Landings

“For this program, you needed to shoot for the moon, but settle for much less.”

This comment, casually mentioned at one of our final group meetings, struck a chord with me. Since when does civic engagement involve settling? Do you decide to commit to service work, but feel satisfied when a job is only partly finished? Is it ever fair to pull out of a project or community when your work is by no means done? It’s obviously a reality that you can’t fix everything, especially not in two months. But, if you accept that as fact and don’t work as hard as you can to overcome this limitation, then you are failing. You are failing the community you’ve decided to help, because really, all you’ve decided to do is mess with their lives for a little while and then leave before you need to deal with the repercussions.

Our final days at Nachiketa Tapovan and Vivekananda Grammar School were filled with smiles and tears and acknowledgement of improvement and gifts from students and teachers alike. Emails and phone numbers were exchanged, with promises to keep in touch and perhaps to start an English club. In those final days, we realized the connections we had made and the relationships we had built up, without noticing along the way. And, even if it doesn’t work out in the long run, we have made an effort to create sustainability in these projects by continuing to communicate with our students through letters and emails.

But our last days at the Aksharavani community were filled with anger and frustration on both sides. Last weekend, we held a sale of donated clothing, toiletries, and school supplies in the community at discounted prices. The profits were to go to painting the bridge school in the community–in other words, the sale was for the community’s benefit, not our own. Yet, somehow, that message was never communicated to the community itself, so the day ended with one vocal community member shouting her frustration that all we did was play with kids and exploit them for money. When we discussed this issue later, some members of our group treated the woman as though her concerns were ridiculous: we were there for them, and even if they weren’t getting a direct benefit, we’re there to show their children love. Who wouldn’t want that? But community engagement is not about telling a community what it needs–it is about asking what it needs, learning about its needs and the assets it already has to meet these needs. It is about working with a community, not for–and this involves communication. You can’t half-ass it, or act as though the community just wouldn’t understand anyway, or claim that the community doesn’t know what’s best for itself. You can’t just show up and do something without explaining motives and leaving room for comments and concerns and suggestions. You wouldn’t want someone coming into your community and walking your kids away without your permission. Your socioeconomic status should not define the amount of respect you receive–respect should be an equal right for all.

I don’t know if our experience with the Aksharavani community was colored by cultural issues, or if the problems I noticed were unique to our project for other reasons. And I’ve only been home for about 24 hours at this point: it will be quite a while before I have processed this trip and made connections between what I learned and what I actually did. But, I guess the most obvious takeaway I have is that the caste system is still prominent in India, no matter what the constitution says. The language used to describe those of lower social status is jarring to hear, after being so used to the PC language of the US; there is little attempt to find commonalities, or form connections with other social classes, even in the realm of civic engagement. And, if anyone who’s reading this happens to have objections, that’s completely fine: I could very well be wrong. India has a population of 1.2 billion people–given the small segment of the population I interacted with, and my own inherent biases as a white girl from California, I can’t make vast judgments about Indian culture.

Now it’s home for 11 days. Let’s hope I can get this processing out of the way before I embark on yet another cultural transformation.

 

 

Weddings and Wrap-Ups: Saying Goodbye to DukeEngage

A wedding is a pretty big deal. I mean, this is two individuals committing to share one life from that day onwards, in sickness or in health. In America, this means inviting one’s closest friends and family members, who typically watch in respectful silence and awe as they tie the knot. Not so in India. Here, you invite everyone–literally everyone. And let’s just say you aren’t exactly the main attraction. Last week, we flew to our professor’s nephew’s wedding in Bangalore, an extra 10 people added with no trouble to the guest list. And we were not the only awkward Americans in the group: others on vacation in Bangalore had come to crash the party. We showed up about a half an hour late (during the traditional ceremony in which the bride’s family attempts to convince the groom to come back and marry her–the sexism in this culture is phenomenal at times), but we were still some of the first to arrive. (The reason we were late? Too busy doing things in our saris at our 5-star hotel.)

Even as the hall filled to the brim and the ceremony proceeded–music, drums, rice/fennel tossing, the lowering of the veil between the bride and groom as they smiled in nervous and awkward excitement–no one seemed to care. All guests were caught up in side conversations with long-lost relatives, or taking a trip downstairs for yet another cup of chai. I guess it’s less pressure on the happy couple?

all of the rice in all of the colors in all the land. 

And so we spent our cultural trip trying to figure out why the rice was green, eating wedding food off banana leaves served by shirtless men in dotis, shopping in an incredibly European mall in the Rodeo Boulevard-esque Sheraton complex, and visiting palaces and riding elephants in sleepy Mysore. It was not really all that cultural at all. But it was a needed break.

Since we’ve been back, our days have been filled with shopping and, this morning, quite a few goodbye tears at Vivekananda. We arrived at the school to see our students excitedly waiting for us in their usual classroom, doing each others’ hair and makeup in their brightly colored saris and frocks. I had butterflies in my stomach as they took the stage to perform their rendition of Lagaan, but they disappeared as I, like a proud mother, watched my students do everything we’d ever asked them without having to look to us for guidance. They shouted, they gestured, they sang, and they did it all with memorized lines–Archana, one of our star students, even memorized the lines of a girl who was absent and performed them without hesitation. If one cast member messed up, another would gladly help. They all suddenly became leaders on that stage, and I realized the dramatic change they’ve made from the first day of classes, when no one except Manish would raise his or her hand, and they struggled to figure out the difference between “a” and “an.” In all of our work this summer, Vivekananda has been our most successful project. We spent every afternoon in intense discussions with these students, getting to know their every quirk and habit and weakness and strength. We worked with them to draw out the skill and confidence we knew they had. We played hangman and Simon Says for hours, we talked about fruit far too many times, we told them to stop hitting each other almost constantly. And today, the principal explained to us that we have “unlocked dreams that we didn’t know existed in these students.” Now, apparently, they will walk up to strangers in the street to practice English, when before, they would hardly ever venture outside of their native Telugu or Hindi.

So what happens now? After all the tears have been shed, after we’ve packed away the bangles and paintings we received as gifts, after all of the “Goodbye, madams” and phone number exchanges, after we drove away from Tolichowki for possibly the last time. These kids remain in a school with cramped classrooms that are hazardous to health and cognitive development, no physical education, no extracurricular activities, no class bonding whatsoever. Our professors mentioned potentially starting an English club, but we will not be there to ensure that it is put in place. Will their newly-discovered confidence and English skills crumble like the cement staircase in their school as they go back to classrooms where they merely memorize, memorize, memorize, and are hit if they do not do so properly? When I went to dress rehearsal yesterday, four girls were sobbing because they had just received poor exam results–and, in India, exams mean everything, even as young as the 8th grade, because your future is essentially set by your 10th grade exams. How does that pressure, that high stakes learning, foster a positive educational experience? I’m so glad that we got to work at Vivekananda Grammar, and I would like to hope that the kids gained a lot from the experience. But we were there for 2 months–that’s like summer camp. Who’s going to be there to pick them up now that the cabins have closed and the school year is really beginning? What legacy are we leaving behind?

Corporal Punishment

Punishment here is…different, to say the least. We had to explain the concept of a timeout to our 10th class at Nachiketa, and the angry teacher eyes that stopped me in my tracks in elementary school do not seem to phase students as they continue their side conversations. At Nachiketa, the 3rd class will just about stick their fingers into your eyes or up your nose to get you to call on them, shouting “Akka, please!” no matter how many times you remind them of your rule to be silent. I don’t know exactly what it is, but my disciplinary tactics from tutoring back home are completely ineffective here.

But I would take rowdy kids over the kinds of punishments teachers dole out (illegally) here. I’m not talking about Nachiketa–corporal punishment is not allowed there, which means the educational environment is a conversation between student and teacher, allowing freedom of thought and expression (even if it is a little noisy and chaotic). No, I’m talking about the status quo schools, such as the government school we walk the Aksheravani kids to every morning. Today, Ambika, who is normally energetic about going to school and helps her siblings and cousins get ready each morning, would not leave her hut. We asked why, and she explained that a teacher had hit her with a rock on her shoulder. Apparently, the teacher had left the room, telling the students to be quiet or sleep because there was nothing else to do, but the school day was not yet over. The kids started playing a game to kill the wasted hours, and the teacher got…well, angry. Hence, Ambika’s sudden fear of school. I’m sure I’ve asked this question previously, but where are we walking these students every morning? Is it even possible for them to get much out of school if they’re in constant fear of physical harm if they do not memorize an answer correctly? Maslow’s hierarchy of needs says that learning is not possible unless a child’s basic needs are met first–hunger, thirst, love, safety. If teachers are unwilling to provide a child with physical security, and parents have little input in a corrupt governmental system, how can a child have an adequate learning environment?

But then again…what’s our alternative, when we don’t have the power or the time to change the system itself? We don’t want to just put a bandaid on, but we also don’t want an open wound.

Justin Bieber and My Very First Bindi

12 days left. That means 2 full days of teaching, a 3-day trip to Bangalore, and then a few days to get our last tastes of Hyderabad (read: biryani and dosa) before boarding our separate flights home. I could go on and on about how crazy it is that the summer is almost over, but time passes: it’s no use wasting it further by wishing to slow down the clock.

In the past couple of weeks, we have essentially continued with the same old, same old. Waking up to walk the Aksheravani kids to school, hearing constant excuses about needing to take care of siblings, or needing to go to the village, or needing to wait for the water tanker, or needing to go shopping, or “It’s my birthday,” or simply earsplitting tantrums. Mid-morning nap. Lunch. Teaching 10th class computers and 3rd class story book time at Nachiketa. Late afternoon English lessons at Vivekananda. Collapse in exhaustion. Then prepare for the next day. And loving every minute of it.

Just a few of my favorite 8th class boys. Not shown: Sri Kanth picks up a bench and attempts to beat the others with it. Always an adventure, really.

Teaching the Vivekananda kids Justin Bieber. Most of the boys already had the rap memorized.

3rd and 10th class students at Nachiketa Tapovan. I promise they smile more in real life.

Teaching at Vivekananda, in a partially-constructed auditorium of sorts that loves to flood in monsoon season.

Last Wednesday, our driver, Jagdish, invited us to his home about an hour away from Hyderabad to celebrate his middle daughter’s 11th birthday party. We were told to “dress normally,” because there was a “surprise” waiting for us: saris and flower garlands and glass bangles for us to dress up in. This took probably about an hour and a half of twisting and tugging and folding and pinning, but eventually, this was the final product:

It was a night of 10-year-olds teaching us how to Bollywood dance, attempting to not sweat in a velvet blouse covered in folds of mesh, bindis and turmeric on our foreheads, the best paneer and cabbage I’ve ever had (still don’t know what “cabbage 65” means but we should bring that to America), and adoring Jagdish and his kind, loving, generous family. I’m still finding it difficult to comprehend why we were made the center of attention on someone else’s birthday–why a mother spent an hour and a half forcing bangles onto confused American hands on her daughter’s special day. I am so thankful for the generosity they have shown us, so thankful that Jagdish, of all Hyderabadi drivers, has been with us for these past six and a half weeks.

Thoughts and notes from the past two weeks:

-on Indian birthdays, you rub cake on the birthday boy/girl’s face in celebration. Kind of like a wedding, but every year, and with many different friends and family members rubbing their fingers on your cheeks. Happy birthday to youu.

-favorite quotes from our 10th grade computer class include “subcaste” instead of “subtask,” or “I ate dung for lunch, akka”

-favorite quote from Jagdish ji as we veered through traffic, past cows, and pedestrians: “Have you guys ever played computer games?” Seriously, though, as I get closer to home I get more and more concerned that I won’t live to see it. Driving here is a feat.

-Peeing on the street is disgusting.