Passport Magazine Spring 2015

JOURNEY ACROSS THE

HIMALAYAS A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW

OF PERU

TRAVEL FOR FREE

INTERCONTINENTAL

INSIGHTS Volume 21 Spring 2015

EDITOR’S NOTE Synthesis. Whether being used in an introductory writing course, a conversation between musicians, or in late-night study sessions for Organic Chemistry, the word holds a special significance in a variety of contexts on Duke’s campus. Professors of all disciplines often talk about the importance of frequently reviewing, synthesizing, and reflecting on material. As we absorb new information, taking time to think about it and relate it to previously learned ideas almost always leads to gaining a better understanding of and comfort with that knowledge. During my childhood years, I didn’t have much of an appreciation for synthesis and reflection. I now realize that traveling is much more than a literal voyage away from home. Traveling can encompass a combination of experiences, no matter what these experiences might look like. Going to Kenya through a DukeEngage program or driving up to New York to visit old family friends are not two comparable personal experiences, but they both hold significance for me. In each, I have held onto specific memories such as spending nights cooking kale on a coal stove with my host mother or witnessing the breathtaking view of a double rainbow glistening over the Niagara Falls. Reflecting on these events, I now view traveling not as a predetermined experience complete with a checklist of sights to see, but more so as any experience that I collect cherished memories from. Stories synthesize experiences. We are constantly creating stories— fashioning them from our observations and conversations of the day. As we travel abroad, this storytelling continues as it always has. So, as you flip through this twenty-first issue of Passport, I hope that you are inspired by our writers’ global connections and personal reflections. From a chance encounter in Brussels to a realistic account of life in Paris, from a renewed interest in literature to a sincere narrative on consciousness in a foreign county—each story brings to life the writer’s thoughts from a variety of contexts, a variety of sources. While it sometimes seems necessary to condense our travel experiences into neatly wrapped packages, exploring new places doesn't necessarily have to be formulaic. Looking back on old holidays or vacations, we often think of memories we would have otherwise forgotten. These memories— representations of events of personal value—make up the true essence of traveling. Thank you to our staff for putting together yet another wonderful issue of Passport—especially to our dedicated graduating seniors: Becky and Brendan!

Roshni Prakash

editor-in-chief Roshni Prakash assistant chief Liane Yanglian editor chief graphics Wendy Lu editors Jingyan Jenny Shang editors Maryam Ali Becky Chao Brendan Huang Michelle Lou Elaine Pak Marisa Witayananun graphics Ukyoung Chang editors Becky Chao Rhona Ke Elaine Pak Roshni Prakash Liane Yanglian writers Maryam Ali Becky Chao Jacqui Geerdes Molly Gendell Iris Kim Ruici Ong Risa Pieters Gayle Powell Roshni Prakash Daniel Stublen Rinchen Tara

Passport is a member publication authorized by the Undergraduate Publications Board and sponsored by the International House. The views expressed in this publication are the author’s own and do not reflect the opinions of the magazine.

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photo by odysseas via Flickr

photo by cover photo by by Navin75 via Flickr cover photo back cover photo by by Dennis Jarvis via Flickr back cover photo

CONTENTS Chance Encounter by Jacqui Geerdes Winter on the Tambopata by Ruici Ong Spontaneous Journey Across the Himalayas by Iris Kim and Rinchen Tara Czechs, Condoms, and Controversy by Gayle Powell India: Through my Eyes by Roshni Prakash The Shadows of Paris by Daniel Stublen Traveling through Stories by Molly Gendell An Open Letter to Julianna by Risa Pieters Challenges of Having a Muslim Identity Today by Maryam Ali The Things We Carry by Becky Chao GEOReflects Contest Why not film? Staff Corner

photo by photo by atif peshimam via Flickr

3 5 8 11 13 15 17 20 23 25 27 29

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Memoir Memoir

Brussels, Belgium

Chance Encounter

Best Mussels in

Brussels

by Jacqui Geerdes

“S

o,” my cab driver began with a heavily blended Greek-French accent. He had been quick to inform me that he had moved from Greece to Belgium as a child. “Which part of the United States are you from?” I was in a taxi by myself in the heart of Brussels trying to find my way back to Chez Léon for one final meal of moules frites before heading back to the Midwest. You can make fun of me all you want for going to the same place and ordering the same exact item twice in a week when I had the entire city

to explore. I would. But, man, when a meal is so good that you can’t stop thinking about it, you have to follow your heart and go get those mussels and fries. I snapped myself back to reality. Right. He asked me a question. Stop thinking about the moules frites. Where am I from? “I’m from—well, most people here haven’t heard of it, but I’m from Minnesota. It’s in the northern middle part of the country and it—” “Minnesota!” He nearly stopped the cab he was so excited. His eyes lit up. “Little House on the Prairie! Laura Ingalls. Saint Peter, Minnesota! Do you live close to Saint Peter?”

e Arc de Triomph 3

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know or care about a random state in the middle of the U.S. that isn’t really in the news or movies? Even at Duke, I have had more than a handful of students tell me that they think Minnesota is “next to Idaho maybe” or “somewhere around Kansas” if they really think hard about it. This cab ride was certainly a contrast from the experience that I had in Delphi, Greece, where I stumbled upon a few other Duke students playing games with some local children. They didn’t speak any English, but they wanted to know where we were all from. “They know New York and L.A.,” my friend warned, “and maybe Texas and Florida.” Conveniently, those were exactly the places that most people traveling with me were from. I sighed.

My jaw dropped. For reference, Saint Peter, Minnesota is a quiet town of about 11,000 that is a pretty sizeable hike away from any major city. Keep in mind that I had spent a month and a half before this trying to give Europeans any idea of where I came from. I never expected that anyone would know where Minnesota is because, let’s face it, why would the average person in Europe

“Do you know Minnesota?” They all frowned and shook their heads. “How about maybe…Chicago?” The younger kids looked up at the older ones. Nope, nobody knew Chicago. “How about, I don’t know, Canada?” I cringed a little bit.

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all photos by author unless otherwise cited sticky note template via pixabay.com

“Ohhh, Canada!” Their faces all lit up with understanding as they nodded and smiled. It was close enough for me.

y l n o t o n e m o h r u o y , o y h a w d f e o h t t r f a o p d a n “. .at thees eyou, but it becom. e.”s shap you are

Good Food My thoughts returned back to this cab driver. “I have watched Little House eightythree times,” he proclaimed proudly. “It is my favorite of all time.” There’s something special about having someone recognize your homeland when you are so far away from it. Although when I was a bit younger I tried to distance myself from my Midwestern roots at times, what I realized during my time away was that at the end of the day, your home not only shapes you, but it becomes a part of who you are. Sometimes you need to get far away from it to recognize that, but it’s there all along. When he talked about Minnesota, he wasn’t just talking about a place but a community. Regardless of if I ever move back to the Midwest or not, I will always be a part of that and it will always be a part of me.

After enlightening me with details of his favorite Little House episodes, the cab driver had a few more lessons to share. “The key to staying happy in life is drinking only one glass of wine a day—no hard liquor, no beer. And eating fresh fruits and vegetables and lean meats. None of this processed food. And no smoking. And you need to smile and laugh every day. That’s the key. I’m sixty. Can you believe I am sixty? You can’t, can you? I look forty. Don’t you think I look forty?” I had to agree that he did. I imagined it was hard to swear off beer in a country like Belgium, where I had been encouraged to sample local brews in each city I stopped in—for cultural purposes, of course—but his anti-ale regimen was certainly working for him. As we neared the destination, the driver’s phone rang. He spoke quickly and enthusiastically in French. I heard the words “Minnesota” and “Little House on the Prairie,” and before I knew it he was tossing his phone into my hands.

A Glass of Wine “I want you to talk to my wife!” He insisted proudly. “She works at the Canadian Embassy here.” A little startled and more than a bit confused, I took the phone from him. The cab driver’s wife greeted me cheerfully. “You’re from Minnesota! Did you know that my husband has watched Little House on the Prairie at least eighty times?” Editing by Maryam Ali, graphics by Rhona Ke.

Little House on the Prairie or Saint Peter, Minnesota?

lower left photo by Arkyan via Wikimedia Commons lower middle photo by Jason Blair via Flickr upper right photo by Brendan DeBrincat via Flickr

chance encounter

Memoir

Tambopata, Peru

Winte on the

Tambo pata by Ruic i

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Ong

ight creeps into the sky as I sit suspended more than eighty feet up in a tree. I watch the endless churning ribbon of the milk tea-colored water of Río Tambopata hurtle past. Leaning back into my harness, I wait for my teammates to send the chick up in the bucket. Secured to the trunk is a wooden rectangular box nearly as tall as myself. A hole is cut in the front and a small access door to the side, fastened shut by a latch. The inhabitants of this particular nest box (known to us as Angeles) are a pair of startlingly red scarlet macaws, who watch me with practiced wariness from their perch, a few meters across from me.

one of the pair wearing a satellite collar fluffs its feathers and preens. I hear, faintly, voices of the vet student team from the Schubot Center at Texas A&M University, whose students work under the canopy. They’re measuring the general body condition of Angeles’s single chick, which has been growing fast and appears to be doing well.

Here in the Reserva Nacional de Tambopata in the Peruvian Amazon, the S-shape meanders of this tributary to the Madre de Dios watershed is in constant flux, for the water shapes to its whims the forest and the earth with the patient pressure of its powerful sweeping currents. Days before we watched the river rise with creeping speed in a matter of hours. In a day, it had carved away at and leapt over some parts of the river bank and flooded one of the main trails. Two days ago, the nest Angeles stood tall fourteen meters away from the river. Today, twelve meters. The lead climbers were planning a relocation of the nest box to another tree ten meters, some thirty feet in.

The rhythm of the Amazon drums on

They make soft macaw grumbles (or what a macaw considers as soft) as I place their featherless, bleary-eyed chick that they had hatched and fed for over three months now into a bucket, lined with towels and warmed with a hot water bottle. Made oddly self-conscious by my two feathered assessors, I lower the bucket, its lid shut tightly, to the waiting team. The

Wildlife veterinary science in the field is a world away from what a vet student can learn in the classroom. Despite all the good feelings, there remains a looming problem. The team of Peruvian and American researchers had worried the night before that the nest would not last. The riverbank was going.

The chick at Angeles. It had grown very much by the time I left after three weeks.

all photos by author unless otherwise cited

On the first day of the river’s rising, the boatman of the station’s peke-peke (the motorboat) was nearly swept downstream, when the motor cut as he drove across the river towards the dock. In a mixture of sheer luck, the boat was carried into the riverbank where he somehow stalled it by clinging onto branches for dear life. Further upriver, the station’s team

Vet-in-training Elizabeth Portuguez Luyo weighing Hugo’s chick, guided by Sharman Hoppes.

winter on the tambopata

For once, I watch birds from above leader found herself pushed further and further inland, when the water spilled over the bank, into the observation point. The entire team snapped into emergency mode, sending a group of researchers and staff with radios and machetes to cut a small path off the main trail to rescue him and repair the boat.

suitable rotting log to set up a new colony. Termites, sending forth winged-adults to prospect for real estate. I am by no means the only one to notice this.

After lunch, our regular schedule kicked in.

Two dark-colored nunbirds with their bright coral beaks arrive. Then four. Five. They sit calmly and silently on branches around mid-storey, occasionally launching themselves into the air to capture a winged termite mid-air and return to their perches to swallow their prize, a decisive snip of their beaks closing shut on an unfortunate termite, against the backdrop of swirling river sounds.

The macaws don’t stop making their clay lick visits, the chicks don’t stop growing.

A thought surfaces in my head. For once, I watch birds from above. The bird

The motor quickly repaired, part of the team and the boatman set out to retrieve our stranded colleague. Just in time for lunch.

harness with rubber-booted feet dangling, and every fiber of my being supported by a strategically-tied rope, looped over this tree and wrapped securely around an anchor. A woodpecker with a golden streak painted down its back flies in above me, working its way in staccato rhythm along the upper branches. A heavy-set, dark shape, rounded wings and slim tail, suggest the arrival of a Spix’s guan, a curious-looking creature from a group of birds found only in the Americas. I hear the flurry of wingbeats as it lands on a branch at my eye-level. Whether the new arrivals are joining the nunbirds in their pursuit of termites is unclear. Whatever it is, it's a bird party. Our nest guardians watch, nonplussed, from their perch. Elizabeth, my veterinarian student teammate and friend, calls up to me from below. “¿Estás lista para el pichón?” My cue to get ready to return the chick. “Sí, mándamelo,” I call back down.

Receiving the bucket on a pulley with its precious cargo, some twenty-five meters up. The rhythm of the Amazon drums on.

I grab the approaching bucket firmly by the handle, secure it between my knees, and clip its carabiner into a harness loop. The macaws eye me intently. I return the chick and slide the latch back to lock the little side door, not without letting out a breath in relief. Taking in the view around me for one last time, I re-route the rope system, strap on my gloves, and lower myself down.

A thin column of hundreds of little individual plastic spinning tops rises. Adult termites ready to establish colonies are leaving their nest to search for a

enthusiast’s many experiences of a tired neck and an aching back from staring up into the canopy from below are not easily forgotten. What a difference a seemingly simple change in perspective makes; most times I walk the ground surefootedly. Today, I am covered in sweat despite the cool morning air. I am strapped into a

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top right photo by ashraful kadir via Flickr

Back to where I am in the tree.

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Editing by Liane Yanglian, graphics by Ukyoung Chang.

Memoir

Indian Region

Spontaneous Journey Across the

himalayas *

by Iris Kim and Rinchen Tara

spontaneous journey across the himalayas

Rinchen

Iris

sweet aroma of Amdo Bhaley (a type of Tibetan bread that we had everyday for breakfast).

s I stepped out of a baggage carousel with other travelers, I faced hundreds of foreign faces scanning me. But all the hustle and bustle and humidity calmed down when I saw Rinchen. During the thirty-minute cab ride from Indira Gandhi International Airport to our guesthouse, when we were not so busy chatting, I surveyed what I could make out of the streets amidst the dusty, foggy air. The next evening, we were on a local overnight bus to Dharamsala, home to the Tibetan exile government and over 10,000 Tibetans, the largest concentration in the Tibetan diaspora. Luckily, our seats were on the first row, so we didn’t have to sit on the wheel for the steamy twelve-hour ride north to the foothills of the Himalayas. Sitting by the window, I looked out to see the low moon hanging on the same corner until dusk. We passed several large buildings— colleges and military academies—and for a good minute, we passed a slum, where halfclothed children stepped over layers of trash and recycling bags. It felt unreal that I was separated only by a glass window from that world. I felt Delhi’s notorious summer heat

throughout the night, waking up each time the bus stopped because the sticky air would wrap around my face. Around midnight, we stopped at a restaurant. We ordered rice, dal, and aloo dum, but after a few spoonfuls, the heat was unbearable, and we couldn’t eat anymore. As we started climbing the mountains, the humid air started to clear

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up and I finally slept through the curvy turns around the mountains as we made our way to Dharamsala.

The next morning, we finally reached McLeod Ganj, a suburb of Dharamsala also known as the "Little Lhasa" or "Dhasa" (a short form of Dharamsala that Tibetans mainly use). After an exhausting night of bus ride, it was indeed refreshing to see the mighty Dhauladhar range (a southern branch of the Himalayan mountains) welcoming us with morning sunlight beams, clean air, and chirping bird sounds. It was too beautiful and precious to miss the moment. With all my effort, I took out my camera which was stuck in the overhead compartment with my bags and captured the very first moment of our arrival in Dharamsala. As soon as we stepped out of the bus, I saw Kunga, one of my closest friends who just finished her undergraduate studies in Bangalore, waiting for us. Even though we hadn’t seen each other for more than four years, it felt as if we had never been apart. The impression McLeod gave me was that it never changes. We saw many Tibetan elders heading to Tsuglhag Khang, the residence of the Dalai Lama, for early morning circumambulations around the Namgyal Monastery. We also smelled the

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On the third day, while sitting at a tourist Dolma cafe, which happened to have the same name as Rinchen, Rinchen learned that her uncle, whom she had not seen for thirteen years, would be attending the fourteenth Kalachakra Initiation in Leh, Ladakh. After discussing with a local travel agent, we spontaneously decided to leave the next morning. We would leave at dawn and be on the road for two days, stopping at Manali on the first night. When we made this decision, we had no idea about the conditions of the road or what altitudes we would be driving across. At 4:30 am, with nothing but a camera and a backpack each, we met our Nepali driver whom I remember as bhaiya and his Toyota that would cross the second and the third highest road passes in the world. As we drove on relatively smooth roads down to Lower Dharamsala, we were still oblivious to what would come next, and it was pleasant to watch the sun illuminate the green-blue mountain range. Soon enough, though, we were on a two-lane road climbing higher

and higher mountains covered with snow, without any protections that would prevent us from falling off the cliff. There was rarely any traffic along the way. all photos by authors unless otherwise cited top flag photo by Lisa Tully via Flickr middle flag photo by Denise Chan via Flickr bottom flag photo by Kate Ter Haar via Flickr all flag photos modified

But we had to stop once for an indefinite amount of time because a rock at the top of the mountain could fall at any moment. In the distant road sloping up the mountain, I spotted cars stuck and lined up right after another, and down at the valley where we were, the drivers were all parked and gathered together to

to for the soup that cured my throbbing altitude sickness.

After almost twenty-eight hours of driving on some of the highest passes in the world, we finally reached Ladakh. But that was not the end of our journey. There were many

place to sleep that night. We were not allowed to stay with my uncle as that place was especially reserved for his group. So we went knocking on houses in the villages nearby, asking if they had a spare room. It wasn’t surprising that most houses were already full. Just when we were losing our hope, out of nowhere, a very kind Ladakhi man came to us and offered his home. It was just incredible that we college students found a home at that moment. Upon reaching their home, they offered us tea and snacks. They told us to call them pala and amala (father and mother in Tibetan). Culturally, it meant that they considered us as family and was a way for us to respect them as elders. Their kind hospitality eased our exhausted bodies, and we slept so well that night. For their kindness we are eternally thankful. Hopefully we can go back to our home in Ladakh one day in the near future!

check on the situation. Luckily, we were soon back on the road, but from then on, the mountains were higher and the roads were rockier. The roads up the mountains were shaped like Vs, so we had to go up one side of the mountain, make a turn every few hundred feet, and come down the other side, only to cross another mountain right afterwards. We went from the green mountain ranges to completely snow-covered mountains with walls of ice to desert mountains, where we went for hours without seeing a single sign of life. Before we reached the flat roads in Leh, we also came across a tornado, multiple bathroom stops (once it was a doorless squatty potty overlooking the most exquisite and refreshing view of the Himalayas), the second highest road pass in the world at 17,582 feet, and a Ladhaki woman whom I will be forever grateful

more uncertainties lined up on our way. On the road to Leh, we saw thousands of people from across the globe who had gathered in the highland of Ladakh for the Kalachakra teachings, so finding accommodation was very hard. Moreover, we didn’t know where my uncle was staying since we had no phone signal. We randomly asked people on the road, and fortunately, someone took us to the right place. The moment I saw my sixtynine-year-old uncle, I ran and hugged him and said “Uncle, I am Donkho (what my family calls me).” But he was so confused and he couldn’t recognize me as I was not the little kid he used to know. But in my eyes, he still looked the same. That moment was one of the most precious moments in my life. I still can’t find proper words to describe that feeling. That was a beautiful memory I would cherish forever. In the midst of excitement and happiness, we still didn’t have a proper

The next day, we headed to Pangong Tso. During our sophomore year, we watched Three Idiots, of which the last scene was shot near Pangong Tso (Tibetan for “long, narrow, enchanted lake”) in Ladakh. Since then we always talked about making a trip there, but we never knew that our dream would come so soon. Surrounded by desert mountains, this clear, cold lake of seven different shades of blue was unreal. At 14,000 feet above sea level, it is clearly one of the last gems of nature that humans have not tampered with. In the future, we have a beautiful story to tell our kids how crazy their mothers were in their early twenties. We were very fortunate to have safely returned from the trip. None of us had ever ventured to Ladakh before or had any acquaintances. In the spur of one moment, our spontaneity took us over. Ironically, without that impulsive decision, we probably would not have had the guts to go to Ladakh. You never know what kind of miracles will happen in life! Editing and graphics by Elaine Pak. spontaneous journey across the himalayas

Essay

Czech Republic

by Gayle Powell

Czechs, Condoms,

U-486. On first glance it looks like the name of a major highway or the code name for a top-secret science experiment. Upon greater exploration, this seemingly meaningless mish-mash of numbers and letters is much more. RU-486 is the name of the recently legalized and highly controversial abortion pill now available in the Czech Republic. Despite the country’s history of liberal perspectives in regards to the practice of abortion, the legalization of this pill has reignited an intense debate as to the legitimacy and morality of abortion in the country and across the world. Surprisingly, 700,000 Czechs recently signed The Movement for Life’s petition against the legalization of RU-486. At first glance the Czechs’ views on abortion seemed unified. “So what are your opinions on abortion?” I asked. “It’s really not a big deal. Every woman is entitled to make her own decisions.” Huh, okay, I thought, as I watched the Charles University student that I questioned walk away, and I set sights on my next target. I repeated the same question to the new student. “People don’t really talk about it, no one really cares what people choose to do.”

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My jaw dropped. As I continued to ask a variety of Czech students their views on abortion, I got similar answers each time. I walked away from the campus fixated on the overwhelming difference in public opinion on abortion between those in the Czech Republic and those in the United States. Don’t they really care? The liberal public opinion on abortion in the Czech Republic, a society that is economically less progressive and culturally more conservative than my own, shocked me. As a young American female, I am fully aware that protests, intimidation tactics, and slut shaming are just a few of the actions that are frequently associated with abortion. In 2015, the reality is that not every woman in the United States has access to a safe and legal abortion clinic. The availability of safe abortion clinics varies significantly from state to state, and it is irrefutable that abortion is one of the most controversial issues in United States’ culture and politics. According to the most recent Gallup poll, only 28% of Americans are in favor of legal access to abortion in all cases. For an American, the controversy over RU-486 represented the norm. Inspecting the history of the Czech Republic’s abortion policy illuminates a significant reason for its liberal views on the topic. Whereas the United States is still attempting to define the legal parameters of abortions, abortions have been legal in

spring 2015

the Czech Republic since 1957. Before the 1989 Revolution, the rates of abortion in the Czech Republic were extremely high. “Abortion culture” is the term used to describe the nature of birth regulating behavior in the socialist countries of Central and Eastern Europe until the end of the 1980s. Liberal abortion policies coupled with the health system’s encouragement of curative rather than preventative medicine made abortions affordable, accessible, and socially acceptable. Shockingly, in 1989, nine out of ten fetuses were aborted and the number of abortions equaled, and in some cases surpassed, the number of births. The public’s lack of knowledge of contraception due to the Communist government’s taboo approach to sex education and family planning could be identified as the primary reason for the large number of abortions performed each year. It seems almost unbelievable but abortion was the preferred form of birth control mostly because abortion was free and contraceptives were not. In the post-Communist Czech Republic, the country experienced a sharp decline in the rate of abortion due to the wider availability of contraception and sex education. The Czech Republic now has a lower abortion rate per capita than any other country in the former Eastern European bloc. However, abortion is still widely accessible, relatively affordable, and generally accepted by the public. Surveys

photo by Toffee Maky via Flickr

and Controversy find that 81% of Czechs are supportive of abortion. These tolerant attitudes towards abortion are an anomaly in the European Union where many countries, primarily for religious reasons, remain staunchly opposed to the practice. The average rate of acceptance of abortion in the European Union hovers at just 61%. Therefore, my conversations with the Czech teens on abortion were completely distinct from my discussions on the same subject with American students. When posing the same question to American individuals, I found the range of opinions far more extreme and the intensity of their opinions also more intense. A few students simply declined to answer my question with phrases like, “We really shouldn’t get into that” or “Woah…let’s not go there. Too much controversy.” Others firmly disagreed with abortion as a choice for women stating remarks such as, “Don’t get mad because you are a girl, but I think abortion should be illegal without a doubt. It is bullshit that it is even up for debate.” A final cadre of students I spoke with discussed the absolute necessity of abortion as a viable option, and how sad it is that the United States government has not yet mandated abortion be an option for women in all states. A recent Gallup poll reinforces the validity and widespread nature of my findings. The survey found that while a

majority of American teens (aged 13 to 17) do find abortion acceptable, a full third believe that it should be illegal in all circumstances. While abortion is posed to remain a contentious issue in the United States, in the Czech Republic, it remains a relatively socially accepted option; the 700,000 signatures on The Movement for Life’s petition against the legalization of RU-486 represent the minority of people’s views. However, while the Czech Republic is overwhelmingly in support of abortion, the number of abortions in the Czech Republic has fallen to its lowest level since abortion was legalized in 1958. Roughly 22,700 abortions were performed in 2013, more than five times lower than the peak in the 1980s. In those years, there were approximately 125,000 abortions annually. Czech advocates of contraception cite the promotion of alternative forms of birth control as the main factor in reducing the number of abortions. “This is a great success,” Dr. Jaroslav Zverina, a member of the European Parliament and head of the Sexology Institute at Charles University, told the Prague Post, “It shows our women have gained the freedom to plan their families.” Today, the Czech Republic has one of the highest rates of contraceptive use in the world. With 86% of women aged 15-49 using contraceptives, the Czech

Republic has a contraceptive rate that is only surpassed by Norway and Portugal. It is reported that 40% of women in the Czech Republic now take the birth control pill whereas less than 10% used it in the 1980s. As one Czech student I spoke with said, “I mean abortions are fine if that is what you need to do, but these days any smart person would just pick up a condom!” Yet, there is concern amongst some that the availability of the RU-486 pill will naturally lead to sexual irresponsibility. As Xenie Preiningerová, a Catholic gynecologist from Jaroměřice nad Rokytnou in eastern Czech Republic reported, “I don’t understand why a new method [of abortion] is being introduced at a time when the number of abortions is decreasing.” So clearly, abortion has always been and will continue to be a divisive issue with explosive potential. Each country’s government and its people have a set of unique views as to the legitimacy and morality of abortion. Unlike the majority of Americans, most Czechs seem pretty receptive to the practice; their country’s more recent transition from abortion culture to the prevailing use of modern contraceptives mirrors the country’s more recent transition from a communist society to a democratic one. Editing and graphics by Liane Yanglian.

czechs, condoms, and controversy

Essay

Kerala, India

INDIA:

THROUGH MY EYES by Roshni Prakash

omeday, I’m going to travel the world.

the crowd of families and cab drivers for my uncle and finally catching sight of his big smile and enthusiastic wave, the visit suddenly feels new and exciting. As my uncle drives through the crowded streets of Kasaragod, a small district in the state of Kerala, I observe the crowds of men, women, and children moving aside to let the traffic pass. Their eyes follow our car, watching the stack of suitcases precariously tied on the roof as we move past the honking rickshaws and zooming motorcycles.

“Maybe during college,” I’d optimistically told myself in high school. Now, toward the end of my third year as an undergraduate, I can certainly say that I am not a globetrotter. Looking back, though, I realize that I have been fortunate to travel—not in the form of a popular semester-long study abroad program, perhaps, but still valuable for experiencing parts of the world outside my own. Every three years, my family and I would pack our large suitcases, filling them with cotton clothes, clinking jewelry, sugary snacks, and small gifts. Going as a family of five, we always found the twentytwo-hour journey to India an interesting feat to conquer. Once we had exhausted all of the kid-friendly movie options on the long flight, my sisters and I would attempt to sleep in any possible conformation we could and take turns checking how far the picture of the plane had moved on the map on the screen. It was a relief to step off the plane and feel the rush of humid, stuffy air hit my face—it was a confirmation that we had finally arrived at our destination: India. Every time we go to India, the journey is the same. We go through the actions mechanically —tediously filling out customs forms detailing our luggage contents, making sure all of our passports are bundled together so that we can move more quickly through the winding lines, going through the mini-interrogations of customs officers asking for the purpose of our visit and our plans. But as soon as we step outside the airport, eagerly scanning

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These memories that I recall so vividly—these are the parts of my experiences that I treasure, particularly because

they

are

different from anything I feel, see, or hear in the U.S.

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When we pull into the rocky, bumpy road that leads to my grandparents’ house, I always feel a pang of anxiety knowing that I would be entering the house to greet not only my cousins and grandparents, but also a number of visitors who would happen to stop by for a meal that day. This is something that I always have trouble getting used to; the openness with which my family in India welcome guests feels so unfamiliar to me, since I come from a home where having people over is a rare (and fairly stressful) event. Indian culture, as demonstrated by my grandparents’ endless capacity to entertain guests, highly values hospitality. The doors to the house would remain open every day, from 7 am to 10 pm. As time passes and the sun slowly sets, the fluorescent light would eventually invite a few more visitors into the house − moths, geckos, and flies. Like this, the days would go by. While at times I get restless from this daily idleness, my mind eventually adapts, cherishing the break from the usual overload of information it experiences back home. My sisters and I would attempt to help out in the kitchen only to end up watching as our grandma makes crispy dosas and masala chai.1 The sounds of oil sizzling in the pans, all photos by author

dishes clinking in the sink, and the wooden bench squeaking as it is pulled out for us to sit on would repeat at all hours of the day. In the background, commercials for lightening cream and trailers for new Bollywood movies would provide a continuous soundtrack for the day’s activities. These memories that I recall so vividly– these are the parts of my experiences that I treasure, particularly because they are so different from anything I feel, see, or hear in the U.S. India’s crowded streets are filled with people walking inches from each other, all heading to their individual destinations. Vehicles weave through traffic, honking when they are preparing to overtake the car or bus that is speeding dangerously closeby. Here in America, I don’t have the chance to ride in the back of a Jeep with my sisters and cousins, loudly singing Bollywood songs, seeing cows casually strolling through the streets. There are no clothing stores for me to go to and stand at the counter, watching as the storeowner waits for me to identify my favorite as he unfolds stacks of colorful salwars and saris.2 There are no red earth floors for me to sit on while I use a banana leaf as my dinner plate

desperately waving my hand over the leaf to tell my aunties that I do not want another round of rice and rasam.3 There are no roofs for me to lie down on to look up at the night sky full of sparkling stars, like I do at my grandparents’ house in India. Students that travel to India for study abroad or DukeEngage programs often come back with pictures of the Taj Mahal or The Red Fort. They may detail their experiences by noting the sights of the blue tarp roofs of slums lining the roads, the vibrant saris displayed in the store windows, the young children selling chai to bus passengers, or the collection of colorful spices at the markets. While my travels in India may not be as exotic as these, I still consider them valuable. I’m understanding

India through my own lens and learning by living the way I would like to. This could be partially attributed to my freedom from the obligations of following a structured itinerary or sightseeing schedule. The time I spend in India might not be something I can categorize as a customary travel experience, an event that I can neatly condense into a line on my resume. It might not be defined as a turning point in my life, or a series of photographs that can be compiled into a single Facebook album. I still do dream of traveling to other countries, taking in the scenic routes, unfamiliar sights and smells, and observing different cultures. But if traveling is of personal significance for me—a tool that I can use to explore, to learn on my own terms—maybe I’m closer to becoming a globetrotter than I thought. Editing by Becky Chao, graphics by Roshni Prakash. 1. dosa: a type of food made in South India; has the consistency of a crepe 2. salwar: an article of clothing for females consisting of a pant, long top, and shawl 3. rasam: a soup-like staple food in South India; often paired with white Basmati rice

india: through my eyes

Opinion

Paris, France

The

S HAD OWS Of PARIS

by Daniel Stublen

hile the fading white Sacré-Coeur Basilica looms over the city atop its perch in Montmartre, another landmark on the banks of the River Seine receives global recognition as the symbol of Paris. The Eiffel Tower, named for its chief architect Alexandre Gustav Eiffel, was built for the 1889 World’s Fair and held the title of tallest man-made structure up until the finishing of the Chrysler Building in 1930.1 With its network of iron and steel, the tower highlighted the general theme of industrialism at the heart of the World’s Fair—looking toward a future filled with efficiency, comfort, and technology. However, at the same time, a large group of Parisians took to the streets to protest such an unorthodox addition to their city-scape — and they would have had their wishes of a demolition fulfilled had the tower not provided such great benefits for radio transmission. Today, millions flock to this landmark and wait hours in line to get a beautiful aerial view of Paris. What they will see, however, is the antithesis of the Eiffel Tower—rows of Haussmanian 19th

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century facades and Gothic cathedrals poking out above low-lying zinc roofs. The other landmarks these same people will visit also are antithetical to the modernism of the Eiffel Tower: the undeniable pearl of the Louvre is a Renaissance painting (and the Louvre itself highlights the Renaissance), the Arc de Triomphe marks Napoleon’s victories over 200 years ago, and all the boulangeries, chocolateries, and crêperies harken back to France’s long traditions of small batch artisans. I think this love of a symbol antithetical to the more historical appeal of Paris highlights our lack of understanding and false idealization of the City of Lights. In fact, a syndrome exists where people are hospitalized due to extreme distress when they visit Paris and realize that it is not as idyllic as it appears in popular culture. What I hope to do here, then, is to offer a realistic view of a city I love, through individual anecdotes that are not in the least ideal. 1. Paris is filled with tourists. Millions of tourists, all visiting sights such as the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and that one tiny falafel shop in the Marais. But when these

spring 2015

hoards are not queuing at these magnets, they are using the public transportation, blocking the whole sidewalk, or trying to figure out what a crêpe-salée is while a line quickly forms behind them. When residents are in a hurry, people who are not rushing with similar speed instantly become stationary obstacles. Because there is such a huge quantity of tourists, and the sidewalks were made for 1800s capacities, Parisians have more of an opportunity to get annoyed. Think about other ultra-tourist locales such as Time Square and Trafalgar Square, and how native New-Yorkers and Londoners know to avoid such crazy locations. The French are therefore not naturally “rude” or “American Haters,” but they, of course, dislike the millions of people blocking their way, many of whom just happen to be American. 2. Paris has crime. The most blaring example for tourists and foreigners in Paris is petty crime—pick-pocketing and scams mostly. Not only does having your wallet stolen cause lots of hassle, forcing you to cancel credit cards and have IDs re-issued, it creates a feeling of insecurity. You can take measures to mitigate these thefts, such as keeping your wallet in all photos by author

your front pocket and holding on tight to your cell phone in the metro—but the one time you have too many drinks or are extremely pressed for time, you forget to take these precautions, and the pickpockets take advantage. In fact, one of my friends had his laptop stolen while he dozed in the metro and another had her cell-phone snatched from her streetside table at a café. In brief, keeping all your belongings safe requires constant vigilance in Paris. No, you don’t need secret-service style protection to stay safe, but generally you must exert much more attention than you do walking around the Gothic Wonderland that is West Campus. 3. This problem of pick-pocketing and scamming has a dubious relationship with immigrant populations in general, but especially the Roma. This diverse ethnic minority (so diverse that it is probably impossible to define such an umbrella term) has been the victim of much racism across Europe, and has a long history of discrimination in France. The beautiful Esmeralda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, classified as gypsy, was most likely based off this ethnic minority—and we see clearly the bias she endures at the hand of the church and public in general. Not coincidentally, the Cour des miracles from the same novel represents the underbelly of Paris, where outcasts band

together to set up crime rings as it is the only occupation open to them. The ethnic minorities, and their children, are still, today, taken under the wings of crime ring leaders, and therefore make up a distinguishable subpopulation of criminals. This distinction then leads quickly to stereotyping of the whole population as “naturally criminal.” Victor Hugo, over 150 years ago in The Hunchback of Notre Dame not only critiqued the banishment of physically deformed Quasimodo, but also the blatant racism against the marginalized ethnic minorities. While the setting of his famous novel is fifteenth-century Paris, some of its darker tales easily relate to the twenty-first. 4. Anyone who spends even a small amount of time in Paris will realize that a large homeless population exists. To a student coming from a non-urban campus, this difference, albeit one probably only of visibility, actually can be quite a shock. Daily, you are faced with people begging in the metro and sleeping on street corners. I will always remember the rotten stench that filled a metro car, emanating from a man lying on the ground. People covered their noses and pushed away from the man, wishing that the metro was not the more modern single car line, but one with multiple individual cars. I have no idea if he was alive or dead and

sadly, this was not a unique event. I do not remember all the individuals, but I remember frequently seeing the same red, swollen feet barely guarded from the city ground, supporting a bearded, tattered individual. It was also extremely painful to see families with young children cooking their meals daily on a Bunsen burner, on the corner of the Place de la République. Or the mother cradling her child with Down syndrome, begging outside of the Monoprix on the Rue du Temple. These moments surely attack the idyllic notion of Paris we have come to know, and that is commercialized by the luxury goods stores based in the ChampsElysées and in the Galeries-Lafayette. What I have tried here to do is give a realistic view of a fantastic city. I also do not mean to show that Paris is declining from its once idyllic state—you would hear similar stories, if not more tragic, for as long as Americans have visited Paris. Paris may be the City of Lights, but we must not forget the shadows. Editing by Brendan Huang, graphics by Wendy Lu. 1. The Eiffel Tower at a glance-Things to Remember”. SETE (Official Tour Eiffel website), n.d. Web. 3 Apr. 2015

the shadows of paris

Memoir

United Kingdom

Traveling Through Stories by Molly Gendell

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spring 2015

ngland is a pretty great place to be a bookworm. I had always sort of known this, but I never realized just how true it was until I actually began my semester abroad in London. When I told people I would be spending the fall studying at King's College in London, they were quick to reply how perfect that was for an English major. I agreed, but to be honest I was mostly thinking only of the fact that I would be in an English-speaking country. Yes, I had read and loved plenty of British literature, and I was excited to see famous spots like Shakespeare’s Globe and Platform 9¾, but that was far from being the deciding factor in my decision. I was going to London because I had always dreamed of studying abroad in England, and I simply had a gut feeling that London was the place for me. Books had never even come into the equation. But I could have never imagined the way that literature comes alive in England, or the way it would come to shape my study abroad experience, popping up in the most unexpected of places.

I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember, even before I could read very well for myself. My mom used to read to me every night before I went to sleep, starting with Peter Rabbit and Dr. Seuss and moving up to chapter books once I was old enough. My favorites were the Little House on the Prairie books, which started my bizarre life-long obsession with life on the frontier. Sometimes I got so caught up that it really felt like I was there. I was there eating freshly baked cookies with Ma and Pa, I was there sitting safely inside the house as the worst blizzard of the century raged outside, I was there crossing the wide open prairie in a covered wagon on the way to my new home. Once I was old enough to read for myself, I found myself going back to those books every few months. I would sit in front of my bedroom window in my child-sized armchair and pull the curtains around me to create my own little reading nook. I blocked out the real world and immersed myself in the world of my book, using my overactive imagination to travel through time and space. And every time I picked up one of the Little House books, I could be right back there in a second. It started to feel cozy and familiar, a place I had visited many times before. I read other books too, each one enveloping and engrossing me as I spent entire afternoons reading before wondering how fast the time had gone by.

than the few fun beach reads I devoured during the summer, my childhood love for reading was slowly but steadily slipping away, and I felt powerless to stop it. But then came my semester abroad. I was expecting to find a new passion for traveling while abroad, but I never predicted the way travel would remind me of my old enthusiasm for reading. During my semester in England, I traveled to Denmark, Spain and Scotland, and couldn’t help but notice the literary connections that popped up wherever I went. In Copenhagen, I saw Hans Christian Andersen’s old house and the famous Little Mermaid statue. Strolls through picturesque fields filled my head with visions of childhood fairytale books and their richly colored illustrations that would not have been out of place here. Barcelona showed me areas that were nearly destroyed during the Spanish Civil War, places that were captured in George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. They stood mostly unchanged

As I got older, though, reading started to lose some of its charm. I could no longer just step out of the real world for a few hours, and most of the time I didn’t really want to anyway. There was too much going on, and even when I did have time to read, my mind was too full with worries about school and plans for the weekend and stress about the future, and I couldn’t focus. I read for English classes, but that wasn’t the same. Even when I liked the book, I hated having to read it always thinking about what my next essay question would be or what I would say about this chapter in class. Other all photos by author unless otherwise cited background by LWYang via Flickr

traveling through stories

into a story and traveling back to that moment in history. My trip to Edinburgh included a literary walking tour led by a delightful old man who showed us the hospital where Arthur Conan Doyle met the real-life inspiration for Sherlock Holmes, Robert Louis Stevenson’s favorite bar (later renamed The Hispaniola after the ship from his Treasure Island), and the small, inconspicuous café where some lady named J.K. Rowling wrote a little book about a boy wizard. As I discovered my love for traveling during my time abroad, I was also regaining my old love for reading. When you think about it, this seems only logical, because reading and traveling really aren’t that different from one another. During my travels, I got to discover new places and learn about their history and their culture. I met interesting people and listened while they told me their stories. I spent a weekend staying with a host mother in a small suburb of London, who told me how she had started opening her house to host children as a way to travel without leaving the house. I realized that this wasn’t all that different from what I did when I read—welcoming in characters and opening myself up to the stories they had to tell, living vicariously through them all the while. Traveling opened my eyes to new ways of life and made me look at my life with a whole new perspective. Isn’t that exactly what a good book should do, too? But of all my travels, it was England that enchanted me the most. Every morning my walk to school took me a walkway along the South Bank, my heart leaping every time I caught my first glimpse of 19

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the Thames rushing beneath Southwark Bridge. This walk, more than anything, had become my place—my river, my bridges, my benches perched on the end of Gabriel’s Wharf. And of course, there was one of my favorite landmarks along the way—Shakespeare’s Globe. It’s an appropriately named building—white and quaint and dome-shaped, and behind it was a wide-open amphitheater where actors had been performing plays since the days when Shakespeare was still alive. Seeing this place where literature quite literally came alive on stage made me think about how I used to bring written worlds to life.

For the rest of the semester, I tried to spend some time traveling to as many worlds as possible. I took the bus to beautiful Oxford, and was practically giddy when a tour guide told us Oscar Wilde was once expelled from the school in the very room we were sitting in. I read Jane Eyre in a quaint and cozy bed and breakfast in the English countryside, staring out the windows at the mountains and the rain pouring down, a landscape not all that different from Jane’s mysterious moors. We discussed A Christmas Carol in my English class, and then I took a short walk to the Charles Dickens Museum and spring 2015

stood in front of the writing desk where he had once crafted masterpieces. I traveled to the old spa town of Bath, where I saw all the sights I had seen before in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. It seemed like now that I had opened my eyes to it, the connections were everywhere. Now that I was letting my imagination take over, it was enriching my study abroad experience more than I ever could have imagined. One of the many lessons I learned from studying abroad is the power of stories. Stories can perfectly capture a place and time, keeping it alive forever. They can shape the way you live your life, and the way you think about your own story. They can bring people together and they can open your eyes to the whole, wide, wonderful world. I now have a whole to-read list of books that remind me of England, and even though it might take years to read them all, I’m content to know that I will always be able to crack open a book and relive that once-in-a-lifetime experience. But I have an even longer list of other books, books about places I’ve always wanted to go to and issues I’ve always been curious about and people who seem like they have an interesting story to share. My semester abroad may be over, but that definitely doesn’t mean I’m done traveling. I don’t know where or how far my wanderlust will end up taking me, but there is one thing I can count on for sure: if I ever feel the urge to once again explore a new land, I only need to go as far as the library. Editing by Marisa Witayananun, graphics by Jenny Shang. background photo by Lajon Tanganco via Flickr

Open Letter

Europe

AAn n Open Open

letter to JJulianna ulianna by Risa Pieters

an open letter to julianna

An open letter to the girl who over two weeks enjoyed street food, cheap wine, dirty hostels, and confusing maps with me and along the journey became my best friend. To all girls interested in backpacking with a friend, this is to you.

Dear Julianna,

I don’t really know how you put up with me when I spent way too much time in antique shops or when I forced you to try marzipan at the Christmas market and you hated it. How did I get so lucky — you translated our Spanish gondola tour in Venice and searched for over an hour determined to find a restaurant with gluten-free pasta for me.

miss you more than I miss hotmulled wine (and that’s saying a lot). With all the stress of classes and internships, I wish I could rewind to our backpacking trip, enjoying the city lights of Istanbul, strolling through Athens, soaking in Italy from trains and boats, and dancing in the snow-covered streets of Vienna past midnight. They say traveling is intensified living—and most definitely those two weeks were intensified fun. Throwback to our first day in Athens when we ditched our map, grabbed a Greek Frappe and wandered around aimlessly. When we somehow stumbled upon the front entrance of the Acropolis we knew immediately that we would make the perfect backpacking pair. Or maybe it was when we sat next to the Parthenon and threw chickpeas off the edge at other tourists—thinking it was hilarious. When I’m an old grandma reminiscing about the best moments of my life, that night in Athens sitting at the top of the first Olympic Stadium

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and watching the sun set behind the Acropolis, will definitely be one of them. Also, I’ll never forget the second night, when we watched the sun set over the Aegean Sea and all of Athens from the very top of Mt. Lycabettus eating gyros. Let’s not go into details though about how we got terribly lost in the dark after coming down the mountain, gave in and hailed a cab, only to find out we were “lost” only two blocks from our hostel.

Even though our easy-going free spirits kept our parents on their toes, my favorite aspect of our trip was that we had absolutely no plan or itinerary. We would arrive in a city, find a hostel and hope they had a room open. At the hostel, we would use their computer and Google search, “Map of Europe”, and then stare at the computer screen until we decided our next destination. Then we would try and

Even though it was below freezing in Italy, I could count on you to still eat Nutella gelato in Milan with me. I will also never forget Christmas Eve camping out at a Burger King to make sure we would get a seat at midnight mass in the Duomo. When Christmas carols rang from the surrounding buildings and the white lights lit the big tree in the center of the square, we couldn’t help but smile like giddy five year olds. While we weren’t at home spending Christmas with our families, we were creating a new Christmas memory so special of its own. That one Christmas in Italy when we were twenty—listening to live trumpets, wearing Santa hats sitting on the steps of the Duomo di Milano, enjoying chocolate and hot-mulled wine. spring spring 2015 2015

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find a bus or train that would somehow get us there. So for the last bit of our trip, when a friend told us, “There is no better place in the world to celebrate New Year's Eve than Vienna.” I was so happy we somehow made it there by train. The streets were filled with people from all over the world—we befriended people from South Africa, Iraq, Turkey, India, and Italy over sparkling drinks. We tried our first hot tequila from a street vendor and we danced down the main snowcovered streets surrounded by others dancing to the live music too. We arrived at the famous Rathaus building where we somehow managed to get front-row seats at the outdoor concert to count down the last seconds of 2014. As the clock struck midnight, we watched fireworks fill the sky and we were both lost for words. We were ringing in 2015 in Vienna, one of the world’s most beautiful and charming cities. Was this real life? I could count on you to not lose my passport and to watch my belongings; I could also count on you to drunkenly eat Viennese sausage from a street vendor with me at 4 am. I learned a lot about you, like you hate sparkling water and that we share a common love for Shania Twain. But more importantly I learned a lot from you. You taught me something really important. When we were in the city center of Athens, surrounded by live music and street performers and while I was trying to figure out how to get to the next destination, you asked, “Do you want to just sit here and enjoy this? Just take it all in?” We did just that, we sat and photo by

just soaked up the sun, listened to the music, and watched people dance in the square and it was wonderful. I learned that in our bustling lives we cannot forget to pause and enjoy the present. I’ve been trying to do that more often now that I’m back at school. From cuddling scared in our haunted hostel in Italy, to being snowed in at a bar because the heater in our hostel broke, to staying up till 4 am with the hotel receptionist eating fries and telling ghost stories in Austria, and to blasting Shania Twain from your phone as we skipped through the alleys of Venice, backpacking with you was one of the best times of my life. People often say that it is very unsafe for two college-aged girls to backpack by themselves—but hey, we survived. Of course, most things didn’t go according to plan but you live and you learn and you grow. I wish I could tell every twenty-year-old girl to grab a friend, a backpack, a camera and just go. Most of our lives we are planning and preparing for the future, always looking ahead, but backpacking lets you cherish the present, the moments that define now. Backpacking lets you follow your heart, lose control willingly, trust strangers, and love the unfamiliar.

You get to grasp reality with two hands, follow your heart and fall in love with the world. Life’s too short to not make it the best story you have ever told, and this trip is one of my best chapters yet.

Sincerely, Your backpacking friend who still does not want your Turkish candy. Editing by Brendan Huang, graphics by Roshni Prakash.

anthreat open letter to julianna a to national security

Memoir Essay

United States

Challenges of Having a Muslim Identity Today by Maryam Ali

y stomach clenched. Surrounded by an unpleasant stench in the gym, I froze with fear as my Physical Education teacher informed us that the upcoming weeks would be spent learning the salsa dance. The goal of these lessons was to understand how to interact, albeit awkwardly, at formal dance events like prom. As I stood there, I imagined my mom’s look of revulsion at the activities of an “Amerikan” school system and my dad’s expression, when he learned that I would be dancing with boys. I could imagine my mother expressing her discontent with the lack of modesty in public high schools in America and her “tut-tut” of disapproval at my private desire to be a part of these school events. Later, my thoughts reverted to how my peers would react if I mentioned that I wasn’t allowed to dance with boys because of my religion. Sighing, I mustered the courage to talk to my P.E. teacher about my “problem” with the lesson. I stuttered while telling him that, as a Muslim, I wasn’t allowed to have close physical interactions with boys, but I promised to watch and assured him that I would learn and practice these steps while 23

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I was in the comfort of my home. I ignored his disdain and feigned sympathy for me, as I proceeded to sit alone on the bench and observe my peers frolicking on the dance floor for the rest of the week. Throughout the week, I remained dismayed at the consistent friction between my Muslim and American identities. I longed to be a typical American high-school teenager— free and uninhibited.

"In other situations, many Muslim Americans forgo their Muslim identity in their hopes to fraternize easily and “fit into” Western society." Although this event wasn’t a defining part of my high school career, it served to elucidate the difficulty of maintaining the balance between the Muslim identity and the American one—a challenge that thousands of Muslim Americans struggle with today. Many Muslim Americans, especially the youth, are left with various conundrums to decipher on their own. Challenges range from peer pressure of “fitting into” the American society to spring 2015

identity conflicts and a sense of shame of the Muslim identity. I have witnessed several of my friends express their disdain and shame at being Muslim and some who feel that the rules are incessantly restricting, archaic, and complicated. Often what is allowed outside a Muslim home is haram or forbidden within the boundaries of the house, and it results in a deeper conflict that leaves several Muslims feeling alienated from American society. In other situations, many Muslim Americans forgo their Muslim identity in their hopes to fraternize easily and “fit into” Western society. I vividly remember a conversation with a Muslim peer of mine at my high school while we had lunch together. As she expressed her contempt for the Islamic attire and prohibition of dating, she indirectly mocked my concordance with the rules. Apparently, the hijab was too restrictive and demeaning to women. Dating should also be halal, and I should check out cuter boys in our community. While I respected her opinions, I later found myself questioning her adamant disrespect of my beliefs and the reasons background photo by Charles Roffey via Flickr

behind such vehement opposition. I realized the necessity of sharing my faith and beliefs with others, so that they viewed my differences as part of my faith and could understand and respect my ideals. I also began to consider the consistent tension between my Pakistani Muslim identity and my American one and understood the paramount importance of finding a “happy medium.” Perhaps, if my P.E. coach and gym class had been educated about the Muslim faith and the rationale behind my actions, I may not have felt as left out, and the situation may have been different. Later on in the year, I went and talked to my P.E. teacher telling him the deeper rationale behind not being allowed physical proximity to boys and assured him that if I had a brother, he wouldn’t be allowed to have such physical proximity to girls either. His features immediately softened. He had the misconception that Islam was demeaning to women as it restricted their freedom. Now, he understood that men were restricted by the same rules of modesty. I also told him about the fun I had dancing at home with my best friend and how much less awkward that situation was. He laughed. At that moment, I became determined to educate my peers about my faith and learn top photo by Abraham Puthoor via Flickr

about theirs. It became imminently clear to me that education and willingness to share beliefs between Muslim Americans and non-Muslims could help bridge the gaps between them and also reduce the feelings of alienation and thoughts of rebellion amongst the Muslim youth of America.

behind their actions and tell them the repercussions of breaking those rules in their lives. It is also of integral importance that Muslim youth make an effort to learn more about their faith and reach a logical consensus with the Islamic law.

"It is critical that parents who impose Islamic rules upon children explain the Islamic rationale behind their actions..."

Although today, I sometimes find myself in awkward situations and have a difficult time striking the right equilibrium between my Islamic and American lifestyles, I have started to emerge as someone confident about my faith and Muslim identity. I still face constant struggles with my Muslim Pakistani identity and my American one, but I am now able to rationalize some of the rules characterizing my faith with my newfound knowledge. I have been able to come to terms with my Muslim identity, despite the constant friction it creates, with the knowledge I have sought and the knowledge I continue to seek. Today, rather than seeing Islam as an inhibitive and archaic restraint on my life, I have started perceiving it as a significant aspect of my identity—an aspect that makes me who I am today: unique, free, and truly interesting.

parents who impose Islamic rules upon children explain the Islamic rationale

Editing by Michelle Lou and Liane Yanglian, graphics by Wendy Lu.

While educating others about Islam and learning about their faiths or lack of faiths have helped me blend into the American lifestyle, I have realized that it is certainly not the only method of balancing the American and the Muslim identity. Finding social support within the community, either with a family member or with a friend can certainly help in striking a balance between the Muslim and the American identities. It is critical that

challenges of having a muslim identity today

Essay

Global

T h e T h i n g s

spent roughly the first eighteen years of my life in New York City, rarely ever leaving for more than three days at a time, save for one month-long trip to China that I have no memory of—I was merely two then. I didn’t know why my parents insisted on renewing my passport every time it was due to expire. At sixtyfive dollars (or however much it cost back then), it was a hefty investment left sitting around the house, its pages completely blank. I’d told myself that it didn’t matter—I lived in New York City, for goodness’ sake. I had the world at my disposal in miniature form: Chinatown, Little Italy, Koreatown, Spanish Harlem—every ethnic enclave you could possibly think of. It was the perfect representation of how globalization has resulted in the widespread movement of people and the mixing of cultures. Everything was a mere subway ride away, and my NYC public school ID got me free admission into most museums throughout the city. I’ve been to the Met many, many times. I didn’t even need a map anymore; I knew exactly how to go from the Egyptian exhibit— where I could find the iconic Temple of Dendur transplanted from fifteen

BC—to the Asian Art galleries— where a piece of the gudham a n d a p a (meeting and prayer hall) of the Vadi Parshvanatha Jain temple in Patan, an ancient fortified town in Gujarat, India, stood. Standing beneath its impressive wooden dome encasing a circle of religious figures reverently carved, surrounded by its balcony adorned with delicate elaborate figures and patterns invoked the experience of visiting the temple, as the architecture was truly aweinspiring. I prided myself on being truly cosmopolitan. Yet these forages into artifacts and artwork—conveniently uncovering pieces of history and attaining glimpses into cultures imported from thousands of miles away at my own leisure—were not enough, as I would learn when I finally decided to make use of my passport. Going abroad taught me things that I could not have learned simply by visiting local enclaves and museums at home. Immersing myself in all these

different countries made me realize that despite the obvious differences in culture and the miles in between each one, there were key similarities among them all. In Venice, my first stop, I saw boats weaving in and out of the city in its canals, bridges linking every piece of the city together, and wooden piers leading to grand palazzos. Upon arrival, I found that I had to share all my experiences with throngs of tourists everywhere. I’d swapped subways for vaporetti (the “water buses” that carried you from one pier to another), bodegas for tabacchi (a tobacco shop marked by dark blue or black signs with white T’s that sold conveniences as well), and five boroughs for six sestieri (the neighborhoods that made up the city), but still, I could not escape the tourists; only now, I, too was one of them. It was the same in Barcelona. At the Sagrada Familia, it was hard to get a picture of its exterior; there were people everywhere amongst the Montjuïc stone that made up the smooth, geometric facades and towers—the intricacy and delicacy that remained after Gaudi had chiseled away the stone

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all photos by author

W e C a r r y by Becky Chao

was awe-inspiring in the same way that the piece of the gudha-mandapa back home had been, only I did not have the same tranquility with which to appreciate it. At the Magic Fountain of Montjuïc, there was not enough room on the lawns or stairs for us to watch the choreographed lights and streams of water dance to contemporary pop music. In each city, I saw the locals cater to tourists. In Venice, shops sold unauthentic thick-crusted pizza slices and middle-aged men tried to fit into the stereotypical visage by squeezing into black and white striped t-shirts and escorting couples throughout the litter-filled canals on their gondolas. On the streets, brave costumers dressed in shiny, pastel-colored voluminous skirts walked in stints, covered with coiffured wigs and decadent masks, waving their baroque fans to relieve themselves from the heat. On Las Ramblas in Barcelona, performers painted in gold and grey stood still like statues out of place, provoking confused laughs with their bizarre and whimsical natures—besides the occasional inconspicuous flamenco dancer, they had no relation to Barcelona. Restaurants on the strip struggled to keep their outdoor tables available and their indoor tables filled, covering steep discounts for those diners who were willing to eat inside—but no, most tourists wanted the experience of eating paella and tapas while drinking sangria on Las Ramblas. At night, young male entrepreneurs tempted small children and adults alike with flying toys that spun and lit up, sending them up in the air again and again, in both Venice and Barcelona. There was no doubt that the local economies depended on tourists to sustain itself—at times, alarmingly and desperately so.

dressed in rags laid on the cement, often on their knees in prayer, a paper cup in front of them asking for spare charge. More invisible than the solicitors who boarded the subway carts back home, they were easy to ignore. Then there were the resourceful—those who wait for the opportunities to seize or lift a wallet or a few paper Euros from an unsuspecting tourist. They thrived in Barcelona, where hordes of youth waited in the background on metro platforms, moving forward when the train approached and weaving into the crowd, strategically making small calculated moves to sneak into your purse or back pocket. In New York City, we all have that friend or two who have been victims of so-called subway-snatchers—or perhaps we’ve even been victims of them ourselves. Less elaborate than the restaurant owners or street performers that line the streets of these popular destinations, these individuals will go through lengths to make ends meet. These are the sights preferred not to be seen by many, the things we are often quick to forget upon returning from our momentary escapes and immersions into different

cultures. But I saw them replicated time and time again, in places all over the world—not just in New York City, Venice, and Barcelona, but also Paris, London, and Hong Kong. They have such a prominent presence, that I cannot help but be drawn out of my light-hearted vacations or my commute and back into the harsh realities of the dynamics that make up our society as a whole. Going abroad made me more conscious of the privilege I am afforded simply because of a stroke of circumstances. And that consciousness is something that we should always carry with us no matter where we go. Some minutes of discomfort mean very little compared to the lengths people go to in creating the illusion of vacation, the visceral cultural experience—to truly immerse myself in a different country means acknowledging and understanding all that it has to offer, even the parts that do not fit so nicely into our idealistic narratives. If I didn’t, I might as well have left the pages of my passport blank. Editing by Roshni Prakash, graphics by Becky Chao.

Alongside lines of tourists waiting to enter the Doge’s Palace, people, usually women, the things we carry

article genre DUKE ABROAD

FIRST PLACE: GROWTH “Nature is a curious thing. While in New Zealand I noticed things about nature and the living world that I had never seen before. A wide variety of plants could be found growing out of the smallest crevices on rocks, cliffs, and waterfalls. No matter the conditions, the environment seemed to foster growth and development. I live two hours away from Durham, so while I was abroad it was the first time I felt truly independent. Among other things, I had to go to the emergency room for a dislocated shoulder by myself; my mom wasn’t there to comfort me or even on the phone to give me advice. Personal growth and a greater sense of responsibility for my actions were two of the greatest things I gained from my abroad experience.”

SECOND PLACE:

—Emily Kragel, New Zealand

SPANISH ROOFTOP AND TEA “I did not know that peacocks could f ly before traveling to Spain. Tucked away along the Spanish countryside on the outskirts of Alicante, we learned that they actually could. Carmen’s teahouse was as tranquil as it looks with beautiful views, peacocks running around and a relaxing environment. The tea at the teahouse was made only from natural and fresh ingredients like nearly all of the food in Alicante. The mint tea was made from real mint leaves and the chai from natural Indian spices and herbs. As we sat around the table tasting all the teas we were brought we all kept talking about how rich the f lavors were.” —Danielle Mayes, Spain

BEST VIDEO: UN DIA EN MIS BOTAS "Every day is an opportunity to do something amazing - to get out of bed and make the most of what is in front of you. This video is every one of those moments from my time in Costa Rica combined into one day. Some of the shots are spectacular—driving through the Costa Rican mountains, swimming in the Caribbean Sea. Some of those shots are more mundane—eating dinner with my friends, watching the sunset. Costa Rica taught me many things, but most importantly it taught me that each moment is worth savoring, no matter how big or how small. Because our life is comprised of just these moments, these days, and this is un día en mis botas." —Allison Draper, Costa Rica 27

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spring 2015

all photos by authors

GEOReflects

Photo and Video Contest Winners THIRD PLACE: THE VIEW FROM ABOVE “Very few places in the world offer hot air balloon rides, but Cappadoccia, a region located in central Turkey, is one of the few! This picture was taken as from that actual hot air balloon after the sun had risen, yet we still could see the moon! As the sun rose, we could glimpse the miles of rugged terrain that spread out before us. The cerulean sky was dotted with colored balloons as many others took in the view of the lifetime. One balloon was even designed as a Turkish f lag, the vibrant red color unmistakably standing out with the white star and crescent moon. One theme we noticed throughout our time in Turkey on the Duke in Istanbul program was the large prevalence of Turkish f lags ref lecting the passionate nationalism embodied in Turkish culture. My view from this hot air balloon ride will forever remain one of my most unique experiences while in Turkey." —Natasha Sakraney, Turkey

PEOPLE’S CHOICE: HOW FAR CAN HE RUN? “This picture of the zebra was taken on a game drive a day during our study abroad program at the Kruger National Park in South Africa. The sad, longing look on the zebra that morning was as if trying to tell me his desire to run farther into the wild as freely as he possibly could. But we, human intervened and took control of the wildlife. We set a limit to our own freedom, then put a cage on every animal we see. And then afterwards, to contradict ourselves, we wonder why we are not free." —Chi Kim Trinh, South Africa

Graphics by Wendy Lu. georeflects contest

Staff Corner

Why Not

Amour

Love is a com 2012 Academ plicated notion. Michae l Haneke’s y Award win ner French literally tran film Amour slates into “l ove.” It tells love at its ex a story of ho treme can ju w stify (or no irrational hu t) the most man actions. You would that to kill yo never think ur loved one would be an and morally emotionally moving story . It is. The film o pens with th e p resent, enters then goes bac a flashback, k to the prese nt. Anne and Georges, both her husband retired piano teachers in th are a happy co eir eighties, uple until on e day Anne si a stroke, foll lently suffers owed by mo re serious co continue to nditions that worsen. The struggle to his promise keep up wit not to send h her to live in nursing hom a hospital or e, compoun d ed a hired care with the in giver’s mistr cident of eatment of Georges to Anne, forces lose hope as he becomes emotionally imprisoned and physical ly by Anne’s co of attention nstant need .Toward the end sits at the bed side of Anne, of the film, Georges telling her a childhood. She looks re story of his laxed and ca picks up a pil lm. Then h low and suff e ocates her. He loves h er.

—By Liane Y anglian

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spring 2015

film strip via pixabay.com top left photo by ozz13x via Flickr left photo via custodianfilmcritic.com

Life is Beau

tiful

n this issue, our writers have talked about using stories to travel, so in this piece we would like to highlight film as a way to understand foreign culture.

When dis asters fall, the stronge mankind is st emotion humor. Life of is Beautiful is film ever mad the “happiest e about the ” Holocaust: changing po it depicts th litical climat e e before the w the war, the ar, the start o forever chan f ged fate of Je finally the co ws in Italy, an ncentration d camp and th But it also has e Ho a romantic en counter on th locaust. obnoxious ex e street, an -boyfriend, a start of a new most import antly, the mai family, and n character G endless imag uido with his ination and se nse of humo In the film r. , Jewish Italia n Guido fall Dora. He se s in love wit ts up many h “coincidenta greets her w l” run-ins an ith “Good d m orning, Prin morning. Eve cess” every ntu they have a lo ally he steals her from her vely son, Gio fiancé and sué, a few ye war. After th ars before th e war starts, e Guido and G sent to the co iosué are bo ncentration th ca mp. Yet Guid to convince his o manages game with th son that they are merel y playing a e Nazis and that he will completing ta win a tank b sks like hidin y g fro The film en ds with Giosu m the guards. é “winning” And life is b eautiful as al a real tank. ways. —By Wendy

Wild Straw

berries

Ingmar B ergman, in his directio Strawberries n of Wild , created one of the world movies. How ’s first road tr ever, the plo ip t is a far cr and Dumber y from Dum . The protago b n ist, Isak Borg physician w ho is drivin is a retired g from Stockh to receive an olm to Lun h d achievements onorary doctorate for his lifetime . Along the w ay, he conve daughter-in-l rses with his aw Mariann e about his and the dis failed marri solving rela age tionship bet and Isak’s so ween Maria n, Evald. Alo n ne n g the way, Isak about the st hallucinates ate of his lo n el from his soci iness and es ety resulting trangement from his fam and professio ily backgrou n. nd This movi e is Hitch co ckian becau confronted with many different them se we are Isak, and as es and clues an extension . , the movie able to see sy enthusiast, ar mbols of his e im motifs such as pending dea th through black cars an d clocks with indication th no time—an at Isak has le ssening time and that he's in the world going to his gr ave. In the en goer is free d, the movieto make his or her interp whether Isak retations as has reconcile to d with his lo ved ones. —By Brendan

middle photo via Wikimedia Commons right photo via Wikimedia Commons

Huang

staff corner

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