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.

Hopes and Fears: Women’s Shelters and Bazaar Bomb Threats

This weekend we  returned to our project’s initial focus on women’s rights, visiting two incredible programs that work to empower marginalized women. On Saturday, we drove about an hour and a half to the M.V. Foundation, an organization that educates former girl child laborers until they are capable of entering a formal school setting (typically a process that lasts six months to one and a half years). When I say child labor, I don’t necessarily mean that these girls were working in sweatshops–the beauty of  MVF is that it has changed the official definition of child laborer to mean any child that is not in school. I’ve mentioned before that the Constitution protects a child’s right to free and compulsory education. MVF believes that it’s just this simple: it does not matter whether a child is “needed” to work at home, a parent should always protect a child’s right to education. Now, the example of Leelavati I gave previously should show that it’s a lot more complicated than this–but I was so grateful to find an organization that is willing to stand up for this right, no matter what. The girls at this school study from about 5:30 am (yoga) until dinner at 7:30 pm, with a couple of hours free for lunch and recreation time. One teacher is assigned to a group of around 15 to 20 students for their entire stay, and this teacher lives with the students full time, acts as their counselor, and receives their feedback. (I can’t even imagine the kind of commitment that takes.) Once a child is ready to enter a residential school, volunteers continue to track the child, ensuring that she is excelling until graduation from the 10th class. MVF also works within the communities where they send their students, building PTA organizations that will create a community investment in each local school. Oh, and it’s all free. Yeah. We were amazed too. 

(On our way to MVF, we stopped at a temple for lunch. And the calf outside decided to taste leather for the first time. Awks.)

On Sunday, we again drove about an hour and a half into the countryside to Ankuram Women and Child Development Center, a shelter for girls who have been victims of violence and exploitation. We were instructed to not ask any personal questions about the girls’ lives, and so the visit felt like it could have been a visit to any girls’ hostel–all of the girls (63 total, who looked between about 6 and 17), were clean, well-dressed, happy, healthy, independent. They explained to us how they are elected to 5 committees (health, recreation, invitation, education, and food), which oversee the day-to-day activities at the home, from caring for a sick child to planning the day’s menu to sitting on the Child Protection Committee. Some girls are in just starting school; one is studying for her B.A. in fine arts. The girls are organized into “families” of 3 sisters of varying ages–the “sisters” study together, care for each other, look out for one another. The community here is one of complete integration and total support. What’s surprising is that there’s no one who lives full time with the girls. How is it that girls who have experienced such unthinkable traumas can be so self-sufficient? Ankuram does incredible work, giving these girls an open space where they are empowered and given the ability to be kids again. As we played “beating ball” (German dodgeball), avoiding the two cows in the courtyard, it all felt so normal, so peaceful. Watching the students sing, or try to teach us to Bollywood dance (tip for DukeEngage Academy? Teach us how to dance so we don’t look like fools in every school we visit), made me feel so comforted to know that these girls have not been defined merely by their past experiences. And now, they are learning how to fight for their own rights.

The organic garden the students planted.

On Sunday night, we went shopping at the Begum Bazaar, which is especially crowded in the evenings. We had been shopping for a couple of hours, haggling over bangles and books and saris, when our driver called and told us he’d just spoken to the police: they believed their was a bomb planted in the area. I had wondered why speakers everywhere were constantly telling us to be on the lookout for unwatched luggage or empty vehicles, but I assumed that was the norm, like at the airport or a train station. A bus honked and I nearly jumped out of my skin as we wound our way back through the crowded streets to the car, and I couldn’t help wondering: will that sugar cane juice stand explode when I walk past? What about that sack of garbage in that alleyway? It was then I realized just how dangerous a city like Hyderabad could be: soldiers with rifles were searching everywhere, but how was it possible to find anything in such a packed, yet sprawling area? We had to wait for minutes that seemed like hours at the car, because it had been booted (no parking zone). (Side note: this experience has caused me to be very anti-booting. Just give us a ticket and let us leave.) We’re safe, and no bomb ever exploded. But still. The world is a scary, scary place.

Riddle me this.

When we found Leelavati wandering around her migrant community, we asked her mother why she did not attend the government school down the road from her home. Her mother explained that she is partially blind, and her husband is dead–she has no source of income to care for herself and Leelavati. Leelavati must therefore beg during the day, to feed her small family.

In India, the constitution guarantees free and compulsory education for all children. A child not only has the right to go to school: she must go to school. But what if that child must feed her family because her mother is physically impaired? Should we force that child to go to school, and go hungry as she waits to get an education that could (years down the road) get her a well-paying job (maybe)?

Leelavati sneaks out of her home every 3 days to go to school. She does not want to stay home–she does not want to beg. Leelavati is lucky that she can do so, and lucky that our professor has an optometrist friend who might be able to heal her mother. But what about those who literally cannot go to school? If education is the great equalizer, how do we ensure that every child can go to school, their basic needs already met?

Struggling to Not Be “That American”: Teaching in the “Slums”

We now work in 3 schools per day, engaging with children aged baby to 15. And I love it. I didn’t realize how much I missed working with kids again, watching them learn and grow with every lesson. Our mornings begin at the Aksheravani School (named in part after Bhavani, who helped start the program a couple years ago). The school is a one-roomed, cement building with a tin sheet roof that has a tendency to leak–a lot. Aksheravani was set up for migrant communities who cannot send their children to traditional schools due to their migrant lifestyle (for example, families of construction laborers who move from project to project). We then move to a private school in which all students have a monthly family income of less than 5,000 rupees per month. Their tuition, books, lunches, and uniforms are all completely free due to generous donations–some even live at the school. I help teach a group of five 10th-grade students basic computer skills–oftentimes it’s just a guessing game whether or not I can actually remember how a PC works. Later, we spend 2 hours back at the Vivekananda School, where we are finally settling into a solid routine. We now work with both the 8th and 9th grade students there, and, after working with 28 students packed into a single classroom, I have a new appreciation for what my mother manages to do with thirty 1st-graders back home. I had my first teacher breakthrough with a “problem student” yesterday, when (after a few withering glances and some pointed questions when he was talking to his friends) the class bully stayed silent for a full hour and a half and said, “Thank you, ma’am” when I was finished teaching the lesson. He might have been sarcastic, but at least he stopped making fun of the other students in class, right?

For the most part, I’ve loved getting to work with these kids. Teaching has become my passion over the past two years, and I’m glad that I can spend my summer learning new techniques for ESL learning in a completely new environment. But the Aksheravani School, at least at the present, makes me feel like a typical American volunteer, coming into a poor “slum” community and playing with little kids with lice in their hair and dirt on their feet for a couple hours a day. But, even worse than that domineering power structure, I feel like we are actually harming many of these students’ educational experiences. For example, many of the students we talked to today have gone to school as recently as 6 days ago, but their parents no longer want them to walk to the government school because they have this “alternative” right in their community. Other girls (as young as 10) were pulled out of school because the 2-minute walk is “dangerous,” or because they need to be there to collect water from the water tanker when it comes, or because they need to wash the dishes while their mother works. But we are in no way an alternative to a real school–we are not trained teachers, we do not speak Telugu, we are leaving in 5 weeks, we only come to Aksheravani for two hours a day. We should be a last resort, there for preschool and kindergarten students who need to be taught the basics. For now, all we’re doing is singing songs and learning the alphabet with students who should be starting to write essays.

There are just so many systemic hurdles to jump through in order to get these students back into a real school. How do you make a community learn to value education, to the point that they will sacrifice so their daughters can go to school? Or is it really not possible for these children to leave home–do their parents have to work such long hours that the child needs to give up school in order to take care of the house? I firmly believe that education should be valued, that it should be respected and upheld as an essential, absolutely essential, right. I just don’t know how to make that happen if someone is thirsty and needs to be there to get the water when it comes.

ABCs and Hello Goodbyes: First Week Teaching English

On Monday, we started teaching an after-school English class to 11 students in the 9^th standard (equivalent to American 9^th grade subjects, except typically about a year younger in age). Keep in mind that my DukeEngage group is made up of 8 students, few of whom have actual teaching experience. Needless to say, collaboration on lesson plans and pedagogical practices has been challenging and frustrating and has led to more than a few rolled eyes and cold shoulders. And the first couple of days were, unsurprisingly, chaotic and unorganized and a tad bit boring for all involved.

A bit of background about the school itself:

Vivekananda School is in the Tolichowki neighborhood of Hyderabad, which is a confusing mess of all socioeconomic strata. The school itself is still being constructed, so just walking into the school involves treks through mud puddles, rivulets of dirty water, wet cement, and crumbling bricks. It also involves the stench of raw sewage and trash, because the community has started to use the area right next to the school as a sort of dump. In order to walk up the stairs, I have to turn my feet sideways for fear of my foot slipping off the step; and it’s challenging trying to walk two by two. The classrooms themselves are tiny in comparison to what’s considered adequate in the US. It’s difficult to explain without pictures, but I would say the room for the 9^th standard students is maybe 10×10—actually, probably closer to 8×10 ft². Students sit three or four to a bench, and there is virtually no room for a teacher to walk about the classroom—really, teaching seems to consist of writing on the blackboard and hitting students with rulers. The school is private, meaning students must pay 750 rupees per month to attend (which is a fairly expensive school, especially given the students’ lower-middle class backgrounds). The school is “English medium,” meaning all classes are supposed to be taught in English, but the teachers themselves have trouble speaking in full sentences in English. The students told us that their teachers explain their English textbooks in Telugu—without this, they would not understand their classes at all.

There are between 340 and 350 students enrolled at this school. There are 13 teachers for all of them—only 3 of which have their BA degrees.

What is that 750 rupees per month per student actually going towards? There’s no playground, no auditorium, no fence, no colorful paint or artwork on the walls. We’ve been struggling in how to judge this school, because we don’t want to assume that this kind of school is “wrong” just because it doesn’t live up to American standards. But even so—it’s difficult to picture this place as a place where students can be creative and learn in a welcoming environment.

All these negative aspects said, working with the 9^th standard class has been a joy. With 11 of them and 8 of us, we have almost 1-on-1 time to teach them at whatever level they need. This week, they’ve learned how to say “See you tomorrow” and the difference between “these and those” and “a and an.” They sang us their national anthem, and we sang them ours as a way to celebrate the 4^th of July. They performed skits about what do to at a market, and told us all about their families. Today, we taught them to sing “ABC” by the Jackson Five, and they even performed for us at the end. These students are learning so fast, and, because of the low teacher to student ratio, their personalities are becoming so clear and so precious to us.

The problem is that, according to their textbooks, these students should be fluent in English by now. They should be using words like “ominous” and understand how to read lengthy short stories. But they can barely even tell us what they want to be when they grow up. We’re only here for 6 weeks—after that, it’s back to Telugu teachers trying their best, but failing, to teach an all-English curriculum. We’re looking for a way to make this project more sustainable over the long term, but it’s difficult to find some sort of community partner interested in English tutoring to a private school. Because, in India, English isn’t just a foreign language—it’s considered the key into a higher-paying job, the skill that sets you apart from the masses. These parents are using whatever extra money they have from painting and day laborer work and auto-rickshaw driving to send their kids to what they believe is a high-quality private school—but I don’t think they’re getting what they’re paying for.

Independence, Indian style. 

Giant Buddhas, Cooking Lessons, and 380 Steps

It’s been a weekend of sightseeing and food adventures, one last chance to relax with no obligations before our volunteer work and lesson planning begins.

This giant Buddha monolith was put into the lake separating Hyderabad from Secunderabad in 1985. On the way out, Buddha fell off his boat and it took quite some time for them to retrieve him from the water. Luckily the boat hadn’t gotten very far, and now Buddha is safe and sound.

According to Bhavani, people in Hyderabad joke that if you want to commit suicide, all you need to do is drink the water in this lake. Ah, the wonderful sense of civic duty and environmental activism that exists here.

Bhavani was kind enough to welcome us into her home and teach us to cook tomato biryani. Those green vegetables are called drumsticks.

and that chai. you don’t even know.

At the top of Golkonda Fort, after climbing 380 uneven stone steps with no railings. The views of the city were well worth it, but I wish the Mughals had left this incredible fort on its own, instead of leaving it in ruins.

These were hand-carved–in the dark–by a prisoner who was kept in solitary confinement for years for building a temple using what was falsely believed to be stolen money.

I’m starting to love India. I knew that I would love the DukeEngage experience as a whole, because my group clicked from the start DukeEngage Academy, and the program’s focus on education policy and ethical engagement is so in line with my own interests. But I didn’t expect to love a place that I now associate with crowded buildings, dust, humidity, bugs, and the possibility of death while crossing the street. I’m starting to see a beauty to it all, though, a rhythm within the chaos. As we’re settling into a routine, and as landmarks are beginning to become more familiar, I’m starting to feel more at home.

That being said, there are certain aspects of Indian culture that I’m having a very difficult time adjusting to. Legally, there is no caste system in India anymore, and yet it is still highly pervasive socially. For example, DukeEngage has been generous enough to provide us with a personal driver 24/7 during our stay here, since public transportation is so dangerous. Our driver, Jagdish, is constantly finding ways to make us feel welcomed, buying us mangos a couple times a week, inviting us to his daughter’s birthday, even finding a pan shop that specially washed the pan leaves in mineral water for us. I feel like he’s as much a part of this experience as our Duke professors, or Bhavani, our cultural coordinator. So why is it that, when we eat dinner at Professor Prasad’s house, Jagdish must wait outside in the car? Of course, this is how having a driver works–it involves a lot of waiting, in order to be available, and this is, after all, his job. But this just doesn’t feel right to me: if someone is serving me so wholeheartedly and devotedly, I should not treat him or her as though he or she is lesser. Rather, it humbles me, and makes me aspire to be more like the one who is in the service role. Here, I’ve noticed that there is little thanks given to those in the service sector; in fact, there’s little acknowledgment at all. There is a separation, an invisible barrier that guards the upper class from having to deal intimately with the lower. And, again, maybe this isn’t accurate–this is merely what I’ve observed in my short time here. But I still can’t justify it.

Finalizing Plans and Swarms of “Rainflies”

So, last night, I was watching Gilmore Girls (shout out to Jay, the Paris to my Rory), and I heard tapping on the window. Oh, how nice, another gentle monsoon rain, I thought. And then I got up to use the bathroom. Our hallway was swarming with what looked like giant flying termites–the rain tapping on my window? Yeah, that was hundreds of their wings beating against the screen. And then they started detaching their wings and crawling under our door. There are about 10 of them currently smashed on my floor (thank you, Teva’s, for thick soles). We stuffed a towel under our door, went to bed, and woke to hundreds of wings scattered around Tagore. Bhavani explained that the bugs are known as “usillu” in Telugu, or rain flies. They come out following the rains, crawl around for a while, then die within 24 hours. I won’t miss them when I come back to the US.

(I didn’t take that last one, I just wanted to give you a better sense of how disgusting they were)

The past week has involved a lot of frustration and complaining. Expectations not met, plans not fulfilled, and now, plans completely changed. We’ve been attending lectures each day for the past week at the Tata Institute for Social Sciences, learning about various aspects of women’s rights, from history of women’s education to women’s empowerment movements in India. It’s been difficult sitting in an un-air conditioned room listening to a heavily-accented lecture for two hours, but they do serve us chai in the afternoons. Some of the interesting facts I’ve learned about India:

1. Because of the high rates of female infanticide and fetacide, it is now illegal for a doctor to tell a pregnant woman what the sex of her child will be.

2. During the Indian Social Reform Movement, reformers (men) worked for women’s education, based on an argument that in the Vedic “Golden Age” (think ancient times), many powerful women were highly educated. But the catch? Mughal rulers were the ones that interrupted the Golden Age, so this 19th century reform movement actually created a lot of anti-Muslim hostility as they looked back at the past.

3. Before laws began to ban it, the vast majority of Indian women were married by age 11.

4. India is the largest producer of processed nuts for export.

5. In America, we’re all about ethical practices. But in the East, where we outsource all of our production, the unethical practices are simply shoved under the rug, and women and children are forced to work in very dangerous conditions–without legal recognition as workers, meaning no legal protections–so that the process appears ethical on the surface.

Today, though, we finally visited the school where we will be volunteering as English teachers for the next 7 weeks. Initially, our plan was to focus specifically on women’s empowerment and its relation to education policy, including two weeks spent in a rural village interviewing women about their societal roles. But we couldn’t wait for 4 weeks to finally work in the field: we needed active engagement, not just more time spent in our international dorm. Thankfully, our DukeEngage coordinator, Leela Prasad, was able to find us a connection to a privately-funded school, in which all students attend for free thanks to generous funding from various NGOs. The school is located in a strange neighborhood, incorporating everything from slums to gated stone mansions, all on a hill overlooking the entire city of Hyderabad. Once we got out of the car, the stares began–people would stop in their tracks just to watch us walk. In order to enter the school, we had to walk through a construction zone–apparently, half of the school is in use while the rest is being completed. The classrooms are probably about half the size of my dorm room, incorporating maybe 30 students, maybe even more. But, when we walked in to introduce ourselves to a 10th standard class (13-year-olds), the students jumped up energetically to tell us about what they’re studying and how much they like school. The girls all wear their hair in two braids, and their uniforms are a bright, clean checkered green. We still don’t know a lot about what exactly volunteering will be like–we’re supposed to work with 8th and 9th standard students on their English skills, but also act as one-on-one mentors with students for the summer. Considering their limited English and my very limited Telugu, this may involve a lot of awkward silence and/or frustrated gesturing. But I’m excited to get out of my dorm and do something with my free time here.

After visiting the school, we visited a local weaving workshop run by Suraiya Hasan Bose. The workshop is the only one in India to still make certain kinds of handwoven fabrics, as many of the skilled weavers were put out of business when the luxurious royal lifestyles of the Nizams became out-of-place in modern India. Some of the saris woven here take up to a year and a half to make, each thread carefully put into place by 1 to 3 women working at a single loom. Most of the weavers at this organization are  women that have been widowed or otherwise deserted by their husbands, leaving them with little social capital in Indian society. All proceeds from the sale of these incredible pieces goes directly back to the program. All in all, a pretty enlightening day in terms of women’s empowerment issues in India.

And this is how complicated a single loom is. 

This piece of cloth is over 200 years old, and yet the silk is still as brightly colored as any brand-new item you could buy today.