allow myself to feel it, hold it, accept it, I can then let go of it. Not completely since our wounds leave scars, but enough to help me out of the fire and into the awareness of the lesson, that will, when I am ready, appear and show me a way through to the other side.

Namaste from India!

Tags: india, suffering, patience

World on Fire!

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 20:32:57 GMT

Sarah McLachlan - World On Fire

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I Choose Love! What do you Choose?

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 20:10:33 GMT

I CHOOSE LOVE II

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Patient in the Present

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 03:25:04 GMT

I am still here, at home. My flight to San Francisco was cancelled (apparently due to weather), and I remain in limbo while waiting for my ticket to get resolved.

Perhaps I was not yet ready for India since I was feeling poorly on my scheduled day of departure. I wasn’t feeling much better the following day when I returned to the airport, thinking that I would be flying out on a different international airline, only to once again be sent home. I was issued an incorrect exchange ticket but given a third one for the following day. Except that ticket was no good either, one that would have had me stranded since the domestic airline did not confirm it with the international one. Nor did they communicate to them that I would not be on the original flight, so on their schedule, I was considered a ‘no show’. Understandably, they do not want to give me another ticket. I see it as the fault of the domestic airline, but the travel agency where I bought the ticket (who initially refused to help sort this out) is trying to get the ticket fulfillment from the international one.

I am content to be here now, in this moment and place, although I am experiencing a sort of feeling between both worlds. My momentum got waylaid, and with the amount of energy, time and angst I spent in trying to get a new flight out, I used all my reserves.

It’s all a bit messy. I’m not sure how long it may take to sort it out, but in the meantime I am using my energy to regroup so by the time my ticket is rebooked, I am ready to begin again. I’ll keep you posted.

Thank you all of my sweet zaadz friends who have been sending me messages. You fulfill me!

So Much Love!

Barbara

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Journey to India

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 21:38:54 GMT

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you my beautiful zaadz friends, for your support, encouragement, comments, and e-mails. Despite the laxity in my posting, your support truly inspires me in my work. The paucity of posts is largely due to readying for my trip to India for which I leave on January 8. Once in India, I will post as I am able, but there may be long breaks in between. My primary blog is at http://barbararaisbeck.blogspot.com/.

This will be my fifth journey to India, and the second one in which I am going to work on the project of femicide. When I first embarked on this project, my ultimate goal was to gather survivor stories. Sadly, they are few and far between. While meeting with the director of a women’s shelter in Delhi last year, she informed me that those women who had escaped death were wanting to move on with their lives, not dwell on the past. I was unable to speak with any of them, though she was wiling to give me over 1000 case files of women who had been killed in dowry disputes.   

My goal continues to be collecting stories from women who have triumphed, giving them a voice and a platform so that they may lead the way in liberation for The Daughters of India. I look forward to sharing them with you.

Blessings for a peaceful and auspicious New Year.   

In Love & Light,  

Barbara ;)

Tags: juorney, india, dowry, femicide, daughters of india

Touching the Untouchables ~ Part Two

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 03:49:23 GMT

Mintu in Private Hospital

Poor Mintu, because of the rawness of the burns on his face (that ought to have been bandaged after his first visit to a doctor), and due to having two white women tending to him, he became a spectacle to leer at. We were all on display. A continual stream of people stood behind the glass opposite his bed, standing on their tiptoes or craning their necks that afforded them the best view.

Meanwhile, we looked back, mostly in disbelief at the things that we were witnessing.

After the urine bag of the man with a tube in his nose sprung a leak, I watched and waited for someone to come and clean up the yellow puddle. Instead, it got stepped in and smeared around until it (mostly) evaporated.

Families had the task of shooing away the swarm of freely admitted mosquitoes buzzing around the patients that were flying in through the open hospital doors. Til and I stood on either side of Mintu’s bed whooshing them away with our hands.

The family visiting the man in the bed to the right of Mintu sat on the floor at the foot of his bed, eating their lunch from silver tins with subji (vegetables) and chapatis (indian flat bread). When the doctor camein to check on his patient, he squatted on the floor, (with no where else tosit) scribbling notes on a scrap of paper.

Armed soldiers sat at the entrance of each common room, most of them half-sleeping of boredom. Occasionally they’d rise from their post and tell the gawkers to move along, but after a few minutes they’d all return. It seems they had nothing better to do. Or maybe it was the whopping story that they’d be able to tell their families and friends; therefore each detail must be collected for future discussion.

Mintu speaks no English, so communicating with him was an effort. We mostly relied on gestures, so when he pointed his pinky finger skyward he was telling us that he needed to go to the bathroom. First they gave him a (used) plastic urinal bottle that was lying under the bed of the patient next to him. We covered him to allow him to pee in private - while all eyes were watching - but he was unable to. So, while I held his IV bottle, Til took Mintu’s arm and we walked him to the bathroom. When he went to the sink to wash his hands, i saw him glimpse his reflection in the mirror. He quickly looked away at a face I don’t think even he recognized.

A colleague of Father Frances called us when she learned that the hospital was not going to admit Mintu, instructing us which hospital to take him to, a different one that the doctors referred us to. He was going to be seen by a plastic surgeon specializing in burns, and the funds from Father Frances’s clinic would be paying for his care.

Mintu left the hospital with two pints of IV fluids in his parched body, but his face remain uncovered and vulnerable to the elements.

We climbed into the auto rickshaw that Til had arranged, and told the driver where we wanted to go. As we exited the grounds of the hospital saw entire families camped alongside the roads, with their bedding, and campstoves, and food supplies. They could not afford to come and go, so simply stayed, on the perimeter of the hospital. And if their loved one died whilst inthe confines of the hospital, their bodies were simply put outside on the ground to be collected and disposed of by the families. There was no zippered blackbag, no coroner, no hearse. Just an “expired” body that the family isresponsible to take away. (The term expired is used when speaking of death).

In India, nearly nothing is hidden from view. The messy rawness of life lives, breathes, rots, and dies in the streets, a phenomenon that can shock our western sterile sensitivities where everything is neatly hidden away.

A few minutes into our journey, the rickshaw driver stopped his vehicle and turned to us announcing that he could not take us to the hospital that we asked him to. He looked at our “untouchable” friend Mintu and kept saying, “no possible; private hospital”. Not take him. Go to government hospital”.

Both Til and I told him not to worry, that the doctor was expecting us and that we were taking care of it. But when he kept insisting, adding the exalted title “baba” when addressing us, as a way to try and emphasize his point, I lost my patience, telling him that we hired him to takeus to the hospital, to not worry about the rest.

Still, he refused.

Til and I agreed that we had no choice but to look for another taxi, so we helped Mintu out of the rickshaw, while the driver continued trying to convince us of where we could not go and where we needed to go. We wouldn’t have wasted as much time arguing with the driver as we did had we been in an area where taxis were plentiful. We had to walk quite a distance to find another, while letting Mintu lean into us for support.

Nothing angers me more than injustice, and this incident, with the driver refusing to be the one to deliver a Dalit to a private hospital, had me spitting nails. This was the reason why the three of us were under the microscopic eyes of India; the “untouchables” (they are also called the “no-castes” or “outcasts”) are given no respect. Their very presence is consider “polluting”. Their only perceived value to the rest of India, to the other castes, is as servants.

And this philosophy is a way of keeping an entire group of impoverished people oppressed. It’s tied in with the ideology of “karma”, which determines a person’s station in life as determined by one’s previous life.Their actions and deeds. The goal is to work one’s way up the hierarchal ladder to the highest caste, that of a Brahmin. The Indian idea of human evolution.

In a previous hotel where I stayed, the manager, proud as a peacock, announced shortly after meeting me that he was a Brahmin. He looked rather insulted when I failed to laud him. “Big deal”, I thought, knowing that this likely means that he sees those in the castes below him (there are a total of four castes, excluding the “untouchables”) as inferior. He was equally offended when I refused his offer to walk to the river together. Sorry, it doesn’t impress me. It offends me.

Classism however, exists in every culture. In America, for example, factory workers don’t mix with lawyers or doctors. Toilet cleaners don’t shake the hands of scientists, unless it’s to collect the bacteria from beneath their nails to set it in a Petri dish.

The Dalits (dalit means “oppressed”) are beginning to riseup in some parts of India fortunately, as they slowly realize that they are being exploited. Governments have been accused of withholding food rations from communities where the “untouchables” live. It’s a sort of extermination.

After we walked about a block and a half with Mintu, we reached an intersection where several empty rickshaw taxis were lined up along a street bustling with honking traffic. We found a driver who spoke English and guaranteed that he knew where the hospital was and that he’d take us there, so we were once again on our way.

The road leading to the hospital was in even poorer repair than the first one, but worse was the portion of the road that was constructed of unevenly laid bricks that caused the vehicle to bounce with wild rapidity. Mintu, who had been laying his head on Til’s shoulder, cried out and leapt upto try and steady his head and avoid further damage to his face.

Our entrance to the hospital looked more promising than the previous one. There was a waiting area with chairs and an actual reception desk. In the room were mothers and fathers with their young children who had cleft palate, the primary practice of the clinic.

Though we were told that the plastic surgeon was aware that we were coming, the staff (consisting of all men wearing tight fitting jeans) seemed clueless. Several phone calls later, and the guarantee that Father Frances’ clinic would be responsible for the expenses, finally allowed Mintu to be admitted to a room for another IV drip, and for treatment to his wounds. At long last, over 24 hours after the accident occurred, his face would be tended to.

With higher, different expectations of a private clinic, we were astonished when, upon entering the exam room, we found the bed sheet soiled from previous patients. Splotches of blood, though dry, seemed a certain risk to Mintu with his open wounds. The steel bowl under the bed was crusted with dried fluids.

“My god”, Til kept repeating, “you can’t believe it!” She was equally horrified, especially as a nurse, when one of the attendants smeared some salve into Mintu’s swollen shut eye without a washed or gloved hand. Burn victims, with the nature of their wounds, must be treated with the utmost care, though the group of men tending to him used no precautionary measures.

When they asked us to leave the room, Mintu looked like a frightened child, as if afraid that we may leave him there. I was trying to imagine being in his place, not properly treated by the first doctor that he went to, sent out into the world to deal with the severity of his wounds with a prescription for a tube of cream and an ibupofen pain reliever. And then treated carelessly and without a hint of concern at the hospital. Worse, therickshaw driver refusing to transport us to a private hospital. And then a longdrawn out process while Til and I had to assure and reassure the staff at theprivate hospital that the bills would be paid for.

In India, patients must have someone with them in their room, 24-hours a day. Mintu had no family in the area, and we had no way of reaching any of his friends. We sat with him until the clinic administrator brought someone from Mintu’s village to stay with him.

After they moved Mintu to his “private” room, the most expensive in the hospital at 750 rupees a night ($17.00), a housekeeper was rushed in, mostly, it seems, to impress us. He hurriedly tried scrubbing away the dirt on the floor, some of it caked on, but mostly just pushed it into the corners. After five minutes or so, he was done with his job.

I went into the bathroom to have a look. That floor too, was dirty. A pile of swept up dirt lay in the corner near the sink. And the toilet (a squat toilet) I’m quite certain, had not been cleaned in a dreadfully longtime.

And all the impressive talk from one of the attendants whosaid that Mintu must be in a clean environment, thus the most expensive room, to protect him. Appalling.

A lanky, wizened, gray haired man, carrying a woolen blanketunder his arm, arrived with the clinic administrator. I asked the administratorif Mintu and the man knew each other. The man moved closer to have a look at Mintu, though only one eye and a bit of his cheek was visible; the rest of his head coveredin bandages.

He shook his head no; they did not know each other. I was impressed that a stranger would agree to stay with Mintu; that felt a lovely gesture to the end of a day long day of rejection by the rest of the world. But this man too was an “untouchable”, and in that, could identify with Mintu’s situation.

Mintu stayed in the hospital for two days. The clinic nurse determined that plastic surgery was not necessary, even though the plastic surgeon warned that the burns were deep and would not heal well on their own.

It turns out Mintu had an epileptic seizure while cooking, and that is why he fell into the fire. The doctor says he was in the fire for a few seconds before regaining consciousness, thus his injuries were serious,deep.

Still, Lizzy, the head nurse at the clinic, insisted that she could care take Mintu with daily dressings. She felt that the doctor was overstating the case in (erroneously) thinking that Til and I were going to be paying for the plastic surgery. In the end, Father Frances said that he agreed with Lizzy’s assessment, admitting that they did not really have adequate funds for surgery.

We visited with Mintu on three occasions since he was released from the hospital. He is less swollen, looks more alert, and I can see a hint of a smile peeking out from the bandages around his mouth. But the fear is still there, in his eyes. The sparkle from them is gone and he walks slowly and deliberately. He is (back on) medication for his epilepsy. He had apparently stopped taking it for the last month and a half. Likely due to not having the money to procure it. And now he will have to live with that the rest of his life, half of his face deeply scarred, adding to his burdensome status in life, that of an “untouchable”.

His quiet humility has profoundly touched my life. I am blessed to have Mintu as my friend.

Tags: rahmin, caste, classism, dalits, Father Frances, india, untouchables

Touching the Untouchables ~ Part One

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 04:08:18 GMT

It was love at first sight, the kind of (friendship) love that renews your faith in human-kind. I met Mintu through my friend Til, who had helped changed his bandages at the clinic where she was volunteering her time. We were on our way to a nearby restaurant when he spotted Til. He reached out and took both of her hands into his, greeting her with the wagging enthusiasm of a young puppy. He then came to me and shook my hands, a red toothed smile (from paan, a slightly narcotic substance that some Indians chew) that reached inside of my heart. He spoke, but not understanding Hindi, I simply nodded, smiled and climbed aboard his cycle rickshaw when he insisted (by rapidly patting his hand on the seat of it) that he take us to our destination, a thirty second ride away.

After that, whenever I saw him on the street, standing next to his cycle, he would come running towards me, face lit up like the sun, excited to see me, to shake my hands with his. He had a way of making me feel extraordinarily special; seeing him would warm me for hours afterwards.

It had been a few days since I’d last seen Mintu, or Pappu, as his friends affectionately refer to him, when a young friend of his rushed towards me on the street. He led me to a large slab bench where a few people were sitting. He pointed to a man with a red patterned scarf wrapped around his head. It took me a few seconds to comprehend that the face peering out from beneath the slight opening in the scarf was my friend, Mintu.

His face swollen and wounded, I asked his friend what had happened. He had fallen, he told me, into an open fire while cooking. My body went numb as I looked at Mintu, his infectious broken tooth smile hidden behind distended blistered lips. Half of his face was an inflamed red mass, the other half was where I could recognize him, his one open eye peering out at me.

I tried to convey my compassion, realizing that even if we spoke the same language, no words could express how badly I felt about his accident. I gently rubbed his arm, while listening to a group of people excitedly trying to fill me in on what happened, most of them speaking in Hindi.

“Did he go to the hospital?” I asked. Mintu produced a blister pack of medication along with a doctor’s prescription for what he advised him to take. “Has he gotten any of the medications?” I wanted to know.

People from the street, wanting to see what was happening, started gathered around us. Young boys stood and looked at Mintu, looks of horror spreading across their perfectly smooth faces.

None of us recognized him, his silly, sweet smile had been swallowed up, his normally hyperactive stance lay in an indolent, near comatose state. I longed for his smile, for his hands reaching for mine. But he was expressionless; his hands lay limp, lifeless.

I sat for a few moments, trying to figure out what to do. I hadn’t seen my friend Til since breakfast, but when I last saw her she was at the cyber-café. She was a nurse; she would know what to do. I just hoped that she was still there, since nearly two hours had passed since I last saw here.

I assured the group of people surrounding Mintu that I would return at once, explaining that I was going to try and find my friend, with the extra reassurance that she was a nurse.

I was relieved to see that she was still at the cyber café. When I saw her, I tapped her on the shoulder, but my words stuck in my throat. I was barely audible, but I managed to express the urgency of the situation to her.

We ran back to where Mintu lay. At once Til, in the manner of an unemotional nurse, climbed onto the slab bench where Mintu was now sitting up, and pulled the scarf away from his burned face. She asked the same questions that I had asked, and then at once sent a man who spoke English to go with me to get the prescribed medicines. She handed the man, who had orangish-red hennaed hair that matched the color of his shirt, a 500-rupee note and told him to take me to the closest pharmacy.

We returned in 15-20 minutes time, but I was not comfortable simply dropping the medication off and wishing Mintu well. The extent of his injuries seemed more serious than that. One of his friends suggested that we try and find a good hospital to take him too. It seems that, as more of the story emerged, Mintu had only went to a clinic, not a hospital. He clearly needed more medical attention than he had received, so I suggested that we call Dutch Priest Father Frances, director of the clinic for the “dalits” or low-castes, as they’re called, to get his advice. I wondered if he would answer his phone since he was taking leave for three days during the Holi festival, to work on writing his fundraising newsletter.

Relieved to hear his voice in the receiver, I handed the phone to Til, so that she, especially as a nurse, could (better) explain the situation to him. And I knew that the words were still stuck in my throat. This was no time for crying.

Upon being apprised of the situation, Father Frances told Til that Mintu’s face is his future, that we must seek emergency care for the burns and do whatever is needed. He advised us to go the University Hospital, a facility that Til was familiar with, having visited it once while working at the clinic. She forewarned me that it would defy my experience of a western hospital, to prepare myself.

Til and I sat on either side of Mintu, holding onto and trying to comfort him while the auto rickshaw that took us to the hospital, bumped along on potholed and rocky roads. The journey was brutal; I heard it in Mintu’s moans that followed each jolt of the narrow seat that the three of us sat on. I wanted to shout out to the driver to be more cautious, less reckless, but it’s the nature of rickshaw drivers. Drive fast, follow close, and pass and squeeze by others at every given opportunity. Or make an opportunity where none exists. Often, there is only a scrape of space between vehicles on india’s roadways. Everyone is rushing towards their finish line with no consideration of others on the road. It’s like being on a speedway with no rules. Horns honk incessantly, some of them so loud it feels as if my eardrums will burst.

Moments after we arrived the hospital we were cocooned in a gathering of curious Indians who wondered what two white women were doing with an injured Indian man.

Once inside the hospital, Mintu was instructed to lie down on a table in an administrative room where he was given a quick look over. We were then asked to take him to a common room where there were eight beds, most of them occupied. He lay there for a long while, motionless, not one sound from him, suffering with his injuries in silence. Flashes of his smile kept coming to me when I looked at him; it was the only former impression that I had of him.

As Til had warned, the hospital bore little resemblance to the hospitals of the western world. The dirtied walls held years of previous patient’s injuries and illnesses. A thick coating of dust covered the electrical receptacles behind the bed that Mintu lay in. There were no blankets provided the patients, and when it came time to administer medicines to Mintu, they had to be purchased by us next door.

After being examined by a number of different doctors, some of them interns, we were informed that there were no beds available on the sixth floor, in the burn ward. We would have to take him elsewhere. They allowed him to occupy the bed through two bottles of IV drips however, before we had to take him to another hospital. This was likely only because a friend of Father Frances’s had come to the clinic; giving a bit of clout to the situation. Or maybe it was a compassionate stance since Mintu was in serious shape, and in need of fluids.

One of the doctors, after learning where Mintu lived (in the slums of Varanasi), asked me if he was my servant. “No”, I casually replied. “He is my friend”. His right eyebrow lilted in surprise as he tried to grasp why I had befriended a “dalit”, an “untouchable”.

From the looks that we received from most everyone in the hospital - the patients, their families, and the staff - it appeared that everyone was wondering the same thing. Their wild-eyed curiosity grew when they witnessed Til and I comforting our friend by gently touching his arm or rubbing his back, and more so when I cradled Mintu’s head in my hand. At one point, when three male orderlies brought a patient into the ward, Til said that they had more eyes for me than for the patients.

The patient that they brought in, an elderly man accompanied by his adult son, moaned loudly as a tube was forcibly being pushed into his nose, a procedure that took several minutes longer than it should have. He kept fighting it, his body writhing in pain, as the orderlies forcefully kept pushing on his legs.

His moaning spread to the patient in the bed to the left of his, a woman in a lime-green sari, whose face was completely charred. She sat in a squatting position on the bed, and when she moved, I could see that her neck and chest were also burnt. I imagined that she was a victim of bride burning, and by the gurgling sound emanating from her lungs in between her labored breathing, it was likely that she would succumb to her injuries.

Two women, their head scarves pulled close to shield their faces, sat next to her bed, but there was no feeling of concern from either of them. If the woman was indeed set on fire, they may well have been the ones who lit the match, since mother or sister in laws are often the perpetrators of such crimes. And their presence in the hospital would be one for show, and especially to make sure that the victim told no one what *really* happened. It would be deemed a “kitchen accident”, where seldom does anyone get prosecuted.

The wailing coming from the two of them, the burnt woman and the man with the tube in his nose, became nightmarish. I felt sure that I was watching a film; that I was an observer. But when I looked over at my friend Mintu, and saw him looking back at me with a sort of childlike panic, I knew that this was no film, and that our friend’s injuries were serious and in need of more attention than we were getting.

To be continued…

Tags: bride burning, dalits, Father Frances, india, untouchables, varanasi

Prayers for Peace at the Top of the World

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 04:13:00 GMT

Minkiani Pass

I’m not sure that my legs would have carried me up the steep incline had I not had three weeks of daily walking in this hilly rocky region. My fourth visit here, it’s inconceivable that I’d never hiked further than the small waterfall here in Bhagsu.

My friends planned a spur of the moment trek, mostly in my honor, attending to every detail, including buying the ingredients for a delicious meal that was prepared by Pappu, and a special vegetarian one for me.

We motorcycled until reaching the edge of the pass, proceeding to hike up at a pretty brisk pace for the next two hours. Manu had warned me that about midway there would be a pretty precipitous climb, a craggy rock gradient that had my heart racing beyond that of my legs. I stopped several times, looking out at the spectacular view, giving myself a few seconds to catch my breath before continuing on.

My friends made the trek look like a walk in the park, but they reminded me that they have lived in these mountains all of their lives. And, as I told them, I’m just a city girl.

With the treacherous rocky terrain, where one false move could have sent me over the edge, I kept my eyes primarily focused on the path right in front of me, which is how I came to notice the myriad of heart shaped rocks of various contours and sizes, most of them too large to pocket. While it’s fairly typical for me to see heart shapes in nature, especially in rocks (I have a collection of a few dozen at home) I had never seen this many in one place.

Our hike took us through a dense forest of lush evergreens with pockets of modest homes tucked away in the rolling hillsides. As we passed a young woman who was washing laundry - behind her a snowy peak jutting straight out of the earth - I wondered how it would be to live there, out in the middle of nowhere, with the backdrop of majestic mountains.

Manu told me that a very powerful Hindu temple was at the top of the pass, where purportedly, prayers made there get answered. Upon hearing that, my mind started entertaining possible requests I could make. The health and safety of family and friends seemed wise choices.

Sweet relief swept over me when we reached the top to a breathtaking panoramic view of snow-covered mountains and the temple adorned with marigold flower garlands. It felt like we were standing at the top of the world, the expanse of the azure blue sky opening into the ethers of nothingness.

Pappu, Manu, Sanjeev and Aju took off their shoes and went straight to the temple, asking me to join them inside. As soon as I sat down on the cool cement floor I knew what prayers I would send up in the spiraling smoke of the incense fashioned into the shape of a cone.

A quiet rapture filled the dimly lit sanctuary as we smudged the smoke of our incense over the deities. Having never paid my respects in a Hindu temple before now, I took my cues by watching what my friends were doing. Manu dabbed each of our foreheads with the ochre colored powder signifying that we had visited the temple. Afterwards, he gave us each a handful of Prasad, a mixture of sweet puffed rice, golden raisins and slices of coconut.

I don’t subscribe to Hinduism (nor any brand of religion) so am not familiar with it’s rituals, though I had no qualms about worshipping with my friends. Prayer is universal; it belongs to all religions, though does not need the structure of any to be practiced.

In a quiet moment of morning yoga I pray, meditate, visualize. My prayer today was going to be no different. I would pray for peace in my heart. Peace on earth. Something that I have been wishing for since a young girl, blowing dandelion fairies into the wind and finding lone stars in the night sky.

It was then, when I started visualizing my prayer for peace that I realized that the heart shaped rocks were messages of what to pray for. The prayer was there, scattered all along the path. And then afterwards, appearing in the shape of a cloud lazily floating above the highest mountain peak.

After worship we got to work preparing food, cutting vegetables, shelling peas, and slicing apples for appetizers. While the food was cooking I ventured away from camp to take photographs, mesmerized by the view and the sense of awe that it provoked.

We weren’t alone atop Minkiani, a 7000 ft. Pass. A group of men were busily chipping away at large boulders with pick axes and hammers. There were also a few families that came to pay their homage at the temple. Two young boys, who knew that there was a foreigner amongst our group, came down to the area where we were sitting to feed me Prasad, smiling proudly at their deed.

After eating, we sat talking and taking photos in the midday sun. In an instant, a massive cloud cover sent the guys scrambling to clean up so that we could start working our way back down the mountain. They knew the signs of possible impending weather changes, so wasted no time in washing the dishes and packing things up.

Our descent was slower, everyone tired from the arduous climb up. We met several school children on the path, as well as Shepard’s with their herds of sheep, and some grazing cows. We met the darkness just as we returned to where the motorcycles were parked, good timing since not even the abundant night stars could’ve shined brightly enough to light our way home.

From Bhagsu, India - December 2006

Tags: bhagsu, hinduism, india, peace, prayer

One World ~ One People

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 18:34:21 GMT

Global Oneness Project

This is a powerful video. Oneness is the answer! The Global Oneness Project is a wonderful resource; I really appreciate their work. Enjoy...

Tags:

The Importance of Freedom of Choice

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 21:56:40 GMT

The strongest principle of growth lies in human choice ~ Mary Ann Evans (pen-name George Eliot)

When it comes to arranged marriage, some may argue that freedom of choice, is largely a western ideal, a whimsical notion. But without the experience and responsibility that comes with making choices and decisions for ourselves, we lack the necessary tools that help us to grow and evolve in life. If someone else makes our choices for us, how can we utilize our own intelligence, speak our own voice, live our own truth?

I once attended a lecture by Professor of International Studies, Anita Weiss, in which she was discussuing Muslim women’s views on wearing a burqa. She spoke with a number of women who told her that they did not mind wearing it, but they wanted it to be their choice, not the choice of their culture.

At times, the choices we make may be impulsive, especially in our youthful stages of life. It makes sense that some of them may be imprudent. It takes time and experience to sit with our choices in deciding what we feel would be best for us. If a situation changes, what may have initially seemed the best choice, may later prove to be a detrimental one. But that simply provides the opportunity to decide what to do next. Some of the choices we make are later felt to be mistakes. Mistakes, however, are lessons if we learn from them; indeed, it is the way that we learn.

As parents, it is our job to teach and guide our children towards the healthiest choices that will be most beneficial for them, but there comes a time when their choices must be their own.

As an adult, the inability to make our own choices handicaps, and has grievous ramifications. Firstly, it gives undue power to someone else, allowing another to decide what is best. How can anyone else possibly know? If our lives are dictated and controlled by others, it effectively removes us from the vital task of carving out our personal life path, of taking responsibility, of growing up. Giving someone the power to control our choices, our lives, feeds the illusion that they are superior while we are weak and inferior. It gives the illusion that we have less capability. And in that, no growth can occur.

more to follow on arranged marriages…

Tags: anita weiss, arranged marriage, burqa, choice, freedom, india, responsibility

Russell Peters on Arranged Marriage

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 00:41:25 GMT

Russel Peters on Arranged Marriage

Tags: india, arranged marriage

Arranging Marriage

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 21:19:52 GMT

Arranged marriage is an intrinsic part of India’s culture. Families choose their children’s spouse for them, matching compatibility criteria with horoscopes and family status. For the family of the groom, how much dowry the bride brings tops the list of priorities. The more educated the groom, the bigger the dowry demand. Doctors and engineers, and grooms living in America with their increased earning power, are costly commodities.

Most westerners cannot conceive the idea of their parents choosing their marriage partner for them. Making a lifelong commitment with someone that they do not know. But in India, the general thinking is, who better to do the choosing then one’s parents, the ones who know you the best? Loveless nuptials is not considered, love is said to grow after marriage. Love marriages are often felt to be frivolous and fleeting, so are still relatively rare in India, though there are couples that are defying the system and following their heart instead of tradition.

The first time I went to India, in 2000, strangers would come and ask me where I was from, immediately followed by the statement, “Oh, America, where half of all of your marriages end in divorce.” They seemed to derive great satisfaction in highlighting our marriage failures.

While the divorce rate is stirring in India today, many still don’t dare speak of it even if the love after marriage never materialized. Being coerced into the partnership does not offer the freedom to simply leave an abusive or unsatisfying marriage.

Marriage is a monumental step in life, one that asks that we, with certainty, are committed to devote our life to another person in a 'day in, day out', existence. The recommended period of engagement that allows for a slow cultivation offers no guarantee. Many marriages topple under the pressure of expectation, unfulfilled promises, and the faces that emerge after the ‘I do’s’ are said.

It’s in this knowledge that some feel arranged marriages may offer something more substantial than love marriages. While there can be merit in an arranged marriage - some of them work out famously – the issue is one of choice. The freedom to choose, firstly, if one wants to marry, and if so, whom they want to marry.

In a February 2006 issue of National Geographic on the topic of Love, Renu Dinakaran - who thinks that many arranged marriages are acts of “state sanctioned rape” - was interviewed for a segment of the story. She tells how, at the age of 17, she was forced to marry her cousin. She says that she wanted to learn to love her husband, but the more years that passed, the less love she felt for him. It was the movie “Love Story” that convinced Renu that there was more to marriage. This knowing gave rise to bitterness, but it also helped her to move out of a loveless marriage, a courageous step for an Indian wife with two children. Liberating herself of that arrangement allowed love in when she met Anil, who she is happily married to today.

more to follow on arranged marriages…

Tags: arranged marriage, divorce, dowry, india, love, National Geographic

Talon Tagged Me ~ Seven Random Things

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 01:04:33 GMT

Seven Random Things

1. i am happy being me.

2. i care deeply about all life forms. i practice vegetarianism. i try my best to practice ahimsa;

i don't want to inflict pain on any other living being.

3. i'm pretty darn rebellious, and have been since a young child, which is why i am

concentrating my energy on working for peace and justice. it's the best way for me to

channel this rebellious energy!

4. i've got two beautiful granddaughters who bring such simple joy to my world. (that's them

in the photo)

5. i love dreaming, awake or asleep. my dreams guide me.

6. i develop wild crushes on those who speak out and refuse to bow down to the system.

7. my life is super busy right now with my book project, blogging and readying for my trip to India. if i had more time i could do a more righteous job on this, but this gives you an idea about me.

THE RULES:

1. Link to the person’s blog who tagged you.

2. Post these rules on your blog.

3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself.

4. Tag seven random [?] people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.

5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

The Seven People I am tagging are :

Allison - http://wabisabisatva.zaadz.com/

Shiv - http://jimayaji.zaadz.com/

Synnove - http://synnovemathe.zaadz.com/

Raf - http://raf.zaadz.com/

Aditya - http://aditya.zaadz.com/

jaBuddha - http://gakkaiguy.zaadz.com/

Mirko - http://mirkoswisdom.zaadz.com/

Tags:

Dowry Demanding Crimes

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 21:02:58 GMT

I recently signed up to receive google alerts on arranged marriage, dowry, and female feoticide. When articles are posted to the net, google sends me an e-mail with links to them. Everyday, I receive several articles on the aforementioned topics, an indication of how the problem of dowry related death and foeticide is growing in India. The stories that make it to the press are a small percentage of what actually gets reported. Fear, shame and deception keep many stories from being told.

The picture in this story is a computer screen capture of an article from The Times of India. I captured the screen (though random) because I found it an interesting juxtaposition to the hopes that young people have for a joyous matrimony through arranged marriage, which may be shattered when dowry is part of the equation.

Dowry is an integral part of arranged marriages in India; without it most women are not able to marry. This is changing in some parts of India however, as women of marrying age become scarcer, as discussed in the post: What is the Worth of a Woman?. In both instances, women are property, bought or sold. It’s hard to imagine being able to “experience the joy of marriage” in such a circumstance.

This article tells the story of a young bride whose harassment for two-lakh dowry (an equivalent of more than 5000.00 dollars) began shortly after her marriage, and the brutal lengths that her husband went to in trying to extract it from her. Dowry harassment starts after the wedding ends, even though the set amount has been previously agreed upon, a necessity to secure the engagement. In some instances, the groom and his family assured they were not interested in dowry, demanding it only after the wedding was finalized.

The article also hints at a large part of the problem – the laxity of police involvement and enforcement against the accused.

The article and the seven pages of reader’s comments that follow can be found here:

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/2549104.cms

Tags: arranged marriage, dowry, female feoticide

See the Woman ~ Poetry by John Trudell

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 20:41:55 GMT

She has a young face
An old face
She carries herself well
In all ages
She survives all man has done

In some tribes she is free
In some religions
She is under man
In some societies
She’s worth what she consumes

In some nations
She is delicate strength
In some states
She is told she is weak
In some classes
She is property owned

In all instances
She is sister to earth
In all conditions
She is life bringer
In all life she is our necessity

See the woman eyes
Flowers swaying
On scattered hills
Sundancing calling in the bees

See the woman heart
Lavender butterflies
Fronting blue sky
Misty rain falling
On soft wild roses

See the woman beauty
Lightning streaking
Dark summer nights
Forests of pines mating
With new winter snow

See the woman spirit
Daily serving courage
With laughter
Her breath a dream
And a prayer

http://www.johntrudell.com/bio.html

Tags: courage, john trudell, religion, survival, women

India's Widening Gap

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 22:48:41 GMT

Intro: this story is relevant to the book subject since one of the primary things fueling femicide in India is consumerism. While poverty is extreme in parts of India, the added burden of dowry is casting a dark shadow on India's burgeoning economy. India is a country in flux. Economically, it is growing exponentially. With economic growth comes opportunity for the betterment of life. For some. But for others, who are not a part of the boon, conditions worsen. The divide between those who grow wealthier and are blessed with prosperity, and those who live in the streets dependent on handouts for survival, is rising. One day while buying fruit for a young couple (she, a legless woman in a wheelchair), I suddenly found myself surrounded by a group of people with outstretched hands. As I was paying the vendor he told me how I would not see this begging and hunger in my country. I don’t think that he believed me when I told him that America has many hungry as well as homeless citizens. His eyes widened in disbelief: “In the most wealthy country in the world?” One young boy of maybe six or seven would always track me down in the street so that he could get his daily banana. It cost me little to give a piece of fruit, especially kalas (bananas) at two rupees a piece (approx. five cents). There are scams too; some who insist that you buy them the most expensive piece of fruit, generally a mango or papaya, so that they can sell it back to the vendor at half it’s market value and use the money for something else. It’s part of their survival, something to keep in mind as we sit in satiate comfort. The photo is one that I captured while I was a passenger in a rickshaw at a stoplight in Delhi. I had seen this man before on one other occasion; he was walking on his hands through traffic in an effort to get handouts. But on this day, he was (mostly) covered, sitting under the scant shade of a tree. When a friend of mine saw the photo, he said that it was fake, that the wound on his leg was not real. His reaction may be one of avoidance, not wanting to look at the plight of a fellow human being that he feels we can do little to help. It’s easier to pass by and look the other way. The other piece is that there is a “beggar mafia” in India. They are known to maim the impoverished and then send them out into the streets to beg with missing limbs as a way to garner more sympathy and money. Not wanting to support that, many people feel it is best to ignore a problem they feel they can do nothing about.

Tags: america, beggar mafia, begging, delhi, destitution, economy, homelessness, hunger, impovershed, india, survival

What is the Worth of a Woman?

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 23:01:33 GMT

In India, apparently, not much. According to a recent article in the Times of India, her worth is a tenth of the price of a buffalo in the northern state of Punjab where women are growing scarce due to rampant female foeticide.

FATEHGARH SAHIB: It is the matter of great shame that in Punjab a woman can be ‘purchased’ merely for Rs 3,000 while a buffalo is sold for Rs 30,000, said Punjab health minister Laxmi Kanta Chawala. She was addressing a seminar ‘Doctors for Daughters’ organized here on Sunday by the Punjab Chapter of Indian Medical Council. She said after 1947, the Punjabis had killed more daughters than the number of people killed during the partition.

Punjab health secretary Tilak Raj Sarangal said the situation was so grim that it was like social emergency which had started showing grim effects on the society. He said this situation had given rise to the concept of ‘Modern Daropadi’, where brothers were sharing one wife in a given household.

full story:

‘Buying’ woman is easier than buffalo:

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/Chandigarh/Buying_woman_is_easier_than_buffalo/articleshow/2551117.cms

History of Bias from Hindustan Times November 19, 2007 edition

punjab

Tags: daughters, female foeticide, india, partition, punjab, skewed sex ratio

Where Have all the Girls Gone?

http://barbararaisbeck.gaia.com — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 05:48:51 GMT

A few years ago I saw the film Matrubhoomi: A Nation Without Women. A deeply disturbing Indian film said to be futuristic in nature, from the sound of the attached article, it looks like the future has arrived. Girls are becoming an endangered gender in India. While dowry is still demanded in most marriages, things are changing in some parts of India where there are not enough women of marrying age. The result? Girls are being bought, sold, kidnapped, and trafficked. Unbelievably,...even local elections have candidates promising brides in return for votes."

An excerpt from the November 11th edition of Hindustan Times:

girls gone

Where have all the girls gone?

In the prosperous districts of Haryana and Punjab — where son preference has resulted in a skewed sex ratio — girls from economically weaker backgrounds in Bihar, Jharkhand, Orissa and West Bengal are being openly bought in droves for ‘marriages’ that are more often than not without the consent of the girl. The legal status of such wedlock, of course, remains questionable. According to data compiled by Shaktivahini, a Faridabad-based NGO that takes up anti-trafficking issues, there are up to 50,000 paros in Haryana alone, including a huge proportion of minors. Faced with a crisis, even local elections have candidates promising brides in return for votes.

Census 2001 shows that the child sex ratio in Haryana and Punjab stands at 820 and 793 per 1,000 boys respectively. But according to the latest health survey by the Punjab government, villages like Sansarwal in Patiala have touched an alarming 438 girls per 1,000 boys.

Ergo, girls are fast turning into a vanishing tribe. A recent United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) report warns that female deficit in the marriageable age (20-49) is set to touch 25 million by the year 2030.

The impact, however, is already being felt here. Says Dr Madhav Mohan Godbole, the director of Balgrah, a rehabilitation centre in Rai, Sonepat, “Villagers come to us and plead for brides. They say if we can’t fix them up, they will be forced to buy girls.” Faced with a crisis, even local elections have candidates promising brides in return for votes. Ram Prasad of Seoti village in Sonepat, concedes, “frequent trips are being made from all over Haryana to hunt for girls in Bengal, Orissa, Jharkhand and even Maharashtra.”

In a typical ‘buying’ scenario, someone with ‘contacts’ in source states facilitates such arrangements in return for kharcha-paani, explains Rishikant of Shativahini. The ‘going rate’ ranges from Rs 6,000 –10,000, depending on the age and virginity. Forced by poverty, many a time the paros also have to ‘accept’ polyandry.

http://www.hindustantimes.com/storypage/storypage.aspx?id=50e2edc5-4568-4309-a90f-03faca8f85cf&&Headline=Where+have+all+the+girls+gone%3f

Tags: female foeticide, female infanticide, india, polyandry, sexual abuse, skewed sex ratio, son preference, trafficking