These are my last few days in Kandy, and in Sri Lanka.
Tonight I have my farewell dinner with family, then tomorrow I must pack and leave at 6pm. I am going to miss everyone horribly, yet I am excited to go home.
It is really impossible to describe my emotions right now, but I am guessing that they would look like that type of painting where you throw darts at paint filled balloons that are stuck to a canvas....yeah. That might work.
Why must I leave home in order to go home?
Friday, December 11, 2009
Rockin' the Sari
mamay Jenuy
The gang
The loverly Rosemary and I
Group photo
My camera was on the wrong side
da boys!
The girls...I didn't get the color scheme memo here...
mamay ammay
Kandyan style Sari...
Indian style Sari (I prefer Indian)
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The countdown begins
Thursday: Final tea
Friday: Peradeniya Gardens & family goodbye dinner
Saturday: pack & go to airport
Why is there so little time left?
:(
Friday: Peradeniya Gardens & family goodbye dinner
Saturday: pack & go to airport
Why is there so little time left?
:(
Thursday, December 3, 2009
What I Love About the South…of Sri Lanka
Written on 11/30 and never published. Sorry it's late.
So, after staying in Matara for two nights, doing research, visiting the organization, and conducting the interview, I decided to stop off in Galle and visit my friend Jen before heading back to Colombo. Galle is about an hour or so West of Matara, and you must pass it on the bus route to Colombo anyway, so it wasn’t too far out of the way. Jen has been staying in Galle for her independent study, learning about marine archeology and the challenges of not having funding and supplies. We went to visit the place she is working at earlier during the Southern trip, and it was badly damaged by the tsunami. They had spent several years diving for artifacts, cleaning, cataloging, and preserving – and all of it was swept away when the tsunami hit the building. Now they are starting over again, but they have limited funding and supplies, so it is taking a while.
Anyways, I arrived at Jen’s place at around lunch time, and went to her resthouse to drop off my stuff. Jen was at work until 4ish, so I walked around the Fort a bit and explored. I took a few photos of the lighthouse, met “the Storyteller” of the Fort, and did a little shopping for gifts. I treated myself and had lunch at a very fancy hotel (I tend to do this a lot, because it feels nice to pretend that I am rich when I am a poor student). It was great to people-watch all of the tourists and rich Aussie’s in the hotel as I sat and wrote poetry in my journal.
Jen and I got together after she got off of work, and we walked around the Fort walls. We got to see the sun set along the walls, and people watch some more (although this time we were also watched). Amazingly we didn’t have too hard of a time with cat calling, even though there were groups of boys playing soccer and hanging out on the wall. Lucky us! We should hang together all the time! We decided to eat at this place called “India Hut.” I believe this is the long lost brother of Pizza Hut, but I am not so sure. It was good Indian food, but I have to admit that I like the Indian food on Ventura Blvd better than here. Maybe I like North Indian better. Not sure.
After dinner, we walked around the Fort a bit more, went into Barefoot, and looked at some jewelry. I bought this really cool silver ring in the shape of a cobra, with a blue sapphire in the middle. It is really cool!
On Saturday, Jen and I went to the Lighthouse Hotel in Galle and bought a day pass for the pool. It is one of the most beautiful hotels I have seen on the island, and probably costs several hundred dollars to stay there, but it only costs $5 to use the pool. Apparently Jen has gone there before and it is one of her havens when life gets too rough.
I should probably explain havens here, or at least how they work for us. I have noticed that every time I travel to a different city or country that is very different from my own, I have to find a place in the area that is a haven for me. It doesn’t necessarily have to be Western or pricy, but it tends to be, because these are the places where you are not hassled or harassed. In Kandy, by havens are the Queens Hotel, Devon Bakery, ICES, and the Pub. In Colombo, my havens are Barefoot, St. James Church, Arpico Supercenter, and the University Library. If I am having a bad day and need a break, I head to one of these places. Most of the time, I buy a cup of tea or something, and just sit for a while. I use these to get away from the hustle and bustle of the outside world, the catcallers and payment guides, the hundreds of beggars grabbing at your purse, and the trishaw drivers calling to you. I know the ISLE program does not want us to only hang out in Westernized establishments, but sometimes these havens are necessary to keep sane. I must say that it is wonderful to be able to sit in a place and be completely ignored, expect by staff asking if you need anything. No touts, no horny men, no bothersome piercing stares. It is wonderful.
So, one of Jen’s places is this hotel. If you pay the $5, you get to use all of the pools, chairs, towels, changing room, and strip of ocean in front of the pool. There is a security guard who makes sure that touts and unwanted visitors do not come in to bother you, and you can order whatever you want poolside. Another fun thing about going to these ritzy establishments is having a clean slate. No one knows you, and you can be whoever you want. Jen, according to her persona, is the daughter of an Apple Executive and is vacationing for a month in Galle. She is staying at the most expensive hotel within the Fort, but like the pool at this hotel, so she comes here to bathe. When I came, I was her rich BFF who flew in to join her for a few days before flying back to my flat in Manhattan. Now, it is a total lie, but it is not hurting anyone, and sometimes it is nice to not have to be yourself for just a few hours – like doing plays and musical theater. We had a great time playing along and enjoying the high life, although we couldn’t actually afford to buy anything off the menu. You can only imagine to a certain extent, until a student budget stops you.
After relaxing at the pool, we jumped in a trishaw and drove back to reality. We were supposed to meet one of Jen’s work friends at our hotel and we were going to go over to her house to have tea. Instead, we ended up going to her friend’s friend’s Montessori school’s recital. We got to see all of these chhuuuttttiiii babaaaas dancing and singing in little costumes. The children were probably between the ages of 4 and 7, and they were too cute. Most of them went up on stage, only to dance with their backs to the audience, get into a fight with the boy next to them, or wave to their parents. But there was this one boy who stood in the middle during this one dance and did every move like he was Just Jack, from Will and Grace. He was a darling!!!! The performance lasted several hours, apparently, and was more of an all day play date at the school than anything else. We only stayed for a few hours, before heading back to the hotel. But, in between that, we were taken next door to the school and introduced to another friend of a friend and her family. It was really nice to meet them. They also had two young children who we got to play with, and I got to practice my Sinhala. Jen’s Sinhala is much better than mine because most of the people she works and lives with do not speak any English, whereas most of mine do. It was good to hang out with her and her friends because I was forced to practice. We have an oral exam on the 7th, so I better start practicing more!
Once we got back to the Fort, we were both very hungry, so we had an early dinner and the Pedler’s Inn. I recommend to anyone who goes to Galle Fort to eat at this place! I have been craving Italian food, and I had wonderful pesto pasta with a ginger beer, and it wasn’t that expensive either! I left for Colombo the next morning, and that is where I am now, in the little internet café down the street from my house.
I go home to Kandy on the 2nd, write my paper, and turn it in on the 7th. I’ll try to skype before that, and Reme, I will try to give you better notice this time.
Ps. 14 days.
Love from abroad,
Bryanna
So, after staying in Matara for two nights, doing research, visiting the organization, and conducting the interview, I decided to stop off in Galle and visit my friend Jen before heading back to Colombo. Galle is about an hour or so West of Matara, and you must pass it on the bus route to Colombo anyway, so it wasn’t too far out of the way. Jen has been staying in Galle for her independent study, learning about marine archeology and the challenges of not having funding and supplies. We went to visit the place she is working at earlier during the Southern trip, and it was badly damaged by the tsunami. They had spent several years diving for artifacts, cleaning, cataloging, and preserving – and all of it was swept away when the tsunami hit the building. Now they are starting over again, but they have limited funding and supplies, so it is taking a while.
Anyways, I arrived at Jen’s place at around lunch time, and went to her resthouse to drop off my stuff. Jen was at work until 4ish, so I walked around the Fort a bit and explored. I took a few photos of the lighthouse, met “the Storyteller” of the Fort, and did a little shopping for gifts. I treated myself and had lunch at a very fancy hotel (I tend to do this a lot, because it feels nice to pretend that I am rich when I am a poor student). It was great to people-watch all of the tourists and rich Aussie’s in the hotel as I sat and wrote poetry in my journal.
Jen and I got together after she got off of work, and we walked around the Fort walls. We got to see the sun set along the walls, and people watch some more (although this time we were also watched). Amazingly we didn’t have too hard of a time with cat calling, even though there were groups of boys playing soccer and hanging out on the wall. Lucky us! We should hang together all the time! We decided to eat at this place called “India Hut.” I believe this is the long lost brother of Pizza Hut, but I am not so sure. It was good Indian food, but I have to admit that I like the Indian food on Ventura Blvd better than here. Maybe I like North Indian better. Not sure.
After dinner, we walked around the Fort a bit more, went into Barefoot, and looked at some jewelry. I bought this really cool silver ring in the shape of a cobra, with a blue sapphire in the middle. It is really cool!
On Saturday, Jen and I went to the Lighthouse Hotel in Galle and bought a day pass for the pool. It is one of the most beautiful hotels I have seen on the island, and probably costs several hundred dollars to stay there, but it only costs $5 to use the pool. Apparently Jen has gone there before and it is one of her havens when life gets too rough.
I should probably explain havens here, or at least how they work for us. I have noticed that every time I travel to a different city or country that is very different from my own, I have to find a place in the area that is a haven for me. It doesn’t necessarily have to be Western or pricy, but it tends to be, because these are the places where you are not hassled or harassed. In Kandy, by havens are the Queens Hotel, Devon Bakery, ICES, and the Pub. In Colombo, my havens are Barefoot, St. James Church, Arpico Supercenter, and the University Library. If I am having a bad day and need a break, I head to one of these places. Most of the time, I buy a cup of tea or something, and just sit for a while. I use these to get away from the hustle and bustle of the outside world, the catcallers and payment guides, the hundreds of beggars grabbing at your purse, and the trishaw drivers calling to you. I know the ISLE program does not want us to only hang out in Westernized establishments, but sometimes these havens are necessary to keep sane. I must say that it is wonderful to be able to sit in a place and be completely ignored, expect by staff asking if you need anything. No touts, no horny men, no bothersome piercing stares. It is wonderful.
So, one of Jen’s places is this hotel. If you pay the $5, you get to use all of the pools, chairs, towels, changing room, and strip of ocean in front of the pool. There is a security guard who makes sure that touts and unwanted visitors do not come in to bother you, and you can order whatever you want poolside. Another fun thing about going to these ritzy establishments is having a clean slate. No one knows you, and you can be whoever you want. Jen, according to her persona, is the daughter of an Apple Executive and is vacationing for a month in Galle. She is staying at the most expensive hotel within the Fort, but like the pool at this hotel, so she comes here to bathe. When I came, I was her rich BFF who flew in to join her for a few days before flying back to my flat in Manhattan. Now, it is a total lie, but it is not hurting anyone, and sometimes it is nice to not have to be yourself for just a few hours – like doing plays and musical theater. We had a great time playing along and enjoying the high life, although we couldn’t actually afford to buy anything off the menu. You can only imagine to a certain extent, until a student budget stops you.
After relaxing at the pool, we jumped in a trishaw and drove back to reality. We were supposed to meet one of Jen’s work friends at our hotel and we were going to go over to her house to have tea. Instead, we ended up going to her friend’s friend’s Montessori school’s recital. We got to see all of these chhuuuttttiiii babaaaas dancing and singing in little costumes. The children were probably between the ages of 4 and 7, and they were too cute. Most of them went up on stage, only to dance with their backs to the audience, get into a fight with the boy next to them, or wave to their parents. But there was this one boy who stood in the middle during this one dance and did every move like he was Just Jack, from Will and Grace. He was a darling!!!! The performance lasted several hours, apparently, and was more of an all day play date at the school than anything else. We only stayed for a few hours, before heading back to the hotel. But, in between that, we were taken next door to the school and introduced to another friend of a friend and her family. It was really nice to meet them. They also had two young children who we got to play with, and I got to practice my Sinhala. Jen’s Sinhala is much better than mine because most of the people she works and lives with do not speak any English, whereas most of mine do. It was good to hang out with her and her friends because I was forced to practice. We have an oral exam on the 7th, so I better start practicing more!
Once we got back to the Fort, we were both very hungry, so we had an early dinner and the Pedler’s Inn. I recommend to anyone who goes to Galle Fort to eat at this place! I have been craving Italian food, and I had wonderful pesto pasta with a ginger beer, and it wasn’t that expensive either! I left for Colombo the next morning, and that is where I am now, in the little internet café down the street from my house.
I go home to Kandy on the 2nd, write my paper, and turn it in on the 7th. I’ll try to skype before that, and Reme, I will try to give you better notice this time.
Ps. 14 days.
Love from abroad,
Bryanna
On the drive to Matara
One of the old buildings destroyed by the tsunami
Polhena Beach
Cuutttttiiii bbaaabbbaaa on the bus with me!
fishing boats on the coast
Evidence of the tsunami
pretty beach photo
Friday, November 27, 2009
Sorry, this last week I have been horrible about keeping the blog updated. The last photos are from the AYN: Asian Youth Network, annual meeting held in Colombo the 18th through the 22nd. Let me first start off by explaining how I got there in the first place.
My week began on the 16th of November when I went to Battaramulla to go check out the National Youth Services Council, a government run organization under the ministry of youth affairs. It took me two hours to get to there, and much frustration as usual on the streets with men. By the time I got there it was around lunch time, I had a migraine, and just needed a break. Instead, I hit a brick wall. I went inside just to find out that they would not give me any information without a request letter from the University of Peradeniya explaining why I needed the information. Now, I have a letter that generally explains my intent that is signed by the head dean of the arts faculty, but one of the women (who was one of the directors) told me this was not enough because it didn’t inquire about gaining information specifically from their organization. REALLY??!!! They told me I needed to get another letter and fax it in to the chairman. At that time he would look my request over and contact me of he gave an approval. I asked if I could just get basic information – types of programs, numbers, etc. – that was open to the public and was available in brochures at the information booth. They said no. How can you not give out public information to the public? And I only found this out after an hour of being taken around the center from person to person to person. Ugh. What’s even funnier is that I needed permission to even see the chairman, but I have just gone to the Ministry of Youth Affairs a couple of days before and had been given a ton of information by one of the secretaries there, who is above this chairman.
So, I wasted the whole day for nothing. I got home just before dark and was so tired and frustrated I was about to smack the next man who thought it would be funny to say something to me. I swear, if I were a smoker, I would have sat outside and smoked a pack! But, luckily, I am not. So instead, when I got out of the 3 wheeler, I went into the church which is right next to my house, called St. James. I didn’t know what else to do to get the frustration out, so I went into the pew, knelt down, and prayed. Now, I have to admit that I have not prayed – truly prayed – in quite a while, and praying in frustration is not the most pious, but at least it is a start. I sat in the church for a while and prayed as hard and as truly as I could. I prayed for God to give me the strength to get me through days like this again, because I knew this would not be the last. I prayed that God would help me deal with my frustration in a positive manner and not take it out on others, even those who frustrated me. I prayed that he would give me the strength to ignore the cat calls and gestures that I faced on the street, and the words “forgive them, for they know not what they do” came into mind.
Obviously, a much more serious meaning inferred in the Bible then when applied to my life. And this further made me realize that, although I was having a horrible day, people all over the world have it much worse off than I do. I am alive, healthy, free, generally happy, cared for, and blessed. So then I thanked God for all he has given me, both bad and good, for making me who I am. I thanked him for giving me hardships so that I may know what a blessing really is when it comes. I thanked God for giving me the opportunity to be in Sri Lanka, for giving me a wonderful Sri Lankan family, and for giving me a great opportunity to learn about others and help the world. I realized that I can be the change, and God is helping me realize this. Still, after thanking God for helping me so far, I also asked God to give me a sign in the right direction for my project. It may have been a little selfish, but I asked for a sign to point me in the right direction, or at least a sign warning me that things were not going to be smooth. I ended with thanking God, whether God would give me a sign or not, for always being with me, even when I don’t realize it. Like in Footprints, the man asks God at the end of his life why, in his worst times, there were only one set of footprints in the sand. Why hadn’t God been there to help him during his struggles? God answered, “It was then that I carried you”. I left the church feeling calm and thankful for God. I was even thankful for the horrible day I had, because it showed me that life isn’t always easy and that you cannot take anything for granted. God can give, but God can also take away. I must also remember this.
So, the next day I carried on my information hunting and traveled to Battaramulla to see the Lankan Youth Organization Network. At first I was quite discouraged, because when I got there I could not find it. The street it is on is notorious for being completely mis-numbered, such as 753 coming after 700 but right next door to 23. I asked a 3 wheel driver and he took me to the post office to look up the place. We finally found it behind a grocery store, but when I went in they told me that the media director was not in and they didn’t speak much English. I almost got upset (not with them, obviously, but just at the situation), but then I remembered what I had said the night before. I asked God for a sign. Maybe this was it. It wasn’t what I wanted or hoped for, but you don’t always get what you want. So I thanked them and told them I would come back later in the day to see if he had arrived. As I went to leave, not knowing where to go for the day, the man drove up. What luck! The man’s name is Nishad, and he is one of the nicest people I have met in Sri Lanka. He invited me into his office and said that he was really busy, but that he would see me. I know I should have called in advance, but I was running out of time and needed to visit places I had on my list. Anyway, perhaps it was fate that I hadn’t called in advance because it turns out that he was really busy planning weeklong meeting for the Asian Youth Network that began the next day. He was planning it and had to make last minute places, pick people up from the airport, etc., and yet he made time for me. In fact, I was lucky I had come on that day because he invited me to attend the meeting! Wow! What a break. I went from being stonewalled to getting a special invitation printed out with my name on it! I guess God did answer my pray after all. After getting the invitation and as much information about the organization as possible, I went home to study up and get ready for the meeting the next morning. But first, once I got out of the 3 wheeler, I went up to the church again and prayed.
(FOR THOSE OF YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED IN READING ABOUT RELIGION, MY EXPERIENCES, AND MY IDEAS, FEEL FREE TO SKIP DOWN A BIT, BUT I DO RECOMMEND READING ON J)
Now I am sure many of my friends and even some family who are reading this are either skeptical or astonished. Bryanna, the one who is always questioning EVERYTHING about religion, is praying in church every day. Yep. Believe it. I may not know everything about my faith, and may never be able to define it fully, but I think this is the way it is supposed to be. I may be a skeptic, but I believe that searching for faith doesn’t mean being a total non-conformist and refusing to accept certain aspects of a faith or religion. This would be an atheist perspective, which I respect but do not subscribe to. I have never been an atheist. I have always believed that there is something out there, the unmoved mover or first cause, that is the master-piece of the puzzle of life. Do I believe anyone can fully define this?– no. This is why I have such trouble with religions that preach the “only truth” and “only way.” If God or whatever name given, is an infinite being/idea and we as humans are finite, then we cannot define the infinite in finite terms. It is logically IMPOSSIBLE. We can only define God in the finite terms that we have, which is why children think that heaven is up and beyond the known universe and why God is referred to as a “he”. These are not bad things, and are not necessarily wrong, but they certainly aren’t proven to be fact. Just because the Bible refers to God as the father, doesn’t mean that there is a human man sitting in space who created the earth. Finite or human terms are used to make the ideas understandable for humans, but that cannot be completely accurate. Like the translation of the Bible from Hebrew to English is inaccurate at times because there are certain words and meanings in Hebrew that do not exist in English, so too is the translation from infinite ideas to finite words. So, in my mind, if you subscribe to a faith that professes to know the full and only truth of God and salvation, you are saying that you know the infinite, and are therefore equal to God. This is quite heretical, don’t you think?
So, as you can see, I have not changed my views on fully accepting any man-made religious institution, but I think there is a way to be faithful to God, or whatever you choose to name or define this unmoved mover, without sacrificing the skeptic inside you. Take me praying for instance. I still have no conclusion as to how God helps me or if he (see, man-made!) even helps me at all, but I believe he does. I don’t know if there is a plan for us all that is predetermined at birth, or is built as we go along. As a free individual, I would like to think that I have the freedom to choose, and I believe I do, but I also believe that God set each of us out on a general course. Can we deviate? I don’t know. Does God know who my children’s spouses will be at this very moment? I don’t believe so. Again, I am ok with admitting that I do not have these answers. But the answer I do have is this: I prayed to God, the infinite being that I define in my mind, with all the mystery surrounding him (or her or it), and God answered me back. Now, perhaps he didn’t, and it just happened to be lucky of the draw, but I choose to believe that God played a part in all of it. And what is the problem with believing this? My creed, as long as I live is the Golden Rule: Treat others as you wish to be treated. This belief does not break this. I am not forcing other people to subscribe to my ideas. I am not taking away others’ freedoms. Additionally, there is no repercussion if I am wrong. If I am wrong, and God is not answering my prayers or, even more, if there is no God, then where is the harm in praying to the sky? If it makes me feel better, and brings no harm to anyone else, than it is a good thing. And if I happen to be right, then I have also shown gratitude towards my maker. It really is a win-win situation.
And due to this crazy analysis of my faith, which – yes – I take the time to do frequently, I have begun going into the church each day after a hard day’s work and thanking God for blessing me with all the ups and downs that come with living. I try to attend church on Sundays as well, but to me this is not as important as praying when I feel the urge or need to pray. I believe that organized religions can do great things, but I do not think that it is a sin to not follow the Catholic dogma word for word. Dogma is man-made, as is much else about religion, and I believe that all man-made aspects are a choice. I choose to attend church because I experience calm in the atmosphere, and this helps me connect with God. Confession, on the other hand, does not help me connect with God, so I do not go. I would rather volunteer an hour of my time helping others that sit in a confessional booth or listen to certain priests drone on about their personal takes on the Bible and present them as facts. I believe that the former is more of what Jesus would do.
(END OF RELIGION SECTION)
So, after my crazy tangent, back to the original story. The next day, I went to the conference at BMICH in Colombo 7. There were representatives from a few youth organizations, politicians from both major political parties, young politicians, members of parliament, and delegates from Moldova, Sweden, Philippines, and Cambodia, as well as a number of young people. Also, Anarkalli, a famous actress turned politician, was there and I got to meet her. We got started a bit late, but I was able to hear from all sorts of people about the plight of youth in Sri Lanka, the creation of the youth policy, and what Sri Lanka was doing to improve the situation. After the opening ceremony, I stood around and spoke with a number of people about my research and their organizations. I made friends with one of the politicians and a few of the international delegates that invited me to lunch. Nishad was really nice and let me come along. He even bought me lunch, although I did try several times to pay. I got to discuss youth organizations and other fun intellectual topics over lunch, and made friends with some more of the delegates. After lunch, Rior, one of the delegates from the Philippines, invited me to their meeting with the SL-UNFO: Sri Lankan United Nations Friendship Organization. Again, Nishad was nice enough to let me come. I felt so bad tagging along, but no one seemed to mind, and it was really helping me with my projects. After all, the organization that we had the meeting with was one of the organizations on my list. I was able to meet more important people at this meeting, including members and directors of peace keeping organizations and people who worked under the UN. It was an open forum about youth organization and the creation of a youth policy, so all the information said was helpful and impertinent to my project.
It was really late when we left the place and I was worried about getting a 3W home safely after dark, as I was in Dehiwalla and I needed to go to Modera, about an hour’s drive. Luckily, Nishad had a friend that lived around that area, so he hopped in the 3 wheeler with me. Apparently he is an actor and has a new movie opening in Colombo next month. He invited me to go see it, but I won’t be here. He also invited me to diner and to his house in Nuwera Eliya, but I politely said no. I like to keep my professional life separate from my personal life. I did, however, get a free 3 wheeler ride home from it!
The next day I was supposed to go to their hotel near Battaramulla, which is East of Colombo, but I couldn’t find a way to get there, so I had to cancel. I was discoraged, but reminded myself that I was lucky enough to have been invited to the opening ceremony and should be satisfied with what I had. Later on that day, while visiting auntie’s cousins of cousins nearby, I met some further related relatives who just happened to live in Battaramulla. They had come in to visit and were leaving that day to go back home. I told them how I needed to go to Battaramulla too, and they invited me to spend the night at their house. Problem solved! They got me a 3 wheeler in the morning from the main road and I was able to go to the second day of the conference. (Better yet, I got to spend time in a huge house with 5 tiny kittens and their mother. CHUUUTTTTIIII BBBAAAABBBBAAAASSSSSSSS!!!!! (Cute babies!))
At the conference, I hung out with the delegates, got to learn about the steps in lobbying and creating a national youth policy, and met Charitha, the Director of the Samadhi Community Development Foundation in Matara (in the South). Charitha’s organization is a member of LYON (Lankan Youth Organization Network) who was holding the conference for the Asian Youth Network. The Samadhi Foundation is a small organization that focuses on skill training and getting jobs for youth in the private sector. They hold classes to teach IT skills, Tamil, and English, and have another branch in a different region that teaches vocational skills such as screen printing and sewing. Knowing my overly friendly personality, of course I made friends, and he kindly invited me to come see his organization in Matara when I was free. WOW! So now not only did I get to see LYON, the major network of youth organizations works, but I also got a chance to see an organization at the grassroots level.
So, that is where I am now. Yesterday I arrived in Matara and Charitha picked me up from the bus station. He drove me to my hotel and then called his chairman to set up a meeting to see me that night. It just so happened that they were both heading to Colombo that night because of some meetings, so we had to meet before they left. Well, not only did I get to meet the chairman of the Samadhi Foundation, but I come to find out that he is also the Head of the Opposition Forces in the Matara District and is has worn awards for being that most outstanding youth politician in the country. Additionally, he also holds the record for the most popular votes in Sri Lankan political history. And he came to my little guest house to answer my questions….wow. Thank you Charitha!! He was a wonderful person to interview, and it helped that he had spent a number of years being a journalist and anchor on two of the most popular tv stations in Sri Lanka. He also called his secretary in the office to schedule a time for them to come over the next day and pick me up to visit the center.
This morning, the 26th – Thanksgiving in the States – I went snorkeling with Titus, God of the Sea. At the hotel that I am staying at, they offer snorkeling with this local man named Titus. He is a great man, who has been taking people snorkeling for over 25 years. He picked me up at 10am with snorkeling gear and we went snorkeling in the Indian Ocean for 2 hours. I saw a ton of fish, drank way too much salt water, and burnt my back a bit (but hey-now I am closer in color to malli!). It was an amazing experience and it only cost me $13! Wow! Oh – and don’t worry grandma – Titus gave me a chunk of Aloe Vera from his tree, so I will be fine!
After snorkeling, I was able to visit the center, ask some of the people working some questions, and got a great video that Buddhika, the chairman/politician/anchorman/what-could-this-man-not-do?, made for his political campaign. All the people were extremely nice and helpful. Now, I am heading to Galle to visit Jen for a day, then up to Colombo to finish up the research. I hope to be back in Kandy by the 2nd so I can start writing this out!!!
If you have reached this point, you are either a true friend or really bored. Either way, I’m sorry and thank you.
Love from abroad,
Bry
My week began on the 16th of November when I went to Battaramulla to go check out the National Youth Services Council, a government run organization under the ministry of youth affairs. It took me two hours to get to there, and much frustration as usual on the streets with men. By the time I got there it was around lunch time, I had a migraine, and just needed a break. Instead, I hit a brick wall. I went inside just to find out that they would not give me any information without a request letter from the University of Peradeniya explaining why I needed the information. Now, I have a letter that generally explains my intent that is signed by the head dean of the arts faculty, but one of the women (who was one of the directors) told me this was not enough because it didn’t inquire about gaining information specifically from their organization. REALLY??!!! They told me I needed to get another letter and fax it in to the chairman. At that time he would look my request over and contact me of he gave an approval. I asked if I could just get basic information – types of programs, numbers, etc. – that was open to the public and was available in brochures at the information booth. They said no. How can you not give out public information to the public? And I only found this out after an hour of being taken around the center from person to person to person. Ugh. What’s even funnier is that I needed permission to even see the chairman, but I have just gone to the Ministry of Youth Affairs a couple of days before and had been given a ton of information by one of the secretaries there, who is above this chairman.
So, I wasted the whole day for nothing. I got home just before dark and was so tired and frustrated I was about to smack the next man who thought it would be funny to say something to me. I swear, if I were a smoker, I would have sat outside and smoked a pack! But, luckily, I am not. So instead, when I got out of the 3 wheeler, I went into the church which is right next to my house, called St. James. I didn’t know what else to do to get the frustration out, so I went into the pew, knelt down, and prayed. Now, I have to admit that I have not prayed – truly prayed – in quite a while, and praying in frustration is not the most pious, but at least it is a start. I sat in the church for a while and prayed as hard and as truly as I could. I prayed for God to give me the strength to get me through days like this again, because I knew this would not be the last. I prayed that God would help me deal with my frustration in a positive manner and not take it out on others, even those who frustrated me. I prayed that he would give me the strength to ignore the cat calls and gestures that I faced on the street, and the words “forgive them, for they know not what they do” came into mind.
Obviously, a much more serious meaning inferred in the Bible then when applied to my life. And this further made me realize that, although I was having a horrible day, people all over the world have it much worse off than I do. I am alive, healthy, free, generally happy, cared for, and blessed. So then I thanked God for all he has given me, both bad and good, for making me who I am. I thanked him for giving me hardships so that I may know what a blessing really is when it comes. I thanked God for giving me the opportunity to be in Sri Lanka, for giving me a wonderful Sri Lankan family, and for giving me a great opportunity to learn about others and help the world. I realized that I can be the change, and God is helping me realize this. Still, after thanking God for helping me so far, I also asked God to give me a sign in the right direction for my project. It may have been a little selfish, but I asked for a sign to point me in the right direction, or at least a sign warning me that things were not going to be smooth. I ended with thanking God, whether God would give me a sign or not, for always being with me, even when I don’t realize it. Like in Footprints, the man asks God at the end of his life why, in his worst times, there were only one set of footprints in the sand. Why hadn’t God been there to help him during his struggles? God answered, “It was then that I carried you”. I left the church feeling calm and thankful for God. I was even thankful for the horrible day I had, because it showed me that life isn’t always easy and that you cannot take anything for granted. God can give, but God can also take away. I must also remember this.
So, the next day I carried on my information hunting and traveled to Battaramulla to see the Lankan Youth Organization Network. At first I was quite discouraged, because when I got there I could not find it. The street it is on is notorious for being completely mis-numbered, such as 753 coming after 700 but right next door to 23. I asked a 3 wheel driver and he took me to the post office to look up the place. We finally found it behind a grocery store, but when I went in they told me that the media director was not in and they didn’t speak much English. I almost got upset (not with them, obviously, but just at the situation), but then I remembered what I had said the night before. I asked God for a sign. Maybe this was it. It wasn’t what I wanted or hoped for, but you don’t always get what you want. So I thanked them and told them I would come back later in the day to see if he had arrived. As I went to leave, not knowing where to go for the day, the man drove up. What luck! The man’s name is Nishad, and he is one of the nicest people I have met in Sri Lanka. He invited me into his office and said that he was really busy, but that he would see me. I know I should have called in advance, but I was running out of time and needed to visit places I had on my list. Anyway, perhaps it was fate that I hadn’t called in advance because it turns out that he was really busy planning weeklong meeting for the Asian Youth Network that began the next day. He was planning it and had to make last minute places, pick people up from the airport, etc., and yet he made time for me. In fact, I was lucky I had come on that day because he invited me to attend the meeting! Wow! What a break. I went from being stonewalled to getting a special invitation printed out with my name on it! I guess God did answer my pray after all. After getting the invitation and as much information about the organization as possible, I went home to study up and get ready for the meeting the next morning. But first, once I got out of the 3 wheeler, I went up to the church again and prayed.
(FOR THOSE OF YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED IN READING ABOUT RELIGION, MY EXPERIENCES, AND MY IDEAS, FEEL FREE TO SKIP DOWN A BIT, BUT I DO RECOMMEND READING ON J)
Now I am sure many of my friends and even some family who are reading this are either skeptical or astonished. Bryanna, the one who is always questioning EVERYTHING about religion, is praying in church every day. Yep. Believe it. I may not know everything about my faith, and may never be able to define it fully, but I think this is the way it is supposed to be. I may be a skeptic, but I believe that searching for faith doesn’t mean being a total non-conformist and refusing to accept certain aspects of a faith or religion. This would be an atheist perspective, which I respect but do not subscribe to. I have never been an atheist. I have always believed that there is something out there, the unmoved mover or first cause, that is the master-piece of the puzzle of life. Do I believe anyone can fully define this?– no. This is why I have such trouble with religions that preach the “only truth” and “only way.” If God or whatever name given, is an infinite being/idea and we as humans are finite, then we cannot define the infinite in finite terms. It is logically IMPOSSIBLE. We can only define God in the finite terms that we have, which is why children think that heaven is up and beyond the known universe and why God is referred to as a “he”. These are not bad things, and are not necessarily wrong, but they certainly aren’t proven to be fact. Just because the Bible refers to God as the father, doesn’t mean that there is a human man sitting in space who created the earth. Finite or human terms are used to make the ideas understandable for humans, but that cannot be completely accurate. Like the translation of the Bible from Hebrew to English is inaccurate at times because there are certain words and meanings in Hebrew that do not exist in English, so too is the translation from infinite ideas to finite words. So, in my mind, if you subscribe to a faith that professes to know the full and only truth of God and salvation, you are saying that you know the infinite, and are therefore equal to God. This is quite heretical, don’t you think?
So, as you can see, I have not changed my views on fully accepting any man-made religious institution, but I think there is a way to be faithful to God, or whatever you choose to name or define this unmoved mover, without sacrificing the skeptic inside you. Take me praying for instance. I still have no conclusion as to how God helps me or if he (see, man-made!) even helps me at all, but I believe he does. I don’t know if there is a plan for us all that is predetermined at birth, or is built as we go along. As a free individual, I would like to think that I have the freedom to choose, and I believe I do, but I also believe that God set each of us out on a general course. Can we deviate? I don’t know. Does God know who my children’s spouses will be at this very moment? I don’t believe so. Again, I am ok with admitting that I do not have these answers. But the answer I do have is this: I prayed to God, the infinite being that I define in my mind, with all the mystery surrounding him (or her or it), and God answered me back. Now, perhaps he didn’t, and it just happened to be lucky of the draw, but I choose to believe that God played a part in all of it. And what is the problem with believing this? My creed, as long as I live is the Golden Rule: Treat others as you wish to be treated. This belief does not break this. I am not forcing other people to subscribe to my ideas. I am not taking away others’ freedoms. Additionally, there is no repercussion if I am wrong. If I am wrong, and God is not answering my prayers or, even more, if there is no God, then where is the harm in praying to the sky? If it makes me feel better, and brings no harm to anyone else, than it is a good thing. And if I happen to be right, then I have also shown gratitude towards my maker. It really is a win-win situation.
And due to this crazy analysis of my faith, which – yes – I take the time to do frequently, I have begun going into the church each day after a hard day’s work and thanking God for blessing me with all the ups and downs that come with living. I try to attend church on Sundays as well, but to me this is not as important as praying when I feel the urge or need to pray. I believe that organized religions can do great things, but I do not think that it is a sin to not follow the Catholic dogma word for word. Dogma is man-made, as is much else about religion, and I believe that all man-made aspects are a choice. I choose to attend church because I experience calm in the atmosphere, and this helps me connect with God. Confession, on the other hand, does not help me connect with God, so I do not go. I would rather volunteer an hour of my time helping others that sit in a confessional booth or listen to certain priests drone on about their personal takes on the Bible and present them as facts. I believe that the former is more of what Jesus would do.
(END OF RELIGION SECTION)
So, after my crazy tangent, back to the original story. The next day, I went to the conference at BMICH in Colombo 7. There were representatives from a few youth organizations, politicians from both major political parties, young politicians, members of parliament, and delegates from Moldova, Sweden, Philippines, and Cambodia, as well as a number of young people. Also, Anarkalli, a famous actress turned politician, was there and I got to meet her. We got started a bit late, but I was able to hear from all sorts of people about the plight of youth in Sri Lanka, the creation of the youth policy, and what Sri Lanka was doing to improve the situation. After the opening ceremony, I stood around and spoke with a number of people about my research and their organizations. I made friends with one of the politicians and a few of the international delegates that invited me to lunch. Nishad was really nice and let me come along. He even bought me lunch, although I did try several times to pay. I got to discuss youth organizations and other fun intellectual topics over lunch, and made friends with some more of the delegates. After lunch, Rior, one of the delegates from the Philippines, invited me to their meeting with the SL-UNFO: Sri Lankan United Nations Friendship Organization. Again, Nishad was nice enough to let me come. I felt so bad tagging along, but no one seemed to mind, and it was really helping me with my projects. After all, the organization that we had the meeting with was one of the organizations on my list. I was able to meet more important people at this meeting, including members and directors of peace keeping organizations and people who worked under the UN. It was an open forum about youth organization and the creation of a youth policy, so all the information said was helpful and impertinent to my project.
It was really late when we left the place and I was worried about getting a 3W home safely after dark, as I was in Dehiwalla and I needed to go to Modera, about an hour’s drive. Luckily, Nishad had a friend that lived around that area, so he hopped in the 3 wheeler with me. Apparently he is an actor and has a new movie opening in Colombo next month. He invited me to go see it, but I won’t be here. He also invited me to diner and to his house in Nuwera Eliya, but I politely said no. I like to keep my professional life separate from my personal life. I did, however, get a free 3 wheeler ride home from it!
The next day I was supposed to go to their hotel near Battaramulla, which is East of Colombo, but I couldn’t find a way to get there, so I had to cancel. I was discoraged, but reminded myself that I was lucky enough to have been invited to the opening ceremony and should be satisfied with what I had. Later on that day, while visiting auntie’s cousins of cousins nearby, I met some further related relatives who just happened to live in Battaramulla. They had come in to visit and were leaving that day to go back home. I told them how I needed to go to Battaramulla too, and they invited me to spend the night at their house. Problem solved! They got me a 3 wheeler in the morning from the main road and I was able to go to the second day of the conference. (Better yet, I got to spend time in a huge house with 5 tiny kittens and their mother. CHUUUTTTTIIII BBBAAAABBBBAAAASSSSSSSS!!!!! (Cute babies!))
At the conference, I hung out with the delegates, got to learn about the steps in lobbying and creating a national youth policy, and met Charitha, the Director of the Samadhi Community Development Foundation in Matara (in the South). Charitha’s organization is a member of LYON (Lankan Youth Organization Network) who was holding the conference for the Asian Youth Network. The Samadhi Foundation is a small organization that focuses on skill training and getting jobs for youth in the private sector. They hold classes to teach IT skills, Tamil, and English, and have another branch in a different region that teaches vocational skills such as screen printing and sewing. Knowing my overly friendly personality, of course I made friends, and he kindly invited me to come see his organization in Matara when I was free. WOW! So now not only did I get to see LYON, the major network of youth organizations works, but I also got a chance to see an organization at the grassroots level.
So, that is where I am now. Yesterday I arrived in Matara and Charitha picked me up from the bus station. He drove me to my hotel and then called his chairman to set up a meeting to see me that night. It just so happened that they were both heading to Colombo that night because of some meetings, so we had to meet before they left. Well, not only did I get to meet the chairman of the Samadhi Foundation, but I come to find out that he is also the Head of the Opposition Forces in the Matara District and is has worn awards for being that most outstanding youth politician in the country. Additionally, he also holds the record for the most popular votes in Sri Lankan political history. And he came to my little guest house to answer my questions….wow. Thank you Charitha!! He was a wonderful person to interview, and it helped that he had spent a number of years being a journalist and anchor on two of the most popular tv stations in Sri Lanka. He also called his secretary in the office to schedule a time for them to come over the next day and pick me up to visit the center.
This morning, the 26th – Thanksgiving in the States – I went snorkeling with Titus, God of the Sea. At the hotel that I am staying at, they offer snorkeling with this local man named Titus. He is a great man, who has been taking people snorkeling for over 25 years. He picked me up at 10am with snorkeling gear and we went snorkeling in the Indian Ocean for 2 hours. I saw a ton of fish, drank way too much salt water, and burnt my back a bit (but hey-now I am closer in color to malli!). It was an amazing experience and it only cost me $13! Wow! Oh – and don’t worry grandma – Titus gave me a chunk of Aloe Vera from his tree, so I will be fine!
After snorkeling, I was able to visit the center, ask some of the people working some questions, and got a great video that Buddhika, the chairman/politician/anchorman/what-could-this-man-not-do?, made for his political campaign. All the people were extremely nice and helpful. Now, I am heading to Galle to visit Jen for a day, then up to Colombo to finish up the research. I hope to be back in Kandy by the 2nd so I can start writing this out!!!
If you have reached this point, you are either a true friend or really bored. Either way, I’m sorry and thank you.
Love from abroad,
Bry
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Asian Youth Network
These are my friends from the Asian Youth Network. They are delegates from the Philippines, Cambodia, Sweden, and Moldova, as well as Sri Lanka.
I miss you all!
I miss you all!
Friday, November 13, 2009
After a long day in Colombo
So, I got creative last night and wrote a comparative short write of Sri Lanka to something a wrote a couple years back entitled "5 Years from now"
5 Years From now...
The rhythm of the music keeps time with the racing of my heart as I soak in the sights and sounds and smells of the Bazaar with every sense of my being. I can feel the heat of the earth rise through my thin sandals as I compress the soot with every confident step. I glance through the crowd, in awe of the bustling interactions taking place – a woman draped in lemon garments, flowing down into the clinging hands of a scruffy haired toddler. The woman bargains with the shopkeeper over his merchandise, seemingly unaware of the young one pulling at her bottom hems, exposing her nude feet. Animals scamper around the feet of the crowd – such high commodities in this region. I think back to my Western raising – once so unaware that animals had more purpose in life than being displays in pet shop windows. I place the viewfinder to my right eye and snap a progression of candid photos, trying to capture all the beauty and life within one moment. It is simply impossible. I stare at the scenes once more, flooded with emotions of life, love, loss, and longing, then continue on my journey.
I pass a small boy selling dried figs from a basket tied across his chest and waist. I stop and buy a few of his wares and am rewarded with a gap-toothed smile of gladness. As I bite into the first fig, I savor its sweet juice and rough textures of its seeds. I recall my first taste of fig in papa’s favorite newton cookies which filled our endless kitchen treat drawer. I wonder if the little trader has ever tasted such deliciousness in his life. I let this somber thought linger as I continue to walk and place the other figs in my pocket to share with the others. I breathe in deeply and turn my head up towards the sun, bathing my fair skin with the glowing rays. The wind traces the round of my face, then blows my weightless scarf off my head. The scarf lays resting upon my auburn tresses which fall down my back, confined by a loose braid. I put the scarf back in its place, then turn around once more to catch a final view of the marketplace. I ready my camera and capture a few more moments in time, then turn down the ally to my left.
I weave my way through the familiar streets, trudging through the uneven ground of stones and soil and obstacles of fresh laundry. As the streets widen and obstacles vanish, my pace slows, and the silence of the lone road reawakens my contemplative mind. The realization of this place, this journey, this dream of mine brings a smile to my face. I wanted to be the change I wished to see in this world, and now I have the chance.
In the distance I see small figures running towards me. I cover my eyes from the sun with my hand and peer out towards them, trying to identify them. There are so many at the camp – so many children I teach and more that I love. So different, so unique, yet they are all the same. They are the future. I start a steady sprint towards the figures, arms outstretched, scarf flowing carelessly behind me, ready to embrace the future in my arms. Whoever said one person cannot change the world had never met someone like me...
And here is the comparative one (and more realistic one):
The rhythm of the earsplitting horns keeps time with the racing of my breath as I the stares and blares pierce through every sense of my being. I can feel the dirt and grime of the city streets cling to my sandaled feet as I rush through the crowd, eyes averted to the ground. I glance up, trying to catch no gaze as I jump into the hot red trishaw, and feel the thousands of eyes glaring with fire at my back. I ride – thump thump – swerve – honk – through the gray streets, watching out the open door as we pass; a poor woman begging along the street, seemingly unaware of the young emaciated one pulling at the bottom of her flowered sari soaked with mud, exposing her feet of kohl. Animals lie on the waste side as groups of machungs attack with sticks and stones and do not stop until there is one less, leaving bloody corpses for the crows. I think back to my western raising – once so unaware that animals were not always treated like my house pets. I hold my camera tight to my side, but do not take it out. I do not need to capture the candid scenes on film, as they will be engraved in my memory for years to come. I stare out once more, flooded with emotions of rage, hate, fear, and helplessness. I lean back in the trishaw – thump thump – swerve – honk.
I pass a young boy, selling nothing but hate from a gun slung across his chest and waist. He stops us and checks our IDs at the roadside checkpoint. We are free to pass and I am rewarded by a wicked wink and a dirty kiss blown through the heavy air. As I recline in the tiny red trishaw, I replay the scene in my mind, disgusted by just the thought of him. I recall the memory of my papa, and wonder what he would have done, would have said, if he were with me. I wonder if the young boy with the gun ever had a papa like mine to teach him how to act right. I let this somber thought linger as I continue – thump thump – swerve – honk – through the city. I breathe in deeply and cough at the fumes of diesel and the smell of rotting garbage on the side of the road. I pull my handkerchief out of my bag and wipe my face, bathing the white cloth in the dirt and sweat of the day. The wind traces the round of my face, bringing with it the cat calls from the side walk. Sudaa sudaa…hello beautiful….where you from lady…. I lean back further into the seat to hide my white face and auburn tresses which fall down my back, confined by a loose braid. I wipe my face one last time, then place the not-so-white handkerchief back into my bag. I no longer look out the door, no longer take any photos for memories. Then we turn down the alley to my left.
The trishaw weaves menacingly through the unfamiliar streets, throwing me wildly around as we serve to avoid stray dogs and beggars in the road. As the streets grow smaller and traffic increases, our pace slows, and the cat calls from the men in neighboring cars are reawakened. The reality of this place, this ideal journey that I have longed for, this dream of mine, brings tears to my eyes and makes my knuckles whiten with frustration. I wanted to be the change I wished to see in this world, but these people will never give me the chance to try. To them, I am just a sudaa and could be nothing more.
In the distance I see figures crossing the street ahead, as a line of trishaws approach quickly. I cover my eyes from the glare with my hand and peer out towards them, and I know. There are so many at the camps to the North – and so many more on the streets of Colombo. So many misplaced and mangled children of war – so different yet they are all the same. They are the future of post-war Sri Lanka. We continue driving, straight towards the crossing crowd at a steady pace, Sri Lankan flag flying high on the antenna of the hot red trishaw, the Sinhala Lion prominent in view. Whoever said one person cannot change the world must have been Tamil.
5 Years From now...
The rhythm of the music keeps time with the racing of my heart as I soak in the sights and sounds and smells of the Bazaar with every sense of my being. I can feel the heat of the earth rise through my thin sandals as I compress the soot with every confident step. I glance through the crowd, in awe of the bustling interactions taking place – a woman draped in lemon garments, flowing down into the clinging hands of a scruffy haired toddler. The woman bargains with the shopkeeper over his merchandise, seemingly unaware of the young one pulling at her bottom hems, exposing her nude feet. Animals scamper around the feet of the crowd – such high commodities in this region. I think back to my Western raising – once so unaware that animals had more purpose in life than being displays in pet shop windows. I place the viewfinder to my right eye and snap a progression of candid photos, trying to capture all the beauty and life within one moment. It is simply impossible. I stare at the scenes once more, flooded with emotions of life, love, loss, and longing, then continue on my journey.
I pass a small boy selling dried figs from a basket tied across his chest and waist. I stop and buy a few of his wares and am rewarded with a gap-toothed smile of gladness. As I bite into the first fig, I savor its sweet juice and rough textures of its seeds. I recall my first taste of fig in papa’s favorite newton cookies which filled our endless kitchen treat drawer. I wonder if the little trader has ever tasted such deliciousness in his life. I let this somber thought linger as I continue to walk and place the other figs in my pocket to share with the others. I breathe in deeply and turn my head up towards the sun, bathing my fair skin with the glowing rays. The wind traces the round of my face, then blows my weightless scarf off my head. The scarf lays resting upon my auburn tresses which fall down my back, confined by a loose braid. I put the scarf back in its place, then turn around once more to catch a final view of the marketplace. I ready my camera and capture a few more moments in time, then turn down the ally to my left.
I weave my way through the familiar streets, trudging through the uneven ground of stones and soil and obstacles of fresh laundry. As the streets widen and obstacles vanish, my pace slows, and the silence of the lone road reawakens my contemplative mind. The realization of this place, this journey, this dream of mine brings a smile to my face. I wanted to be the change I wished to see in this world, and now I have the chance.
In the distance I see small figures running towards me. I cover my eyes from the sun with my hand and peer out towards them, trying to identify them. There are so many at the camp – so many children I teach and more that I love. So different, so unique, yet they are all the same. They are the future. I start a steady sprint towards the figures, arms outstretched, scarf flowing carelessly behind me, ready to embrace the future in my arms. Whoever said one person cannot change the world had never met someone like me...
And here is the comparative one (and more realistic one):
The rhythm of the earsplitting horns keeps time with the racing of my breath as I the stares and blares pierce through every sense of my being. I can feel the dirt and grime of the city streets cling to my sandaled feet as I rush through the crowd, eyes averted to the ground. I glance up, trying to catch no gaze as I jump into the hot red trishaw, and feel the thousands of eyes glaring with fire at my back. I ride – thump thump – swerve – honk – through the gray streets, watching out the open door as we pass; a poor woman begging along the street, seemingly unaware of the young emaciated one pulling at the bottom of her flowered sari soaked with mud, exposing her feet of kohl. Animals lie on the waste side as groups of machungs attack with sticks and stones and do not stop until there is one less, leaving bloody corpses for the crows. I think back to my western raising – once so unaware that animals were not always treated like my house pets. I hold my camera tight to my side, but do not take it out. I do not need to capture the candid scenes on film, as they will be engraved in my memory for years to come. I stare out once more, flooded with emotions of rage, hate, fear, and helplessness. I lean back in the trishaw – thump thump – swerve – honk.
I pass a young boy, selling nothing but hate from a gun slung across his chest and waist. He stops us and checks our IDs at the roadside checkpoint. We are free to pass and I am rewarded by a wicked wink and a dirty kiss blown through the heavy air. As I recline in the tiny red trishaw, I replay the scene in my mind, disgusted by just the thought of him. I recall the memory of my papa, and wonder what he would have done, would have said, if he were with me. I wonder if the young boy with the gun ever had a papa like mine to teach him how to act right. I let this somber thought linger as I continue – thump thump – swerve – honk – through the city. I breathe in deeply and cough at the fumes of diesel and the smell of rotting garbage on the side of the road. I pull my handkerchief out of my bag and wipe my face, bathing the white cloth in the dirt and sweat of the day. The wind traces the round of my face, bringing with it the cat calls from the side walk. Sudaa sudaa…hello beautiful….where you from lady…. I lean back further into the seat to hide my white face and auburn tresses which fall down my back, confined by a loose braid. I wipe my face one last time, then place the not-so-white handkerchief back into my bag. I no longer look out the door, no longer take any photos for memories. Then we turn down the alley to my left.
The trishaw weaves menacingly through the unfamiliar streets, throwing me wildly around as we serve to avoid stray dogs and beggars in the road. As the streets grow smaller and traffic increases, our pace slows, and the cat calls from the men in neighboring cars are reawakened. The reality of this place, this ideal journey that I have longed for, this dream of mine, brings tears to my eyes and makes my knuckles whiten with frustration. I wanted to be the change I wished to see in this world, but these people will never give me the chance to try. To them, I am just a sudaa and could be nothing more.
In the distance I see figures crossing the street ahead, as a line of trishaws approach quickly. I cover my eyes from the glare with my hand and peer out towards them, and I know. There are so many at the camps to the North – and so many more on the streets of Colombo. So many misplaced and mangled children of war – so different yet they are all the same. They are the future of post-war Sri Lanka. We continue driving, straight towards the crossing crowd at a steady pace, Sri Lankan flag flying high on the antenna of the hot red trishaw, the Sinhala Lion prominent in view. Whoever said one person cannot change the world must have been Tamil.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Check out the ISLE Site
http://www.bowdoin.edu/isle/2009-fall-program/fall2009-session2.shtml
There are some pretty fun photos there.....
There are some pretty fun photos there.....
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Kandyian Dancing
Today was our Kandyian Dance performance at the ISLE center. I was in two of the three main dances. Five of us did the main dance, four did the rice dance, three did the elephant dance, and two had solos. Jen, Dan, and Alex also did drumming with our director.
I think we did a great job, with a few minor crazy moments. We all made little mistakes, but we got through alright, and I daresay we all looked pretty cool in our costumes. The ISLE Center video taped the whole thing and I got some good shots (thanks to malli) before my camera ran out of battery.
What I did not get on tape was my favorite moment of the evening. Malli and his friend missed this, because they needed to leave early, and both my camera and amma's camera died. So, during the rice dance, we wear orange sarong type skirts tied around our waists. We have to be careful that they don't come off during the dance, so we tie them on top with a string. Well, during the middle of the dance, as we hopped back and forth in unison, Sara's skirt unraveled and she was left standing in front of all of our family and friends with her short shorts on. I was standing behind her and I was so astounded by what was happening that I actually stopped dancing. This caused Kate to run into me, and then the others stumbled into us, all while Sara tried to continue the dance balancing her skirt and the basket in her hand. Finally, one of the professional dancers ran over and took her out of line to quickly retie it, but by this time we were all in stitches. I could hardly keep dancing I was laughing so hard and I was nearly crying from giggling. OMG! We got through the dance with no further wardrobe malfunctions, but each time we would look at one another or see someone smile, we would break out into laughter. Once we got off stance, we all cracked up and I sat on the floor laughing hysterically for a couple of minutes. I guess THAT will be a memory never forgotten at the ISLE Center! To top it off, Sara's boyfriend from the US and his mother had just arrived for a visit in Sri Lanka and were in the audience at the time, along with Sara's host family. Ai ow!!!!!!
Pics are up on facebook....They wouldn't upload here...sorry....
I think we did a great job, with a few minor crazy moments. We all made little mistakes, but we got through alright, and I daresay we all looked pretty cool in our costumes. The ISLE Center video taped the whole thing and I got some good shots (thanks to malli) before my camera ran out of battery.
What I did not get on tape was my favorite moment of the evening. Malli and his friend missed this, because they needed to leave early, and both my camera and amma's camera died. So, during the rice dance, we wear orange sarong type skirts tied around our waists. We have to be careful that they don't come off during the dance, so we tie them on top with a string. Well, during the middle of the dance, as we hopped back and forth in unison, Sara's skirt unraveled and she was left standing in front of all of our family and friends with her short shorts on. I was standing behind her and I was so astounded by what was happening that I actually stopped dancing. This caused Kate to run into me, and then the others stumbled into us, all while Sara tried to continue the dance balancing her skirt and the basket in her hand. Finally, one of the professional dancers ran over and took her out of line to quickly retie it, but by this time we were all in stitches. I could hardly keep dancing I was laughing so hard and I was nearly crying from giggling. OMG! We got through the dance with no further wardrobe malfunctions, but each time we would look at one another or see someone smile, we would break out into laughter. Once we got off stance, we all cracked up and I sat on the floor laughing hysterically for a couple of minutes. I guess THAT will be a memory never forgotten at the ISLE Center! To top it off, Sara's boyfriend from the US and his mother had just arrived for a visit in Sri Lanka and were in the audience at the time, along with Sara's host family. Ai ow!!!!!!
Pics are up on facebook....They wouldn't upload here...sorry....
The Danger of Stagnancy
Gender is not only tied to biology, as the term may suggest, but is culturally produced within each society. Both genders are given roles, norms, and ideas about what it is to be a man or a woman, and these roles change based on the culture. Within Sri Lanka, as well as most of the outside world, the feminine is culturally produced within society. This is dangerous to women because it makes gender a stagnant idea, like biology, without recognizing that gender is social and is therefore always developing. Without the ability to develop, both genders are forced into certain roles and ideas that no longer fit the reality of the time. In our course, aptly entitled “Images of the Feminine and the Social Experiences of Sri Lankan Women,” we were able to compare the ideal or imagined roles of women created by the culture to the real experiences of Sri Lankan women. In addition, the course also helped us to understand the imagined verses real Western woman within Sri Lanka, which we experience every day on the streets of Kandy. As a Western woman, I have faced many prejudices and problems within Sri Lanka because of the culturally produced idea of the Western woman, just as Sri Lankan women face hardships trying to fit into and break out of their traditionally seen norms and image.
First, let us discuss the imagined ideal Sri Lankan woman and man, produced by society. The ideal Sri Lankan woman is portrayed as passive, mild-mannered, naive, modest, quiet, emotional, dependent, sacrificial, and religious. She submits to the will of the males in her family and her greatest duty is as a wife and mother. She can make decisions for the family, but only under the thumb of the man. She is chaste until marriage, at which time she only has sex with her husband for procreation and to please him. There is no mention of female sexual needs and women are almost seen as non-sexual beings. At the same time, however, the fact that women are sexual beings is inferred, as women can be seen as tempting men. Although the woman may not be overtly sexual, she is a sexed being that attracts the men with her advances, actions, attire, walk, and by just being a woman, which is why women are supposed to be modestly dressed and protected until marriage.
Conversely, this idea also culturally produces a not-so-ideal image of man as a sexual beast, with an inability to control desires if the woman attracts him. The man cannot control himself, so it is the duty of the family and culture to hide and protect the woman until the appropriate marriageable age. The saying, boys will be boys, also denotes this idea, saying that men need and have to have sexual relations, as a biological necessity to their gender. Because men cannot control themselves, it is accepted that men can and will have sexual relations, and is almost overlooked in the culture. For women, however, one digression or even rumor of such can blacken her name and ruin her life within society. This idea of “boys will be boys” irks me for many reasons. First of all, this is saying that men are no better than beasts, like the stray dogs that run rampant around Kandy. Because of their sexual needs, they cannot control their actions and, therefore, the women must be controlled. This is completely absurd. Control and consciousness is one of the main attributes that separates humans from animals, and gives us the ability to create and sustain as we have. Are we saying that, in reality, this is not so? If a man cannot control his animalistic desires, than how is it possible that he can function in society? Furthermore, should a man even be allowed to take public office with this lack or control, or be allowed to drive a car safely? Animalistic tendencies are not an excuse for animalistic behavior, because we are not animals. Men, too, should be ashamed of this statement, because it attacks their integrity and ability to control themselves. It lowers men into the animal kingdom and, because the idea is culturally produced, they will remain there, unless the society (controlled by men) decides to change it.
Sri Lankan society not only produces images of the Sri Lankan people, but also produces images of the cultural other: the west. Images of the west demonize the western woman. This is, in part, due to colonial ties and media influence. A western woman is seen as the antithesis of the Sri Lankan ideal woman. A western woman is loud, strong, assertive, immodest, too-worldly, easy when it comes to sex, shameless, selfish, and irreligious. She is a threat to the Sri Lankan traditional culture, because she represents the destruction of values and the rise of capitalist materialism. There are many stereotypes of a western woman in Sri Lanka, but two are most prevalent. First is the loose, free woman. This image of the western woman is seen in the media, through western movies, books, etc. The western woman is portrayed as a loose woman, free with her body and sexuality, and always up for sex. She wears revealing clothing, flirts openly, and is inherently asking for sexual intimacy from everyone she meets. She is loud and aggressive, laughing and talking freely to men and in unchaste. She is seen in action movies as the girl in the mini skirt who sleeps with the main character, or the ditsy blonde with large breasts and a tendency to show them off when she consumes alcohol. In films, she is usually sleeping around, always beautiful, and always available. The foreign tourism in Sri Lanka doesn’t help this image much, as white women parade around on the beaches of Galle in slim bikinis and drinks in their hands, and while this isn’t the norm, the minority helps to perpetuate the majority stereotype.
The second view of the western woman is the rich white woman. This stems from past colonial history as well as tourism. Western women, in colonial times, were seen as the Victorian women, placed high on a pedestal in all white. The Victorian housewife was passive and conservative, but also wealthy beyond measure because of her husband. She was seen living in mansions on the beaches of Sri Lanka and having innumerous maids, drivers, and other servants. Colonialism ended with Sri Lankan independence, but the stereotype of the rich white woman remained. This stereotype still rears its head in the shops along Kandy Lake, where the shopkeepers charge double and even triple the prices for white skin; or where touts follow you up and down the street, posing as employees of the Queens or Food City, and trying to lead you into one of their many brothers’ shops for the best deals. Again, the self-portrayal of the suda tourist doesn’t help, with many women carrying expensive-looking hand bags, couture shoes, and top of the line camera. But even those who do not dress and act the part are still placed into this category, being harassed and followed as if rupees will flow out of their pockets and into the streets.
The social construction of both Sri Lankan women and western women is not only highly inaccurate, but it also harmful because it tries to force unique individuals into a narrow and stagnant category that almost no woman fits. Within readings and class discussions, we have learned how the portrayal and cultural production of gender has had harmful effects on Sri Lankan women, so there is no need to delve further into these at this time. However, as a white foreign woman living in Kandy, I believe that I should shed light on the effects the cultural production of western women by Sri Lankan culture, has on my experiences in Sri Lanka.
First, I would like to start by sharing a poem I wrote on the 11th of October 2009, entitled Sudu PaTe:
Never till now have I seen my true color.
Never till now have I had to wonder
how to hide
my very presence
that catches the eye.
And I wonder why
my skin brands me
and tells them what to see:
A foreigner on vacation
no need for speculation,
perhaps a whore looking for trouble
or a sudu who will pay double.
Both dangerous and exciting,
but why can’t they see what I see?
A young woman trying to keep her sanity
as she is paraded around like an elephant in captivity.
A circus act meant to be performed, unknowingly.
Constant stares and I am the sight, unwillingly.
Forced to stand out and asked to fit in
my skin bears the colonial sign of sin.
Pure as ivory but tainted with the past
How long will this racism last?
The title I chose for my poem, Sudu PaTe (or “white color” in English) is significant because this was one of the first things I learned in Sri Lanka. Within my first few hours in Sri Lanka, I had begun hearing the word “sudu” used to refer to me and my classmates. I asked our driver what “sudu” meant, and he explained to me that it meant “white” in Sinhala. I realized, before coming to Sri Lanka, that my skin color was very different from a Sri Lankan, but I never really thought this would be too much of an issue. I had studied in Morocco previously, and although my skin color definitely made me stand out, it was never really an issue. To tell the truth, I never really thought of myself as white, at least consciously, until I was labeled sudu in Sri Lanka. Americans are very diverse in terms of color, especially in Los Angeles where I live, and, although there is still much racism, I have never really paid much attention to skin color. At home, I have friends that are black, white, pink, yellow, brown, and all shades in between, and there has never been a problem. In fact, out of many of my friends, I have the darker skin, due to my Italian heritage, and therefore do not usually identify as “white” but “Italian”.
Not only is it hard to be stereotyped in a certain way, but I believe that skin color is the worst marker, because there is no way to hide or disguise it. I have joked with my host family about going out tanning or finding some darkening cream (as opposed to whitening cream used by Sri Lankans), but at times I really wish it were not a joke. I wish there was a way to hide my skin color, not because I am ashamed of having pale skin, but simply because of the stereotypes associated with it. In Morocco, if I wanted to adapt my identity to Moroccan norms, I would simply dress conservatively, and possibly put on a head scarf, but in Sri Lanka there is no way to hide the color of my skin. Because of this, I am branded as officially white and treated as such, following the stereotypes I explained above. While walking through the streets I am stared at, cat called, and giggled at. I have been videotaped by men with cell phones, had at least 6 different people take my photo without permission, and had thousands of kisses blown and tongues stuck out at me. I have been followed by men, hit on by men, and talked about behind my back and in front of my face, the people not knowing I can speak a bit of the language they use to insult me. While shopping, I have been ripped off because of my skin color, and have even overheard conversations between the shopkeepers about charging the suda more money. I have been followed and harassed by payment guides trying to make money off of the white tourists and have been surrounded by men looking for an easy lay. Never have I felt more claustrophobic and yet so alone while walking down an open street. I described my feelings to one friend in the States as having felt like a freak show on display at the circus, being ushered around to perform for an audience that is both scared and enthralled by you. I felt this way when a man at a temple snapped my photo as I listened to a lecture about the life of the Buddha. I felt this way when a monk puckered him lips up at me as I passed. I feel this way every day as hundreds of heads turn to watch me walk past, as if they have never seen a sudu before.
I believe that the staring and harassment is so bad, not only because of the fact that white skin is the minority and foreign, but also because of the culturally produced stereotypes that keep white women confined into a certain ideal. This racism comes from the media on TV and from the stories people hear, and is perpetuated by the dichotomy of West verses East, modern verses traditional, and immoral verses moral. The east sees the west, and all such things associated with the west, in opposition with their values and culture. Therefore, if the eastern woman is the ideal, the western woman is the antithesis of the ideal, and must be painted as such to portray the eastern woman in the correct light. Most people and societies use this idea of defining the other, because it makes it easier to define the self and create boundaries of control. However, defining the self and the other can be very dangerous if one does not understand that the definition is an ever-changing outline, not something to be stamped, approved, and filed away. Once the definition becomes stagnant, it hurts all parties, because no one is allowed to define themselves outside of the stringent definition already in place. And because of this, Sri Lankan women are passive homemakers, white women are whorish spendthrifts, and Sri Lankan men are expected to behave like animals controlled by sexual desires. Obviously, these are neither ideal nor true, so why do these stereotypes still exist? “How long will this racism last?” is the question I end with in my poem. I not only refer to the racism against white women, but also the racism created by this racism towards all other people. To me, this is an unanswered question for which I remain puzzled.
First, let us discuss the imagined ideal Sri Lankan woman and man, produced by society. The ideal Sri Lankan woman is portrayed as passive, mild-mannered, naive, modest, quiet, emotional, dependent, sacrificial, and religious. She submits to the will of the males in her family and her greatest duty is as a wife and mother. She can make decisions for the family, but only under the thumb of the man. She is chaste until marriage, at which time she only has sex with her husband for procreation and to please him. There is no mention of female sexual needs and women are almost seen as non-sexual beings. At the same time, however, the fact that women are sexual beings is inferred, as women can be seen as tempting men. Although the woman may not be overtly sexual, she is a sexed being that attracts the men with her advances, actions, attire, walk, and by just being a woman, which is why women are supposed to be modestly dressed and protected until marriage.
Conversely, this idea also culturally produces a not-so-ideal image of man as a sexual beast, with an inability to control desires if the woman attracts him. The man cannot control himself, so it is the duty of the family and culture to hide and protect the woman until the appropriate marriageable age. The saying, boys will be boys, also denotes this idea, saying that men need and have to have sexual relations, as a biological necessity to their gender. Because men cannot control themselves, it is accepted that men can and will have sexual relations, and is almost overlooked in the culture. For women, however, one digression or even rumor of such can blacken her name and ruin her life within society. This idea of “boys will be boys” irks me for many reasons. First of all, this is saying that men are no better than beasts, like the stray dogs that run rampant around Kandy. Because of their sexual needs, they cannot control their actions and, therefore, the women must be controlled. This is completely absurd. Control and consciousness is one of the main attributes that separates humans from animals, and gives us the ability to create and sustain as we have. Are we saying that, in reality, this is not so? If a man cannot control his animalistic desires, than how is it possible that he can function in society? Furthermore, should a man even be allowed to take public office with this lack or control, or be allowed to drive a car safely? Animalistic tendencies are not an excuse for animalistic behavior, because we are not animals. Men, too, should be ashamed of this statement, because it attacks their integrity and ability to control themselves. It lowers men into the animal kingdom and, because the idea is culturally produced, they will remain there, unless the society (controlled by men) decides to change it.
Sri Lankan society not only produces images of the Sri Lankan people, but also produces images of the cultural other: the west. Images of the west demonize the western woman. This is, in part, due to colonial ties and media influence. A western woman is seen as the antithesis of the Sri Lankan ideal woman. A western woman is loud, strong, assertive, immodest, too-worldly, easy when it comes to sex, shameless, selfish, and irreligious. She is a threat to the Sri Lankan traditional culture, because she represents the destruction of values and the rise of capitalist materialism. There are many stereotypes of a western woman in Sri Lanka, but two are most prevalent. First is the loose, free woman. This image of the western woman is seen in the media, through western movies, books, etc. The western woman is portrayed as a loose woman, free with her body and sexuality, and always up for sex. She wears revealing clothing, flirts openly, and is inherently asking for sexual intimacy from everyone she meets. She is loud and aggressive, laughing and talking freely to men and in unchaste. She is seen in action movies as the girl in the mini skirt who sleeps with the main character, or the ditsy blonde with large breasts and a tendency to show them off when she consumes alcohol. In films, she is usually sleeping around, always beautiful, and always available. The foreign tourism in Sri Lanka doesn’t help this image much, as white women parade around on the beaches of Galle in slim bikinis and drinks in their hands, and while this isn’t the norm, the minority helps to perpetuate the majority stereotype.
The second view of the western woman is the rich white woman. This stems from past colonial history as well as tourism. Western women, in colonial times, were seen as the Victorian women, placed high on a pedestal in all white. The Victorian housewife was passive and conservative, but also wealthy beyond measure because of her husband. She was seen living in mansions on the beaches of Sri Lanka and having innumerous maids, drivers, and other servants. Colonialism ended with Sri Lankan independence, but the stereotype of the rich white woman remained. This stereotype still rears its head in the shops along Kandy Lake, where the shopkeepers charge double and even triple the prices for white skin; or where touts follow you up and down the street, posing as employees of the Queens or Food City, and trying to lead you into one of their many brothers’ shops for the best deals. Again, the self-portrayal of the suda tourist doesn’t help, with many women carrying expensive-looking hand bags, couture shoes, and top of the line camera. But even those who do not dress and act the part are still placed into this category, being harassed and followed as if rupees will flow out of their pockets and into the streets.
The social construction of both Sri Lankan women and western women is not only highly inaccurate, but it also harmful because it tries to force unique individuals into a narrow and stagnant category that almost no woman fits. Within readings and class discussions, we have learned how the portrayal and cultural production of gender has had harmful effects on Sri Lankan women, so there is no need to delve further into these at this time. However, as a white foreign woman living in Kandy, I believe that I should shed light on the effects the cultural production of western women by Sri Lankan culture, has on my experiences in Sri Lanka.
First, I would like to start by sharing a poem I wrote on the 11th of October 2009, entitled Sudu PaTe:
Never till now have I seen my true color.
Never till now have I had to wonder
how to hide
my very presence
that catches the eye.
And I wonder why
my skin brands me
and tells them what to see:
A foreigner on vacation
no need for speculation,
perhaps a whore looking for trouble
or a sudu who will pay double.
Both dangerous and exciting,
but why can’t they see what I see?
A young woman trying to keep her sanity
as she is paraded around like an elephant in captivity.
A circus act meant to be performed, unknowingly.
Constant stares and I am the sight, unwillingly.
Forced to stand out and asked to fit in
my skin bears the colonial sign of sin.
Pure as ivory but tainted with the past
How long will this racism last?
The title I chose for my poem, Sudu PaTe (or “white color” in English) is significant because this was one of the first things I learned in Sri Lanka. Within my first few hours in Sri Lanka, I had begun hearing the word “sudu” used to refer to me and my classmates. I asked our driver what “sudu” meant, and he explained to me that it meant “white” in Sinhala. I realized, before coming to Sri Lanka, that my skin color was very different from a Sri Lankan, but I never really thought this would be too much of an issue. I had studied in Morocco previously, and although my skin color definitely made me stand out, it was never really an issue. To tell the truth, I never really thought of myself as white, at least consciously, until I was labeled sudu in Sri Lanka. Americans are very diverse in terms of color, especially in Los Angeles where I live, and, although there is still much racism, I have never really paid much attention to skin color. At home, I have friends that are black, white, pink, yellow, brown, and all shades in between, and there has never been a problem. In fact, out of many of my friends, I have the darker skin, due to my Italian heritage, and therefore do not usually identify as “white” but “Italian”.
Not only is it hard to be stereotyped in a certain way, but I believe that skin color is the worst marker, because there is no way to hide or disguise it. I have joked with my host family about going out tanning or finding some darkening cream (as opposed to whitening cream used by Sri Lankans), but at times I really wish it were not a joke. I wish there was a way to hide my skin color, not because I am ashamed of having pale skin, but simply because of the stereotypes associated with it. In Morocco, if I wanted to adapt my identity to Moroccan norms, I would simply dress conservatively, and possibly put on a head scarf, but in Sri Lanka there is no way to hide the color of my skin. Because of this, I am branded as officially white and treated as such, following the stereotypes I explained above. While walking through the streets I am stared at, cat called, and giggled at. I have been videotaped by men with cell phones, had at least 6 different people take my photo without permission, and had thousands of kisses blown and tongues stuck out at me. I have been followed by men, hit on by men, and talked about behind my back and in front of my face, the people not knowing I can speak a bit of the language they use to insult me. While shopping, I have been ripped off because of my skin color, and have even overheard conversations between the shopkeepers about charging the suda more money. I have been followed and harassed by payment guides trying to make money off of the white tourists and have been surrounded by men looking for an easy lay. Never have I felt more claustrophobic and yet so alone while walking down an open street. I described my feelings to one friend in the States as having felt like a freak show on display at the circus, being ushered around to perform for an audience that is both scared and enthralled by you. I felt this way when a man at a temple snapped my photo as I listened to a lecture about the life of the Buddha. I felt this way when a monk puckered him lips up at me as I passed. I feel this way every day as hundreds of heads turn to watch me walk past, as if they have never seen a sudu before.
I believe that the staring and harassment is so bad, not only because of the fact that white skin is the minority and foreign, but also because of the culturally produced stereotypes that keep white women confined into a certain ideal. This racism comes from the media on TV and from the stories people hear, and is perpetuated by the dichotomy of West verses East, modern verses traditional, and immoral verses moral. The east sees the west, and all such things associated with the west, in opposition with their values and culture. Therefore, if the eastern woman is the ideal, the western woman is the antithesis of the ideal, and must be painted as such to portray the eastern woman in the correct light. Most people and societies use this idea of defining the other, because it makes it easier to define the self and create boundaries of control. However, defining the self and the other can be very dangerous if one does not understand that the definition is an ever-changing outline, not something to be stamped, approved, and filed away. Once the definition becomes stagnant, it hurts all parties, because no one is allowed to define themselves outside of the stringent definition already in place. And because of this, Sri Lankan women are passive homemakers, white women are whorish spendthrifts, and Sri Lankan men are expected to behave like animals controlled by sexual desires. Obviously, these are neither ideal nor true, so why do these stereotypes still exist? “How long will this racism last?” is the question I end with in my poem. I not only refer to the racism against white women, but also the racism created by this racism towards all other people. To me, this is an unanswered question for which I remain puzzled.
Update time!
Finals are done! I wrote four major papers, took my Sinhala exam, finished the last waxing on my batik, and have my dance performance tomorrow (EEEKKK). The papers went well, the Sinhala exam was one of the hardest tests I have taken, and the batik is looking pretty good. As for the dancing….well truthfully I am nervous. I have been working my butt off (literally, I think it is disappearing) practicing and I am finally getting it, but I’m worried I will mess it up, and we only have one shot at it. All of our families will be there, our 3 wheeler drivers, and lecturers. And – to top it off – I am in a costume that displays my tummy for all to see. Oh goodness. Apparently everyone thinks it looks ok, but I am simply grossed out at the idea of showing my belly to anyone other than the shower walls. I have to get over it though, because they will not let me pull it up higher (I tried), and the dance is tomorrow.
On the bright side, I have been doing working on the abs, thanks to malli and the ab lounge in the house. Malli is pushing for me to do at least 50 twice a day, which I find impossible. I have been doing 50 per day and I can hardly sit up! Still, he is a great motivator and makes it fun (as he pushes the back of the ab lounge and cheers me on). I’ll try to put pics up on the blog of the dance, if I look ok enough. Haha.
On the bright side, I have been doing working on the abs, thanks to malli and the ab lounge in the house. Malli is pushing for me to do at least 50 twice a day, which I find impossible. I have been doing 50 per day and I can hardly sit up! Still, he is a great motivator and makes it fun (as he pushes the back of the ab lounge and cheers me on). I’ll try to put pics up on the blog of the dance, if I look ok enough. Haha.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Halloween Pics
Yay for family photos!
I am a nurse guys, not contagious!
a Lankan nurse, right down the the ugly white shoes
Bimba and I
The Pres
oh the publicity....
Hindu temple leader and Kali, goddess of destruction
The President and a nurse. Not a bad crowd of friends....
What a big belly you have...
Singabahu
Ganesh
The Nurse and Ganesh
Ganesh
Pete forgot his costume....or came as a sudu
The Hindu Leader giving advice to Rosemary
"Let carve pumpkins guys...."
"This won't hurt a bit!"
Baby pumpkin
Yay for Pizza Hut and globalization...?
mmmmm food
Dancing Pres.
Singabahu
apple bobbing time!
1st place
2nd place
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