Passport Magazine Fall 2015

APPLIED WORDS

OF WISDOM JODHPUR JHAPPI,

HUGS FROM INDIA

MEAT AND GREET

FROM UKRAINE

CHINESE OR AMERICAN?

CROSSWALK OF IDENTITY Volume 22 Fall 2015

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EDITOR’S NOTE editor-in-chief Roshni Prakash Halfway through my final year at Duke, I have had many years to reflect on my experiences – the academic hardships and successes, the loosening and strengthening of friendships, the emotional highs and lows, and the ever-increasing sight of scaffolding and cranes detracting from the beauty of our campus.

Before I came to Duke, I was eager to join as many dance teams, publications, and other organizations as I could. I wanted to take advantage of the opportunities that Duke provided me, and maintain all of the hobbies that I had accrued throughout my high school career. What I soon realized for myself (after being told this by many upperclassmen) was that being superficially involved in a variety of groups was not worthwhile. I was not able to manage my time well enough to make all the meetings, bond with the other students, or truly enjoy anything that I was doing at the time.

As one of the very few groups that I have stayed in for all four years, Passport has given me an opportunity not only to preserve my interest in graphic design but also to appreciate the courageous, adventurous, and insightful nature of so many Duke students. Reading through our 22nd issue of Passport, I hope that you are as inspired as I was by our writers’ thoughtful reflections, regardless of whether they are in their first semester or entering their last one. From a descriptive tale about Wales, to a personal consideration of South Korean identity, to an account about the underappreciated qualities of India – these stories bring together personalities, perspectives, and experiences from, quite literally, all over the world.

As I pass on this Editor-in-Chief position, I could not be more proud of Passport and all of the people that have made it what it is today. This publication and those I have met through it have been a clear highlight of my Duke career, and I am looking forward to seeing what is in store for Passport in the future.

Sincerely,

assistant chief editor Liane Yanglian chief graphics Wendy Lu editors Jenny Shang editors Mia Huang Chris Lee Elaine Pak Zhengtao Qu Amanda Sear Elle Winfield Marisa Witayananun Elaine Zhong Heather Zhou graphics Ukyoung Chang editors Sherry Huang Rhona Ke Elaine Pak Roshni Prakash Zhengtao Qu Masha Stoertz Liane Yanglian

writers Ashan-wa Aliogo Chris Lee Deeksha Malhotra Jeffrey McLaughlin Risa Pieters Gayle Powell Zhengtao Qu Maegan Stanley Liane Yanglian Lily Zerihun Sarah Zhou

Roshni Prakash

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 Jorge Dalmau via Flickr

cover photo by Brian Jeffery Beggerly via Flickr back cover photo by Jorge Gonzalez via Flickr

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CONTENTS A Walk Through Wales

by Maegan Stanley The Jodhpur Jhappi

by Deeksha Malhotra Identity, Quantified

by Sarah Zhou Slava Ukrainye

by Jeffrey McLaughlin Istanbul: Your Next Destination

by Risa Pieters Homeless: at Home

by Liane Yanglian The Tragedy of Lakota

by Gayle Powell Cycling Around the Sea on Plateau

by Zhengtao Qu What’s in a Name?

by Chris Lee Solo Wanderings

by Lily Zerihun Proverbs Away from Home

by Ashan-wa Aliogo Humans of Passport Staff Corner

photo by Harold Litwiler via Flickr

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memoir

Wales, United Kingdom

A Walk through Wales

by Maegan Stanley

C

old Welsh wind numbs my fingers and kisses my face. I tug my tartan scarf tighter around my neck and cheeks, cashmere pulled almost up to my watering eyes, and try to massage some feeling back into my frozen digits. The glowing warmth of the bed-and-breakfast is a distant memory upon this familiar dirt path, and dead leaves crunch audibly beneath my leather bootheels as I step further into the morning mist.

The wooden farm gate is splintery, its hinges rusted, but it acquiesces beneath my touch with only the slightest squeal.

The lane gently winds downhill into emerald pastureland, and I can just see the distant, breathy puffs of white smoke escaping village chimneys above the treeline. Bleats of ewes and lambs reach my ears long before the animals themselves are visible, yet soon sheep bump hopefully around my legs, looking for a treat. I disappoint them with empty palms and instead offer an apparently unsatisfying pat on their fluffy heads.

They shy away from my touch impatiently, more interested now in grazing than a human that comes bearing no gifts.

and gestures sheepishly to the glass of whisky in his right hand. "Don't tell anyone ye saw me drinkin' on a Sunday!"

I laugh and make the promise, continuing down the footpath.

The calls of hungry sheep fade away and I find myself coming upon narrow Sappers Bridge, which sways over the swirling River Conwy. As a child I’d been scared to venture across alone, frightened of somehow tumbling into the roaring, frothy water that foams over the mossy rocks. Now I fly across the woodslats, taking belated childlike delight in bouncing as the suspension swings in time to my bootsteps. The footbridge ends at Old Church Road, and merges into a scenic path that leads to town through St. Michael’s churchyard.

A sharp whistle slices through the bucolic peace, and the sheep suddenly snap to attention. Their shepherd has appeared, and two energetic border collies dance around his rubber Wellingtons. He has had these same collies for years – one with tawny ears and the other with an obvious limp. Neither the shepherd nor his dogs would remember my face from my handful of visits, yet to me they seem like old friends. "Shwmae!" he calls out, greeting me in native Welsh as his dogs set to work collecting his flock. He waves

This tiny Welsh village, Betws-y-Coed, derives its name from a humble stone chapel - the old Welsh translates to “prayer-house in the wood” (though you’ll be hard-pressed to find two locals who pronounce it similarly). Besides the whistling singing of hidden thrushes, it is silent. This is no surprise, for I am the only living soul here, and the ghosts within this churchyard cemetery are not the malicious sort. True to its name, this crumbling prayer-house is indeed heavily wooded, and thick curls of ivy drape the branches of the oaks and yews, snaking down gnarled trunks to creep along the dirt. Fifteenth-century tombstones jut from the earth, some of the oldest ones sunken and cracked. Most still stand proudly, if not a little crooked. The largest yew tree in the graveyard casts a cool shade over the stone crosses and pillars, its twisted branches stretched

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like an embrace. A place so forgotten and forsaken should be eerie, yet all is calm.

Here, the roots of history are as exposed as those of the great yew, and I’m aware that nothing but time stands between myself and those who rest eternally below my feet.

It appears that I am not the only one who feels this tether - as I move towards the wrought-iron gate, I pass by a vinechoked slab of time-worn stone. Its spindly-lettered engraving declares, Here lyeth the Body of Daniel Parr, buried this 21st of December in the Year of our Lord 1674, and a rough hand-picked posy of wildflowers lies fresh upon the ancient grave. My heart melts at the modest display and I’m filled with longing for my own ancestral connection that could withstand the atrophy of time. What an enviable sense of belonging this villager must feel to hand-pick a bouquet to honor

This is no surprise, for I am the only living soul here, and the ghosts within this churchyard cemetery are not the malicious sort.

a forefather he never could have known.

I leave the tranquility of St. Michael’s and enter the heart of Betws-y-Coed, a broad square of lush grass encircled by stoneand-slate buildings. Village children

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Its burbles merge with the call of birds, the rustle of trees, and the whisper of mountain breeze, and an overwhelming feeling of peace settles over my shoulders. tumble over each other in a game of soccer, most simultaneously clutching chocolate-swirled ice-cream cones as they exclaim excitedly in English swirled with throaty Welsh. I’ve enjoyed enough Cadwaladers ice-cream during my stay to not fault them for it. They pause their game to return the wave of the strange American girl in the denim jacket, and I take the familiar, pebbly path that I know leads to my destination. A babbling brook that feeds from the afon accompanies my trek, musically gurgling. Its burbles merge with the call of birds, the rustle of trees, and the whisper of mountain breeze, and an overwhelming feeling of peace settles over my shoulders.

The lane crosses an antique bridge and fades into a grassy meadow, upon which stands a stone cottage that seems to have come straight out of a fairy tale. Bursts of vibrant wildflowers form a wild garden of color, and the entire facade of

photo by author

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the tearoom is covered with brilliantly green English ivy. Smoke curls from the twin chimneys, and a tiny bell rings as I push open the heavy oak door. I’m immediately greeted by warm welcomes from the owners and the heady aroma of slow-cooked Sunday roast and freshly baked pastry. I take my normal seat by the purple-slate hearth, cushioned by a fleecy sheepskin, and breathe in the essence of dark, well-loved wood and peat crackling cheerfully upon the fire.

Tea arrives instantaneously, steeped in a traditional tin kettle and ready to pour into my blue-and-white china teacup.

As always, tea is accompanied by fluffy, warm scones served with sweet cream, butter, and a smear of tart blackcurrant jam that tingles on the tongue. I cradle my steaming cup with both hands, the mere presence of the rich brew warming

my chilled body, and gaze out the window at the beautiful view of the churning river draped in mist. In the distance, proudly rearing above the treetops, I can see the stony peak of Mount Snowdon, the tallest mountain in Wales. To most, this speck of a village is casually dismissed as just a reststop on the way to that impressive summit - a convenient place for mountaineers to sleep in warm beds and be fed hearty breakfasts of cheesy rarebit and black pudding before attempting their climbs.

Yet to me, Betws-y-Coed unutterably feels like home.

Editing by Mia Huang, graphics by Wendy Lu.

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memoir

Jodhpur, India

The Jodhpur Jhappi

by Deeksha Malhotra

T

he first sentiment that arises in your mind when I mention India, I know, is pity. I’ll even award you the benefit of the doubt – maybe when you hear or read the word, you find yourself teleported into an episode of synesthesia and begin picturing a mosaic of vibrant colors and aromatic spices you have determinedly identified with the nation. But often the succeeding images are those of poverty, pollution, and corruption. I get it.

I myself have never resided in India, but my parents have spent the majority of their lives in New Delhi—the capital— and, as I have been told vehemently and incessantly, the heart and soul of India.

However, when we would make annual trips back to visit family, if I’m really being forthright, I held the very views described above. Heck, I think even my parents did.

Somewhat enjoyable to visit, exciting food, glamorous apparel, family drama begun over unknown or vacant reasons…but, at exactly the two-week mark, suffocating, inefficient, crooked, uncomfortable, and without future. I get it.

It’s really quite a romantic tale then, you see, but it’s true. Something changed about my feelings for India this summer.

I embarked on my DukeEngage trip to Jodhpur, Rajasthan, with visions of frail women adorned in traditional bandhani attire, carrying enormous water pots over the heads, trekking to the local well and 5

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back in the blazing heat.1 Long-emigrated family members began vicariously reliving their past, instructing me to try specific and varied indigenous dishes, and female relatives launched wish lists that saw no end. My parents spent the month prior to my departure solely researching tactics for me to survive the heat, and two Enduracool towels, one burly thermos and an oversized bottle of sunscreen later, they let their little girl go. A week’s worth of lamenting and fearing later, I let myself go.

One of the first and most memorable – if that’s even the appropriate adjective – experiences I remember befalling me was being intensely shocked by the “hotel"’s shower faucet. Proper electrical grounding and plumbing aren’t very high on the priority list in small but bubbling and bustling Jodhpur, you see. I recall thinking that all my worries had been confirmed and that the following two months were going to hurl disaster upon disaster at me.

The aforementioned inefficiency began to surface as well. My first homestay had just experienced a sudden death, but my placement wasn’t altered until I verbalized to my director that perhaps living in the same household as a grieving woman with perpetual tears in her eyes was unseemly both for myself and her. The first NGO I was assigned to turned out be –believe it or not – corrupt and profiting from our presence. And, finally, as a perfect addition to the foreshadowing of a long and strenuous nightmare, the all-inevitable

Indian maladies began striking every one of us interns, one delicate stomach at a time.

But one evening, the two other interns I was living with and I decided to teach our host grandmother, a 60-something woman of teeming talent and charisma, how to play the card game Bluff. I was fortunate enough to speak the local language, Hindi, for it is my mother tongue, but even that knowledge wasn’t enough to clearly explain the rules and objective of the game. And thank goodness it wasn’t. Her failed attempts, toothless smile, intelligent eyes, and impressive persistence revealed to us a message we never opened our hearts to receiving. She longed to embrace us, to envelop us into her world. She yearned to teach and listen, learn and impart. We interns had never imagined or expected the materializing of such a close and intimate bond. And why would we? In the Western world, while it is fully possible that, like us, foreign interns arrive and find themselves placed in a host house that is warm and welcoming, it would be atypical and rare to expect, say, meals prepared to their liking at their mere mention. Or care provided upon sickness that is, at times, beyond maternal. Or responses to midnight cockroach-inspired shrieks that are only apologetic and affectionately teasing. And that’s fine. The individualism of such cultures is their defining, distinguishing feature. But in those moments, I found in India a richness no poverty could combat.

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I remember another instance that involved the driver our organization had hired for the two-month stay. He’d take us to and from the hour-away village we were working with up to two, three times a week, every week, and we never even took the time to learn his name. To him, however, we were guests of grave importance. As most people know – if that’s the only thing they know - India runs on a caste system that divides the population into four major classes that reflect occupation, socioeconomic power and, subsequently, respect within the community. Our driver was of a lower caste, which in turn explained his negligible income and tiring lifestyle, but not his unremitting, wide grin. He’d always stop at around the halfway mark at his favorite dhaba to pick.2 his breakfast for the day, which usually involved thick, heavily seasoned potato chips or fresh, warm Mawa—whole milk that has been thickened and sweetened until it goes from gulpable to meltingly edible.

One particular day, he stopped at the vendor and took an oddly long time to return. Our director was in the car with us all photos by author unless otherwise cited left photo by M M via Flickr Passport_2015Fall_Export.indd 7

that day and grew frustrated, complaining that lethargy wasn’t what she had paid for. In the next moment, with an act that moved us all to tears, the driver returned carrying more plates of food than he could carry – all for us to devour. This is a man, remember, who goes home to his children every night unsure of whether or not he can satisfy their hunger this time around.

The events that followed epitomized India’s inability to deal with the myriad of emotions it feels so deeply and sincerely.

Our director was still annoyed, but for different reason now and with an anger that was deafening, as she screamed at the driver for being unreasonable, overthe-top, and disobedient. The driver responded equally audibly with threats of never speaking to us again if she denied his offerings. Take my word for it if you can - this was all an exchange marked by care and love so overwhelming, it’s almost difficult to fathom. In this moment, I found a purity in India no corruption could taint.

I could go on to share with you the plethora of experiences and interactions that sculpted my time in India into a phase of my life I couldn’t forget if I tried. The discomfort, the heat, the lack of customer service – all of it dissipates into meaninglessness after a friendly but intense game of bridge with a woman you’ve known for all of one month and your entire life. The poor work ethic, absence of professionalism, and corruption are put to shame when the principal of the

only private school in town gives you his undivided attention and all the time you need to execute your project as you please, no questions asked.

I am not and will not ever argue that India has its core, developmental problems ignored with immense emotional capacity as its excuse, but I will fight for this very excuse being ignored amidst its core, developmental problems. It has unending room for improvement – which nation doesn’t? But India doesn’t need anyone’s pity to reach that betterment. In fact, it could probably teach you a thing or two if you just inched a little closer. Listen carefully; it’ll impart to you the power of the embrace. The jhappi.3 Editing by Chris Lee, graphics by Rhona Ke. 1. bandhani: a tie-dye textile native to Rajasthan. It is created by plucking the cloth with the fingernails into several, tight bindings to form patterns of circular absences of color on an otherwise dyed cloth.

2. dhaba: a roadside vendor that sells constantly brewing food with a reputation for comfort, taste, affordability, but slight lack of sanitation.

3. jhappi: Hindi word for hug.

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Essay essay

Indian Region Suzhou, China

Identity, Quantified

by Sarah Zhou

Fantasy Land – Age 7

M

y first memories of my grandparents were in first grade when they visited us in Plano, Texas. I loved it when they came because for the first time, I had someone greet me at the door when I came home from school.

My parents both worked full-time so my grandparents became a huge part of my definition of home. The smell of freshoff-the-stove green onion pancakes, and my grandmother’s specialty, twicecooked pork; my grandfather’s lectures on Confucius that I was too young and jittery to appreciate; and our ritual of watching American TV together even though they didn’t understand a lick of English.

But my deepest memory of those six months was a question my grandmother asked me one day. We were sprawled on the couch in the usual fashion with TV commercials playing in the background.

She asked me if I considered myself American or Chinese. Without hesitation, I replied, “American.” At the time, I didn’t know how to read the expression on her face, but I felt it was something close to sadness or disappointment. But I didn’t understand why the answer didn’t strike her as completely obvious. At that point, I had never even been to China, at least, not consciously. When I was one, my parents sent me to Suzhou so that my grandparents could take care of me for six months while they studied at the University of Manitoba.

But I had never been back since then.

So to the seven-year-old me, China was something of a fantasy land—a place that only existed through secondhand stories.

Skyla– Age 9 “You can call me Sky!” Skyla was my first friend at Christ Our Savior. It was a Lutheran private school 7 Passport_2015Fall_Export.indd 8

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where we wore plaid uniforms to class and said prayers before each class. It was also almost completely white.

And honestly, I envied Skyla. I envied the way her blonde hair fit her hazel eyes like a glove and how her effortless manners always made the adults gush.

When I went to her house for dinner the first time, I felt so deeply the difference between us; she ate mashed potatoes and gravy dinners, played Connect 4 before bedtime, and kissed her father on the cheek when he came back from work. She lived the life that families on TV did, while I was always just an observer in the background.

On the car ride back, Skyla finally mustered the courage to tell her mother that she didn’t do well on her math test that day.

Her mother spoke back to her in hushed tones and sweetie, it’s okay’s.

I came to believe that love meant comforting a child when she brought home a below-standard test grade.

History Lessons – Age 12 Greeted by a slap of humidity, I set foot in China for the first time in my conscious life. As we crossed the Nanpu Bridge on the drive from the Shanghai Pudong Airport to my grandparent’s home in Suzhou, I was stunned by the scale of everything. Largerthan-life skyscrapers, nightlife, and, as I would soon learn, families.

Unlike my aunts and uncles and cousins scattered across the United States, my father’s family has been in Suzhou for generations and none of them, except for my dad, has ever left.

Shortly after we arrived at my grandparent’s apartment in Suzhou, my cousin (Kao La), aunt (Shen Shen), and fall 2015

uncle (Da Bai) arrived too. My cousin calls my grandparents ah Bu and ah Dia, which mean grandma and grandpa respectively in the Suzhou dialect. I tried calling them that too, but the words always got stuck in my throat—a tangled mess of sounds that felt too foreign to say out loud.

He was only one and a half years younger than me so we should have had an endless supply of common topics. But we didn’t.

Our exchange was an awkward jumble of pleasantries and superficial inquiries about school and hobbies, complete with gawking relatives in the background.

For the three weeks that I stayed at my grandparents’ house, relatives—close and distant—waded in and out, bringing with them rare food items, jade jewelry, red pockets, and small talk. They were curious about my lifestyle in America and quick to point out and chuckle over cultural differences—like how I always crave ice cold water, and how I insist on splitting the bill, a request that got rebuffed every time. I felt that we were both desperately trying to understand each other and our vastly different life experiences, but our conversations could only ever graze the tip of the iceberg. I felt it in the way they reminded me never to forget my roots, and how every conversation seemed to carry a history lesson or two.

Strangers and Hamburgers – Age 17 The second time I went to China, I went alone and stayed at my grandparents’ house the entire three weeks. They lived a quaint, regimented, almost idle life of praying, preparing food, and watching evening news. Like clockwork, everyday at 1pm after lunch, my grandparents would take their afternoon naps. The hours from 1pm to 3pm were my hours of exploration, when I could go out into downtown Suzhou myself and observe all the strange all photos by author unless otherwise cited polaroid template via pixabay.com

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little quirks of the city.

Each day, I passed by the landmarks that were now becoming familiar to me— the restaurant near my grandparents’ apartment complex that served hamburgers alongside their shrimp wontons and congee, the arched ancient-looking bridge built over a lotus-filled pond, and the twin skyscrapers connected by a walkway that looked like a pair of pants.

I waded through open street markets— taking in the smells of fresh-steamed buns and cakes, watching butchers slice through meat and farmers lay out their produce in baskets and wagons; I passed a small group of cash-strapped men standing with their rickshaws, offering to carry anyone for thirty yuan a kilometer; I got lost in a pink neon-lit underground market that sold all the accessories and trinkets a twelve-yearold girl could ever dream of.

Walking around the busy streets of downtown Suzhou, I felt like the hamburger on the restaurant menu— paradoxically blending in despite being surrounded by dishes with a culture completely unlike its own. No matter how foreign everything seemed around me, I was just part of the crowd in everyone else’s eyes.

I was fascinated by the experience of walking alleyways bumping shoulder to shoulder with people who looked like me, but whose language I could not understand.

The American Dream in China – Age 17 Over watermelon slices, I met my cousin again for the second time. This time, he tentatively spoke to me in English, inquiring about school life in America. He said he wanted to go to college in America for the freedom and because he loves New York City. He told me that he’s sick background picture by US Department of Agriculture via Flickr Passport_2015Fall_Export.indd 9

of China’s endless stream of standardized tests. I found it a bit ironic that he went to cram school for SAT and TOEFL practice every weekend with the end goal of getting away from it all. I wondered if I should tell him that America isn’t quite the getaway utopia he has in his mind—that if he gets here, it’ll be midterms and finals too. But who doesn’t hold onto a fantasy or two?

As our conversation started to die down, Shen Shen joined in, asking me about the details of the college application process.

Da Bai joked that for the past year, she hadn’t been able to sleep, worrying about Kao La and college. She forced laughter— trying to make it sound like he’s joking— but when she was unable to contain herself any longer, she began to cry.

Her tears reminded me of middle school, when my dad yelled at me for not understanding my math homework until I cried. It was at that moment that I started to hate numbers.

Her tears made me think about the stream of kids I saw waiting at the bus stop outside the window of my grandparents’ apartment every Saturday morning at 7 a.m., heading to various cram schools.

Chinese culture is one of longing—longing for a very specific, papery definition of perfection.

Her tears translate to, this is how to survive.

Algebra – Age 18 My eighth grade math teacher used to say that Algebra was the study of the relationship between things.

In the 18 years that I’ve been on this earth, I’ve spent 0.75 years in China, 4 years in Canada, and the rest in America. What fraction of my identity does each culture

make up?

Math was so simple before first grade.

There was only addition and subtraction and everything made tangible sense.

Chinese-American = Chinese + American.

When did I start noticing that I was the only Asian student in Mrs. Cosby’s 1st grade class? Perhaps it was the moment my parent walked in for the parentstudent conference; I noticed then that my mother’s broken English was like the nonsequitur “plugging and chugging” method while Mrs. Cosby’s words were an elegant equation that manipulated itself as if by magic.

I remember sitting with my classmates at lunch—all of them taking their peanut butter jelly sandwiches out of their plastic zip-loc bags, cut into perfectly straight linear lines, while my own stir-fried lunch was a jumbled mess of parabolas and hardto-comprehend, non-geometric shapes.

I wondered if the graph of my American identity had an asymptote—that there would be a point I could never reach.

I’m still trying to figure out the algebra of my cultural identity. I wonder if I will always have this nagging desire to have had a childhood of bedtime Disney stories, and bike-riding lessons down the cul de sac. I wonder if it’s possible to be bi-cultural but feel like you belong to no culture at all. I wonder if my identity is even quantifiable at all.

Despite it all, I’m learning to love my algebraic makeup—its complexity is a puzzle that I will spend the rest of my life “plugging and chugging” to figure out. Or perhaps in the future, I’ll find more elegant methods of deducing it.

Editing by Marisa Witayananun, graphics

by Sherry Zijing Huang. identity, quantified

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memoir

Slava Ukrainye

Ukraine

I

by Jeffrey McLaughlin

was boiling water in a metal bucket on the stove when Valik asked me to drink samogon. Tatyana and Valik stood outside the kitchen door, lighting wood in a welded iron box for the shashlik. It was early in the fall. Valik was still home from the ship, and worked around the house until the kids, Tatyana, and I got back from school. I was late to understand what Valik had asked of me. That afternoon I had studied in my room and tutored the kids, I was still in the rhythm of kneading grime off shirt collars in the banya, and I processed their words slowly anyway. The kids at the table grinned and looked up from their books. Tatyana laughed and brushed it off. Valik asked why not, and she shrugged, and the kids looked at me. He went into the kitchen to a narrow cupboard, handed me an unlabeled bottle, and took me around the house. It was all decided rather quickly like that.

Like their neighbors, the Sukhovs traded a larger cottage for green space, and made good use of it.

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beehives stacked like drawer chests, and metal trellises of artisanal grapes, some hardy bunches not yet withered by the cooling nights.

They rose and took their animals themselves, and grew a homely, rooty food, one for which their recipes were written. What would cost five dollars in America sold in the babushka-run bazaar for fifty cents a kilo. A neighbor kept a cow, and often I brought a three-liter jug to her and bought milk, walking past massive sunflower fields that in yellow bloom under the blue sky resembled the national flag. I cooled the jug in the fridge, mixed back the butterfat, and drank the milk raw while sucking chunks of honeycomb. After I left, I went into withdrawals for that milk.

close to my heels and barked. Valik fooed him away. He unlatched a door adjoining the shack and flipped a switch. Inside some stairs led to a narrow cellar. I followed him in. As we stepped down the frayed planks, the light from the naked bulb in the corner shifted over the crowded potatoes and gourds. It was musty and still. A thin, torn rug lay over the cement floor. Jars were stacked on the shelves, oblong shapes floating in green and red solutions.

The shadows seemed to duck their claws behind them.

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all photos by author unless otherwise cited top photo by Forsaken Fotos via Flickr

“Zhenya, vot u nas mnoga ovoschey,” Valik said.

The people in the town spoke Russian. Many identified as Russian, or even Soviet. Many did not. When I was in Ukraine, the “I rushed to swallow the country hosted Europe’s football championship. Things were settled moonshine." civilly, in fistfights among members Valik took me past the house to a of parliament. The people in the town plywood and sheet metal shack, spoke what language they wanted where the family kept tools, logs, to, thought some good things about and coal. Their little mutt, who at socialism done right, and were night crawled under the fence and fiercely, wholly independent. ran with the gangs of strays, crept

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and as I cleared my throat I thought cream sauce reduced in a pan, and of skinned knees. ever since I’ve taken my bacon rare.

“Slava Ukrainye,” he toasted.

We clinked glasses, and shot back.

We drank more samogon, pairing the salo with pickled cucumbers and peppers. Valik showed me the bottles, the sticks and herbs inside, and pointed out the vocabulary around us. He wanted me to learn. It was a good while before we climbed back up the stairs. We were drunker, accustomed to that room, with food and drink, and it felt uneasy moving up toward the dimming day. Before shutting the groaning door, Valik switched off the naked bulb, ceding the whole of the cellar to the shadows.

I rushed to swallow the moonshine.

My scorched throat shut, pushing the fumes up my nostrils. Through the haze came the memory that I had something not unlike a chaser. I bit into the tomato. Pickled tomato juice From a shelf, he took a brick of exploded into my mouth, ran down something covered in cloth. It my neck, and seeped into my shirt. I was salo—pork fatback, looking gagged on the cold, alien taste. like cheesecake, the body cream white, the bottom graham brown. Valik laughed, his grin brighter He twisted open a jar, and a pop than his teeth, and he slapped my echoed from the broken vacuum. shoulder.

With the meaty talons of his hand, Editing by Elle Winfield, graphics he plucked two corrupted spheres “Krasavchik,” he said, drawing out by Masha Stoertz. from the opaque fluid, and gave the word. me one. The tomato was slimy and dripping, its skin peeling off and To complete the Slavic salt-tequilaveiny. lime combo, he cut into the salo with a hand-honed knife. The slices Valik took the samogon from me sweated and gleamed under the and put it on a nearby stool beside cellar bulb. I dropped a square into some shot glasses. He opened the my mouth. With the consistency of bottle, wagged his untrimmed, caramel, the salo melted, its center graying eyebrows, and poured the staying soft as the outside sank. The shots. I could smell it from feet savory fat mixed with the tomato away. It smelled of rubbing alcohol, juice and alcohol into something like I tried to follow Valik. I did not yet speak the language well. It felt like chasing after a conversation. I nodded and humphed.

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by Toffee Maky via Flickr slava ukrainye

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travel log

Istanbul, Turkey

Istanbul: Your Next Destination

by Risa Pieters

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s I sip my çay and watch the boats rock on the turquoise waves of the Bosphorus, and as I hear the adhan faintly filling the air, I find myself at peace. There is no city in this world quite like Istanbul.

If you’re a foodie…

Making plans for this summer? Here’s why Istanbul should be your next destination:

Located at the crossroads of numerous cultures, Istanbul offers the finest bites and tastes. From stopping for Köfte, Turkish meatballs, while wandering Sultahnament to melted butter being poured on your Iskender, to savoring döner on the street, Istanbul is the spot for all meat lovers. Even if you don’t eat meat, the countless number of eggplant dishes and fish sandwiches caught fresh from the Bosphorus, will keep you full and happy. But before you enjoy your meal, don’t get too full on the classic Turkish aperatifs.

If you’re an indecisive person…

If you like dessert…

Europe? Asia? Good thing Istanbul is on both continents. You can run a marathon starting in Asia and ending in Europe. Or you can take a boat from one continent to the other—breakfast in Europe, dinner in Asia.

You’ll find the best Turkish delight of all f lavors as you stroll the Spice Bazaar and the world’s best baklava that will have you coming back for more. BuzzFeed ranked Hafiz Mustafa 1864, a bakery in Taksim Square, one of the 25 Bakeries

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Being the twelfth largest city in the world and the crossroads of many diverse cultures, empires, and religions, Istanbul is incomparable to any other city in the world.

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Around the World You Have to See Before You Die, and I agree. You also cannot miss out on my personal favorite Turkish dessert, Künefe. Layers of warm cheese and finely shredded dough, soaked and baked in a sweet syrup and butter, and topped with fresh cream and sprinkled with pistachios—served in a shallow warm plate your mouth starts watering before you even take a bite.

If you like cats….

Istanbul is your city then. You are constantly surrounded by cats and they will quickly befriend you. Even if you hate cats (like I do), you learn that the famous cats of Istanbul are actually the friendliest and cutest, and will welcome you to their city. After visiting Istanbul I somehow left loving cats.

If you like history but hate lectures…

You get to learn by just wandering

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through all the historic sights of Istanbul. From walking the old city walls, losing your breath as you walk into Hagia Sophia and Topkapı Palace, or sitting and soaking up the beauty of Blue Mosque you will learn about the clash of empires, religions, the West and the East. You get to feel, hear, and see history—more powerful than reading a book or sitting in a class.

If you like breathtaking views…

Go up to the top of the old Byzantine Galata Tower and watch the sunset over Hagia Sophia, Blue Mosque, and the Galata Bridge. Or go to the 360 Sky View at the top of the Istanbul Sapphire Building, the tallest building on the European side of Istanbul, and look out over the twelfth largest city in the world.

Or try my personal favorite off the beaten path, the rooftop of Mimar Sinan Teras Café at night. Here you can sip on hazelnut hot chocolate with Sulemaniye Mosque lit up to your left and an overlooking view of the Bosphorus Strait lit up to your right.

If you like being on a boat or near the water…

You will never want to leave Istanbul once you have enjoyed a glass of wine, cheese and olives along the turquoise blue waves of the Bosphorus. This city also loves waterfront breakfast. Cafes line the waterfront as they serve you Turkish breakfast filled with coffee, pastries, simit, cheese, honey, and yogurt among other delicacies. After breakfast, take a Bosphorus boat cruise and take in the breathtaking skyline of Istanbul or sit on the deck of Istanbul Modern and watch ships come and go after touring the art exhibits. If that’s not enough water for you, hit Ortaköy at night and grab some drinks with your friends at Anjelique or Sortie, two of my favorite waterfront clubs that let you sit outside under the sparkling lights of the Bosphorus Bridge.

I spent four months in this city and I would go back in a heartbeat. The adventures are endless are there is always something new to explore whether it be a new neighborhood, gallery, or restaurant. The silhouettes of ancient mosques on the horizon, the smells and sounds of the bazaars, and twinkling lights that light up the Bosphorus at night are a few of the traits that made me fall in love with this city. Even though the city is big and bustling, it is intimate and seductive, and every person I know who has visited has somehow fallen in love with Istanbul. So if you’re ready to go somewhere that is thrillingly unique, a city that exposes you to so many new views, and a city that will take your breath away on multiple accounts, Istanbul is calling your name.

Editing by Heather Zhou, graphics by Wendy Lu.

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memoir

United States

The Tragedy o

by Gayle Powell

P

rior to my trip to the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe Reservation in South Dakota, I thought I knew what poverty looked like. I had been to the ghettos of cities in the United States and to the townships of South Africa. I had traveled through the most desolate towns in Alaska and the poorest villages of Southeast Asia. But

Connecticut, it is home to only 10,000 American Indians spread across fifteen “towns” that make up two of the poorest counties in the entire United States.

The average household income is $20,000 less than that of the average American household.

The unemployment rate remains above 90%. Only 30% of kids graduate from high school.

There is an average of seven suicide attempts each week. Alcoholism and drug abuse are pandemic.

Child abuse is a normalized experience. These facts may seem surprising and at first, they are. However, when you see the way these people live, you begin to realize that the statistics make

There was an overwhelming emotional poverty and the existence of a profound and staggering hopelessness... even those experiences couldn’t compare to the poverty that I encountered during my weeklong stay on this reservation. It was so much more than the tangible signs of poverty, such as dilapidated housing, food insecurity, and poor education. There was an overwhelming emotional poverty and the existence of a profound and staggering hopelessness, created because these people were robbed of their identity and sense of worth by the American government’s failed and abandoned attempt to solve “the Indian problem.” Laws, institutions, missionaries, and countless broken promises stripped the American Indians of everything they owned and valued, leaving them as they are today: broken and in utter despair.

While the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe Reservation is roughly the size of

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Families live in collapsing trailer homes that were designed for southern climates, but given to the Lakota Indians because there was “nothing else left.”

sense. If you lived this way, you would likely be a hopeless, suicidal alcoholic as well.

The town that I lived in, La Plant, was a six hour drive from Rapid City, South Dakota. As you near the reservation, the landscape slowly changes from an urban hub into desolate plains. Without a doubt, the stretches of wildflowers and green grasses were beautiful and it was incredible to see so much uninterrupted and profoundly blue sky. Yet, I could not stop thinking that living in a place this remote meant that life would be a game of survival. It was not that the opportunities were few and far between, but rather that they didn’t exist at all.

La Plant is known as the “armpit of the reservation,” but the conditions in this town are consistent with those of the reservation’s other towns. Families live in collapsing trailer homes that were designed for southern climates, but given to the Lakota Indians because there was “nothing

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y of Lakota else left.” These thin, tin shells are a totally inappropriate form of shelter for the conditions of South Dakota, which typically sees a 150+ degree temperature range in one calendar year. They also typically house between 15 and 20 people each, which leaves many sleeping on the floor like sardines.

However, the families cherish these trailer homes because they are the only places they have to go and the sources of the only sense of ownership they have.

The roughly two hundred residents who call La Plant home have no common areas, parks, or playgrounds.

They have no stores, no restaurants, and no movie theaters.

To buy anything, you have to drive to the largest town on the reservation, Eagle Butte. This “bustling metropolis” is a 64-mile round trip drive from La Plant and hosts nothing more than a gas station and a Dairy Queen. The real grocery store, a Wal-Mart, is a three-hour drive away.

The consequences of living in this isolated food desert are many. There is virtually no sense of community. This troubling lack of unity causes a desperate hunger for a sense of belonging and the constant

thought of, ‘What is the point of living? I have nothing to live for, nothing to aspire to.’ Boredom is cancer. Children spend the entire day watching television.

Teenagers and adults spend all their time abusing alcohol and drugs. The health problems are immense.

Surviving on insufficient government aid, including "commodity" food stuffs, and without access to a place to buy anything

what they want to be when they grow up, they say, “Nothing. “When you ask them what their names are, they say “No one.”

When you ask them how they are feeling today they say, “No one cares.”

I wish I could say, “I know the solution. We can fix this.” But the reality is, I don’t think we can. I believe that the reservation system is incapable of ever being turned around into a sustainable model of livelihood.

I believe that the culture and spirit of these people is in a state of complete and total disrepair.

I believe that there is literally no amount of money that can cure the injustices that I witnessed. I believe that the American Indians are prey to horrendous circumstances that they did not choose or deserve.

I am a girl that likes to have answers, solve problems, and present solutions. Yet, walking away from this trip, I can only confidently say one thing: it is an outrageous atrocity that the majority of our country is totally unaware of the state of the American Indians’ everyday reality.

When you ask the young children what they want to be when they grow up, they say, “Nothing.

“When you ask them what their names are, they say “No one.” When you ask them how they are feeling today they say, “No one cares.”

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of nutritional value, the Lakota Indians are facing a diabetes epidemic. They also aren’t provided with appropriate medical aid or health education.

I struggle to articulate the hopelessness with which this community left with me.

The Lakota Indians have been reduced to shells of people going through the motions of living, but so far from actually being alive. When you ask the young children

all photos by author

Editing by Amanda Sear, graphics by Liane Yanglian.

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essay

Global

Homeless:

At Home

by Liane Yanglian

T

o some people home defines their identities, and that’s fine.

Since I left home at fifteen to study in another country, I’ve found home to be too abstract a conception with which to grapple.

Home to me is a collection of memories from childhood, and the fading and loss of some dictate my present homelessness.

I know home still constitutes some part of me, but I couldn’t ascertain which part, and I didn’t realize what composes other parts of my selfhood. Travelling in Morocco and China has enlightened me.

Morocco opened my eyes to the Arab World, where I witnessed brilliant cultures and charming artifacts. When I think about it, however, the first thing that pops into my mind is how unsafe I felt walking on the street. It is mostly safe as long as you pretend you are blind and deaf. You keep ignoring men on the streets who yell out at you all kinds of racial slurs and passive aggressive greetings. If you are from Japan, Korea, Thailand, China, or most other Asian countries, you will be called by the word Japan.

One day I was speaking to a student from one of the most prestigious Moroccan universities. She said: “Where are you from?” “Shanghai,” I smiled and added, “It’s in China.” “I really love Japanese!” She immediately exclaimed, “I learned some 15 Passport_2015Fall_Export.indd 16

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Japanese on my own, and...” “Glad to hear that,” I nodded smilingly after she finished, “but I’m from China.” “Oh,” she looked puzzled, “China is Japan though?” It was astounding that some Moroccans have no idea that Asia is not just one country.

Sometimes I had to compromise my roots to stay safe on the streets by pretending that I was from somewhere other than my hometown. I got lost several times in Morocco. When I was trying to find my way around the “old city” of the capital Rabat (the city is divided into “new city” and “old city”), I became lost amid the meandering courses of paths that looked identical to me as a newcomer. A man in his twenties approached me with a wry smirk and asked in heavily accented English, “Would you like some help, my lady?” “Non, je connais où je veux aller,” I answered firmly in French while avoiding eye contact (I was told to avoid eye contact with strangers on the streets for self-protection.) I told him that I knew my way around while pretending to be in line to buy something from a nearby grocery store.

My Arabic didn’t suffice for me to pass for a native speaker. French, as one of the two most prominently spoken languages in Morocco, was my go-to rescue. He proceeded, “Where are you from? Here, come, follow me, I’ll take you to where you want to go.”“Je suis de Maroc,” I answered

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that I was from Morocco. “Where are you really from?” He persisted. “Je vous ai dit, je suis marocaine,” I answered immediately with a daring smile. He shrugged and walked away with frustration.

Middle and high school French teachers, I’ve done you justice.

During the Morocco trip, someone asked me to rate my “Chineseness” on a scale of one to ten. I said eight, and they thought that it was a lot given that I had been in America for five years. Before that another student who had moved to America at the age of four rated himself two or three. Upon reflection, I now realize I lied out of peer pressure. I should have said ten. Precisely because many Moroccans didn’t acknowledge my roots and I had to compromise and pretended I was from somewhere else, my sense of belonging to China increased exponentially.

A new light is shed upon me. After experiencing these episodes, I understand now that being Chinese is a large part of the other pieces of my identity for which I have been searching.

After this revelation, I decided to delve deeper into the other important, newfound piece of my identity: being Chinese.

Having previously been to few places in China, I schemed to travel extensively from the southernmost island where I was born to the northernmost province trying to learn about my country. As I got to know my motherland more and more this way, I became more certain about being Chinese as a component of my identity.

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tranquil and transcendent. I went there many times in the past for family vacations, and I never had a bad time. It’s quite close to Haikou, the city where I was born, so I chose it as the starting point of my trip, somewhat symbolically.

Then I went to Shangri-La, a fictional place that got its name from James Hilton’s 1933 novel, Lost Horizon. A prepossessing city with a high altitude in southern China, I encountered captivating views of nature and genuine local cultures, the best I had ever seen, for which China is well-known.

This made me more in love with China.

There I ate delicious hotpots and had a plateful of raw Yaks, a local specialty. I rode horses and went to grasslands for the first time and saw yaks and tried to ride one as the horseman urged me. They all escaped me though, leaving me marveling at my own awkwardness when it comes to the grasslands. Not a cowgirl after all.

On my way in a van from Shangri-La to Lijiang, another city famous for its views, I learned that the most beautiful views you can only imagine would exist in fairy tales actually exist! Mountains, clouds... Nobody can use any language or picture or video to capture its beauty and magnificence. You’ll have to be there to comprehend.

In Lijiang, I got a taste of the genius of the cultures of minority ethnic groups in China, with whom I had hardly had any experience. I saw a peculiar type of language, in which the word fat is just a big round circle with four extended legs. I found booklets and street arts explaining the language to tourists.

This city was much more touristy than the last one. They had the best specialty snacks

in the ancient parts of the city. I biked through most of the city to the mountains so as to take it all in.

Inner Mongolia in northern China was another stop that showed a more exotic and versatile side of China to me. I found it funny how the accents drastically differedfrom the southern parts. I was on a train at night and someone was on the phone directing his team in the company, using some colloquial slurs. I cracked up a little, only to have people look at me strangely.

The roasted whole lamb and lamb legs there were supreme. The grasslands there, where I learned that I’m not too bad of an archer, were superb. Taxi drivers were generally more friendly in cities there than in big metropolitan cities, but I had to bargain prices a lot more. Prices of many commodities were not set in stone for the locals, as was the case in Morocco. In one city there I saw the border between China and Russia and found a lot of Russians on the streets. I tasted Russian food served by Russians for the first time.

I was just having the time of my life.

Through all of these fragmented experiences I formed a new appreciation of my motherland, China, and a novel understanding of my self. There was no defining moment through which the enlightenment came to me that the reason for which Chineseness is a vital part of my identity is my love for my country and my pride for what my country is and perhaps what it is not. Rather, the congregation of my newly formed Chinese acquaintances, exposures, and awareness, compounded by the pride I had felt during the fact, homeless: at home

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made me certain that I’m in love with the country, its beauty, its diversity, its sublimity. That’s why I am the country.

Then I began to ask myself, since I identify so much with my homeland, why don’t I feel the same way with my physical home?

Home, sweet home, the place to which we all belong.

I have been away most of my life. I was born on an island in my home country. A few days later, I left the hospital with my mother to go home, in a plain residential building at the heart of the capital city of that island.

In another eight months, I found myself in a foreign city, Shanghai, a place that I would later come to call home. A few months after turning fifteen I stepped onto the plane to go to a boarding school in the U.S. Indeed, home is quite an arbitrary concept to me, someone who is a nomad, an expatriate, a freak. A nomad because I keep moving from place to place. An expatriate because I don’t identify with most of these places (not that this is good or bad). A freak because unlike most people would say, I feel homeless at home.

I think about the recollection of what used to be, presented to be in the form of either nostalgic moments or haunting scenes, as if I were watching an animated film starring myself. Physically I go home about twice a year every year. Yet emotionally home is never that same home that I left five years ago when I came to the U.S. for high school.

When I’m not there the door to my home is locked because my parents now work and live in a different city. Some of the people who carry my most cherished memories have since moved. Vanished, at least for me.

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When I go back to my home and my room in which I first slept as a third-grader, I gazed out of the window and see that same beautiful view that I have been seeing for the past ten years. The memories come rushing back to my mind with the sort of poignance that accompanies every human gaze back into their past lives. A life that I have lived yet never lived, memories that I have experienced yet never recalled, people I have loved yet never understood.

Maybe after all, home means to me an aloof set of memories, the inability to retain which results in my loss of the sense of belonging to home. Sometimes I pretend to be a philosopher. I ponder that if I don’t ever reencounter those people and revisit those places, which are linked with some of my recollections, those events, which used to mean so much to me, may be no different than if they have never happened. Even the existence of those people is questioned; after all they might have only lived in my mind. As for some stories, I never told anyone, because it is simply impossible to tell the story to anyone else. Physically it is possible, yet for someone to really understand, they have to have lived the story. They have to be me.

enough so that I don’t want to bear the burden of knowing that I have to record everything in my life. It is long enough that I have enough events and people to remember that I am not afraid to overlook others. Being homeless, I have learned that I can only take so much with me every time I leave.

Does it mean that in order to belong to home, I need to keep all the memories? No. In a sense, it’s okay to remain homeless. I create memories. I become other people’s. I own mine. Other people will lose or discard memories ofme just as I will theirs. On my deathbed, I will not have time to look through my life journal even if I kept one.

During those last moments I will only have time and the willingness to think about those that I have loved and cared about the most.

Take your time, and live. if you have a home, go home every so often. If you don’t, live anyway. There’s always some bigger place to which you belong. It’s good.

Editing by Elaine Zhong and Heather Zhou, graphics by Jenny Shang.

They aren’t.

In one of my classes in college, my professor told the class passionately about why everyone should keep a journal. If you keep a journal then years later or even months later when you look back, you’ll discover details of your life that you would otherwise have forgot. I found that convincing at the time. But I never grew into that habit, maybe partly because I was lazy. But it’s perfectly acceptable for you to remember some things and forget others. Life is short fall 2015

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Memoir memoir

United Kingdom Qinghai, China

by Zhengtao Qu

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“The next moment in life is always rich with possibilities.”

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n a whim, I rushed out of the room, leaving depression and boredom behind and taking the train to Xining. Near the city was my destination, Qinghai Lake, the largest, and arguably the most beautiful lake in China, with a circumference of 200 miles and an altitude of 10,000 feet. Its name, Qinghai, literally means the blue sea.

I did not go for sightseeing; I have been to the lake before. I went to the lake for hope. I expected the lake to give me some inspirations, like it does to all the pilgrims of Tibetan Buddhism, who travel alongside it near the shoreline, and who are transformed by its sublimity. A trek taken by pilgrims, who walked along the rough lake bank, would be too much for me. Nor did I have time for it. My plan was to cycle around the lake. At that time, I was so desperate to run away that I almost didn’t prepare anything but a jacket and sunglasses, setting out the day after I got the idea. Notably, I went alone. My parents would not approve of me, brought up in sweet home and ivory tower with little social experience, going to such a primitive place alone (Around Qinghai Lake are underpopulated areas and undereducated natives). But I must go alone, because solitude will help me focus on the journey itself.

I left so rapidly that my dad was informed of my solitary departure only after I got on the train. He did not approve it, yet he understood and agreed to conceal the fact from my mom. After two hours of train and two hours of bus, I arrived at a small town called Xihai, which means west of the sea. The Biking would start here.

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Prelude Getting off the bus, I felt that the air was dry and cool, not like summer air at home.

On the train, I had contacted a local biking club run by a family, and they helped me set up everything for the rest of the day. I rent a bike for 80 ($14) yuan a day. They also prepared for me a helmet, bags hanging on the bike, scarves, gloves, a spare tire and an inflator. (Scarves and gloves were for protecting me against the sun rather than against the coldness.) They also told me what to be cautious about, how to find accommodation, and everything else about the trip, reiterating certain crucial points over and again.

July and August are the big months for

biking around Qinghai lake (because the weather is warmer). About ten other people rent bikes from that club; there were several other biking clubs in that little town. Young and old, southern and local, talkative and silent, the population was unexpectedly diverse. I found new friends readily and had a great hot pot with a nice young couple in the summer cold.

in a hostel room. I lay on a shabby bed and was surprised by how easy the act of leaving was and how good it felt.

The next moment in life is always rich with possibilities.

Riding: Passion & Pain At eight o’clock, I got on the bike and set out. With brisk wind, I felt a freshness to travel in fast speed on the road into the grassland. (To tell the truth, I had not ridden a bike for years.) Living in an industrial city, I was used to pale sky, buildings, and roads. But here is a rough barbarian place where I was encompassed by lively colors. Even the road was so clean and new that I thought it was beautiful and so congruent to the green grassland, to the blue sky, to the golden cole flower field.

The freshness, however, was soon replaced by sweat and tiredness. “There are many slopes on the first day,” I remember they told me. After the first hour’s feeling good, I had to stop every ten to fifteen minutes.

The temperature was not high, but on the plateau the sun was so harsh that I often felt like taking off the scarves protecting me from the ultraviolet sunrays. Sweat made the clothes sticky. Two layers of clothing made breathing uncomfortable.

I got a nosebleed because of the dryness, which made breathing more difficult.

That night I lived with three other riders

I was among the earliest riders to set out that day. Therefore I was constantly overtaken by other riders until noon, when nearly everyone was ahead of me. I had foreseen this situation because most riders were experienced, so I was okay with it. I covered fifty miles the first day. If I kept riding at six miles per hour, I could make it to the next town (there are several

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towns along the road where I could stay overnight) before six. It would be good as long as I reached the next town, I told myself.

I kept riding. I skipped lunch to get more time and save money. I stopped every fifteen minutes to take a rest and have some water and snacks before I went on.

I was getting more and more tired, and sometimes I had to get off the bike and climb a steep slope by walking my bike.

During other times, I stopped the bike yet kept sitting on the saddle because I had no strength to get off the bike. My bottom got painful in the afternoon, and after I got on the bike it took me seconds to really sit on the saddle because it hurt.

I realized that, although biking around a beautiful lake might seem romantic, it was not enjoyable and actually not that romantic. Before I came, I thought I would be able to listen to music, enjoy the scenery and have some good thinking over life. It turned out so many cars and trucks honked and went fleeting by me that it would be suicidal to listen to music.

Similarly, it was dangerous to meditate while riding. In fact, I was always so tired that I did not have the energy to really think. Worst of all, I found I could not actually enjoy the scenery, because when I was biking, I had to keep my eyes on the road. To raise up my head and look at the surrounding was an extra labor and made me more uncomfortable and tired. To make things worse, I had to wear sunglasses, which degraded any scenery.

the roadside for twenty minutes doing nothing. (151 is a famous sightseeing spot.

A lot of people visiting Qinghai lake drive here for sightseeing. Some tourists looked at me curiously and asked some general questions. One of them asked me to lend her the bike and helmet so that her friends could take photos of her pretending to bike.) I then called the manager of the accommodation I had arranged, finding that I had passed the hostel for three miles.

I didn’t want to ride back for three miles.

I checked the map and found the next town was only 12 miles away. I don’t know if I would make the same choice if I relived the situation. Somehow, at seven, I decided to keep biking to the next stop.

Looking backwards, it was one of the best decisions I made in the trip. The road to the next town was rather flat. As the sun set, I finally could throw away all the

irksome scarves and sunglasses. I rediscovered the great pleasure of biking from this extended part of the day. I watched the sun set with spectacular afterglow. The dark grew from my back and I was chasing the last light, like the giant Kuafu in Chinese legend running to catch the sun who was running away from mankind.

Tibetan Accommodation I lived in a Tibetan tent that night. An entire extended Tibetan family made a living from providing tent accommodations. They, and most other Tibetans I had contact with on the trip, no longer lived a nomadic life, but adopted to the modern-style living. Now in these remote provinces, it is common that minority people make livings on tourism. But they have not been changed too much by modernity. Their cultures and their characters can still been seen beneath the veneer of modernized life.

Since I arrived late, the hostess made me stay in the

I arrived at a town called 151 at six in the evening, exhausted. I sat on

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kitchen tent with the family. Other family members did not speak Mandarin, so they just kept doing their work. The kitchen was dirty according to my standard, and cramped with both modern and traditional cookers. There were two onefeet-diameter bowls of cooked meat, and a one-feet-diameter pot with more boiling meat. They were still cooking to serve some customers who were drinking and dancing around a bonfire with pop songs.

They might think they were enjoying certain “Tibetan culture” of celebrations by dancing around a fire. I could tell they were just entertaining a simulacrum of the real culture, a special adapted version for tourists.

The hostess talked with me while she was cooking in the kitchen. She said it was very daring of me to ride alone at such a late time. To be honest, I was afraid when it got completely dark, but nothing happened.

There were no robbers. I only encountered some Tibetan Buddhist pilgrims who helped me with fixing my bike, and locals who kindly said aloud to me “come on” when I was biking strenuously. She gave me milk tea to drink and mutton soup for dinner. I was then aware that I was massively hungry after twelve hours of biking without lunch. The food and drink were all teeming with intense smell of mutton, but I swallowed them like a beast.

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I felt a toughness being elicited from me.

In a spiritual way, I felt I was closer to the family than those tourists outside.

The hostess treated me as if I were a feeble sheep. I was - when compared with her and her family. They were born in this tough land and lived this way all their lives, whereas I could not even keep biking on parts of this land with modern road. In the kitchen with the family, while feeling the

I can say for sure that I am no longer the same as the person I was before the trip. toughness hidden in me, I also recognized how powerless I was in the environment.

The hostess told me then that I only needed to pay half of the original price we agreed on over the phone, because she found me too wretched. It was really an irony for me, when I had always been in the privileged class and had the power to pity others.

That night, I heard wolves howling.

I became more confident in dealing with difficulties. Since I didn’t bring much cash, and there was no ATM or POS machine that I could use a credit card with throughout my biking journey, I had to reduce my food intake and tried to find the cheapest places in which to stay overnight.

The last night before I came back home, I shared a room with a stranger. Somewhat risky, my sharing of the room turned out to be a sharing of amazing stories and life values with the stranger.

I tried to think about the trip, considering what it means to me. As I intended, the trip drove away my depression. I also got a better knowledge of modern Tibetan people. But the trip brought to me something more. The four-day biking was not just exercise, but a toughening process similar to that for Tibetan pilgrims who walk to their holy palace. I would not say I am a stronger person now, but I can say for sure that I am no longer the same as the person as I was before the trip. And this is the meaning of the biking trip.

Epilogue I biked for three and a half days, more than eight hours a day, to finish the 200mile road. Riding was still laborsome, but I had been accustomed to the way it felt. In the last two days, I could feel my progress as I rode for ten miles without break. And

Editing by Liane Yanglian, graphics by Zhengtao Qu.

fall 2015

photo by author

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essay

Seoul, South Korea

A N I S ’ T A W H A M E? N

by Chris Lee To those who are born into a South Korean household, a name is more than just a name. It identifies a person not only as an individual, but also as a nexus of specific familial relationships. Traditionally, Korean parents give their children a three-syllable name, but usually just one of these syllables is left to the family’s choice. The other two are often predetermined, intended to connect the child to the particular clan and generation into which he or she is born.

Following this custom, my name—Yi Jung-Joon—signifies membership in the “Jung” generation of the “Yi” family. The concluding “Joon” syllable is the part unique to me. Along with the American name I use outside of my extended family, this Korean name serves as a sort of vessel bearing the narrative of my ancestral

history. Tracing my lineage across the generations, it recalls the storied movement of my forefathers from the rural town of Jeonju to the capital city of Seoul—from my great-grandfathers’ protests against the Japanese colonial government in the early 1900s to my parents’ eventual immigration to the United States.

For years, my name has helped graft me back into these roots of my cultural past. It’s a small part of me that reaches far beyond me, having been chosen as my identifier before I even entered the world. It affixes my individual identity to the collective hopes and blessings that my family has lovingly preserved for generations.

But maybe there’s more to a name than just guarding old memories. While much

of my identity has changed over time, my name has always remained constant, anchoring me to something greater than myself. Though it seems just a simple and inconsequential word, I’m starting to believe that my name can be used not just to verify my family’s distant past, but also to effect tangible change in my own living present.

However, such a realization hasn’t come easily. To this day, I’m still searching for a way to navigate my complex relationship with the word by which I’m known to the world. Growing up in an immigrant household meant that, from an early age, I learned what it was like to live in linguistic limbo. As a child, I spent a lot of time and energy crawling through cultural confusion, wondering why I felt like a

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stranger in the country I had always called home. There seemed to be a missing link between my two names—between the history preserved by my Korean name and the personal experiences harbored within my American name.

Indeed, despite the profound influence that Korean culture always had on my life—dictating the food I ate, the language I spoke at home, and which country I supported during the Olympics—I had never set foot in the nation of Korea itself.

At the same time, though I had always lived in the United States, it was clear that much of my family’s identity came directly from this faraway country in East Asia. The dissonance perplexed me. As a result, South Korea always seemed to me like a mythical place—familiar yet distant, comforting yet elusive, like a make-believe world from a storybook read back in childhood. For years, my cultural roots in Korea felt less like history and more like fantasy.

This past summer, however, the supposed myth of my ethnic identity finally became a personal reality. Thanks to scholarship funding from Duke, I was able to travel to South Korea for the first time to take part in an internship program at one of the nation’s most prestigious law firms. Dressed in a suit and tie, I would take the daily commute by metro from my aunt’s house to Gangnam—a wealthy metropolitan district in Seoul known for its lofty corporate buildings, crowded shopping centers, and its popular association with the hit song “Gangnam Style.”

my surroundings. Even now, I remember the sheer dread that rushed through my body like waters from an opened floodgate, upon lifting my eyes to behold the fortytwo-story skyscraper that housed the firm’s offices. I stood speechlessly by the towering doorway, with myriad thoughts of fear and regret creeping into my mind.

But in stark contrast to its façade, the workplace itself felt warm and approachable. On typical weekdays, we

FOR ME, THE PAST IS A SCARY THING BECAUSE REMEMBERING IT MEANS RELIVING A LIFE I'VE BEEN TRYING TO FORGET. IT MEANS UNEARTHING A CORPSE I'VE BURIED LONG AGO AND HAVING ITS SPECTER HAUNT ME AGAIN. interns would attend court proceedings, participate in legal seminars, translate client interviews, and of course, bring people their coffee. Within a short amount of time, I grew immensely in my understanding of social concerns within contemporary Korean society—all while stumbling through cryptic legal rhetoric that was difficult for me to understand even in English, let alone in Korean. Overall, the experience built a new bridge in my life, connecting my individual interest in law with my collective cultural roots in South Korea.

As a college student unversed in the corporate world and the Seoul lifestyle as a whole, I felt painfully estranged from

More rewarding than the internship, however, was the time I got to spend with family members in Seoul whom I met for the first time. Staying in the city for

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two months allowed us to share precious conversations and memories with each other that made up somewhat for twenty years of lost time. While taking weekend trips around the country, my aunts and I would sit around a small table to talk and laugh together as if I were their friend, not their nephew. I listened to memorable stories of my parents living in Seoul at my age, which led me to realize, to my surprise, that I somehow hadn’t imagined what my parents were like before they moved to the U.S. Eventually, these stories began reaching even further back into my family’s past.

When my grandmother came to visit, she would recall how, nearly a century ago, our family members had protested courageously for national independence during Korea’s era of Japanese occupation.

Uncles from my dad’s side would explain to me the heavy significance of my Korean last name, “Yi.” Tracing our family tree to its roots in the late 14th century, they taught me that our lineage descends from same clan as the royal family who reigned in Korea throughout Joseon—the final and longest-lasting dynasty in the nation’s history.

As I listened closely to these narratives, my name started to become more than just a name. For the first time, it made me feel proud of my cultural identity. It gave me a deep sense of gratitude for bearing the name of such admirable people and for sharing in the richness of their history.

But in the midst of all this, I still felt out of place. This sense of pride for my heritage was an unfamiliar feeling to me and would take some getting used to.

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JUST AS KOREA FINDS ITSELF CAUGHT WITHIN A LIMINAL IDENTITY BETWEEN WESTERN DEVELOPMENT AND EASTERN TRADITION, I ALSO STRUGGLE WITH RECONCILING THE COMPETING CULTURES OF KOREA AND THE U.S. WITHIN MYSELF. As racial minorities in the United States, Korean-Americans often grow up with scars on their soul—many of them selfinflicted. For me, the past is a scary thing because remembering it means reliving a life I’ve been trying to forget. It means unearthing a corpse I buried long ago and having its specter haunt me again. When I think of my own past, I see a person in my mind drowning in shame and self-loathing due to his ethnicity. Even today, it’s not easy to face that person and tell myself that I’m looking in a mirror.

But while living in Seoul this summer, I started to realize that these conflicts of cultural identity aren’t just my own.

However overwhelming they might seem, I’m not going through them alone. In fact, while I was there, it seemed like the city of Seoul itself was struggling with a crisis of its own, regarding its evolving identity as a modern metropolis.

country has constantly been in flux, shapeshifting its identity at an extremely rapid turnover rate. In fact, when my dad came to visit Korea this summer for the first time in 20 years, he could hardly recognize the city where he had spent his childhood, for it had experienced so much development in such little time.

identity between Western development and Eastern tradition, I also struggle with reconciling the competing cultures of Korea and the U.S. within myself. After living in Seoul, I’ve begun to understand that I don’t have to carry these burdens alone, since I have the help of my forefathers whose experiences live on in the name I carry.

In effect, Seoul has become a city defined by paradox—modern technology juxtaposed with traditional history, Western development complementing Eastern values, skyscrapers filled with workaholics towering over bars filled with alcoholics. The nation’s high performance on educational assessments belies an equally formidable rate of suicide among its students. Underneath South Korea’s

At its core, a name is a blessing given from the past to the present. It sets me apart as unique but also links me perpetually to those who gave it to me. In whatever I choose to do, I can be assured that the enduring hopes and blessings passed down within my family will accompany my steps, just as they have for the people who came before me. Maybe my interest in law carries on the spirit of justice championed by my ancestors as they protested for Korea’s independence and self-determination.

Maybe my passion for writing draws its inspiration from the sensitive words my grandfather would pen when composing his novels. In these ways and more, I feel encouraged and strengthened upon recognizing my ancestors’ past tangibly affecting my own present through the name and lineage we share.

Embedded deeply into the South Korean conscience today is an eagerness to forget its recent past in favor of a more promising present. It makes sense, as narratives of victimization at the hands of Japanese colonizers and Cold War belligerents have plagued the nation for too long. Few of my Korean friends expressed much concern with the continued North-South divide on the peninsula, even though it was an issue of such proximity to their lives. Some lawyers at the firm in Gangnam even admitted to me that they would willingly surrender their Korean mother tongue if it meant they could instead speak fluent English.

glamorous consumer and entertainment industries lies an unhealthy obsession with image and appearance, to the point where undergoing plastic surgery has become a popular trend for people in Seoul. Modern development has proved to be a doubleedged sword, yielding both progress and regress to varying degrees.

Because of its hyper-advanced technology and infrastructure today, it’s easy to forget that only 60 years have passed since the Korean peninsula was left absolutely devastated by war. Within those years, the

Ultimately, however, none of us on this earth can claim to be perfect, neither as individuals nor as members of a community or nation. In this we are all alike. Just as Korea finds itself caught within a liminal

More than anything, I’m humbled by the intimate glimpses into the past that this name provides for me. Yet, I understand that these narratives and identities are not stagnant. The past is never dead, for its stories live on in my present and into my future. For this reason, it’s my hope to honor what I’ve been given, by using it someday to make a name for myself.

Editing by Zhengtao Qu, graphics by Roshni Prakash.

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photo essay

Europe

Solo Wanderings

Traversing through the Swiss Alps, meandering through Tuscan coastal villages in Cinque Terre, and watching the Pope speak at the Vatican. Sleeping in a Florentine Roman Catholic Monastery, on the deck of a Croatian Ferry across the Mediterranean, and on overnight German/Italian buses in my cross-country bus-hopping adventures. Follow my solo trip in pictures, across three of the twenty-one countries I’ve visited over the past year!

Day 1: Basel

by Lily Zerihun

Day 2: Luzern

Day 3-6: Roma +Vatican City

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Day 7: Cinque Terre

Day 3-6: Roma

Florence Pisa and Day 8-9: Day 10: Split

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survey

PROVERBS

Africa

Away from Home

by Ashan-wa Aliogo

Meaning “If you’re trying to marry or get to know someone, you come with all your flaws, quirks and baggage. Another interpretation is if you’re going to a party, you can’t expect to go alone. You come with your husband, your kids and you friends. Your whole entourage.” —SweetHope from Bukavu, DRC (Democratic Republic Of Congo)

When you see a lizard sun basking, it knows its hole is near.

- Zimbabwean Proverb

If an elephant goes to the water hole, it has to go with all its fleas. - Congolese Proverb

"It reminds me of politics. The necessary things in life are messy but worth it." — Greg from Florida, USA

"The waterhole is a specific goal to get to.

It’s a journey to get to the goal and along the way, you’ll have people trying to hold you back or who’ll try to irritate and discourage you (fleas). You can either let them bother you and keep you from your goal or you can keep moving even with them on your back." —Bria from Chicago, USA

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"To do something good you need to bring baggage; even if it’s people or past experiences." —Asiyah from Dubai, UAE "An elephant goes with all the things that are bothering it. Humans are like that too, we come with all our positive and negative aspects. It’s not a bad thing." —Karen from Chicago, USA "The parts you dislike about yourself always go with you. I think it’s enlightening to know that you’re taking the best and worst parts of yourself with you wherever you go." —Ashley from Florida, USA

fall 2015

Meaning “Most lizards live in holes below the ground, so whenever you see a lizard sun basking, it knows that its home is somewhere near. If anything tries to attack it, it goes straight into the hole. So when someone incapable insults you, try to think of where they got the guts from before you even try to beat them!” —Ngoni from Harare, Zimbabwe background photo by Sherrie Thai via Flickr elephant by Ed Harrison from the Noun Project 11/15/15 6:23 PM

"If I was at home, I wouldn’t go out or play too far away.

I don’t like going far from home. There’s a sense of comfort being by that hole.

It relaxes you knowing it’s near and if the lizard is ever in danger, it can easily escape." —Anastasia from Florida, USA

Two bushes with heaps of trash do not fight. - Nigerian Proverb Meaning

"The lizard feels safe enough to do so. It’s in a relatively safe location so it doesn’t have to worry about predators. Even if there were any, it could return very easily." — Tiffany from Texas, USA

“Nobody is perfect and it’s unjust to judge or overly critique others of their weaknesses because you’re not immune to yours.

Another interpretation is two people with similar characters and attributes are less likely to fall into conflict and more likely get along. They are like birds of the same feather so they flock together.” —Ashanwa from Delta, Nigeria

"Confused. Danger. The lizard has to sense danger. When you see an animal wandering, they are trying not to wander too much because if danger comes they can easily return to a safe place." —Thamatida from Bangkok, Thailand

"The two bushes represent two people and the rubbish represents past experiences.

They cannot fight against each other because they both have a bad past. You cannot criticize someone for being impolite because you’ve also been impolite at some point." —Giulia from Venice, Italy

"You’re comfortable to do anything when you know you’re in a safe place."

—Wendy from Florida, USA

"A lizard will always have a home where ever it goes." —Debra from Michigan, USA

"Bushes never fight each other. If two people have lots of problems going on they don’t have too much time to fight each other!" —Mauricio from Seville, Colombia

"Two people each have their personal problems so they’re less likely to pick at each other."

—Emily from California, USA

"He who has a higher character does not and should not debase themselves with conflicts of people with lower character…

Oh, I thought it was two bushes fighting each other with trash!" —Jeff from Ohio, USA background photo by Wonderlane via Flickr flea by Jeff Seevers from the Noun Project lizard and bushes by ludmil from the Noun Project Passport_2015Fall_Export.indd 29

"If you have a lot of troubles, you’ll try solving yours first instead of looking at the other bush because it has its own trash. Maybe there’s a chance to figure out their problems together. They shouldn’t fight, they should co-operate and prevent the trash from forming by putting up a sign that says 'Do not throw trash.'"

—Mariana from Buenos Aires, Argentina

Author’s Note Some people know them as quotes, some as proverbs and others as words of wisdom but generally adages play a significant role in individuals of various cultures. I am Nigerian and I decided to take a proverb from three African countries (Zimbabwe, Democratic Republic of Congo and Nigeria) and asked different individuals on campus to react and share their thoughts on them. I find it interesting to see how people react differently to the same proverb and how they are able to relate them to different topics and experiences.

I came up with this idea for my website, Miss LAJA, where I give my interpretations on various Nigerian proverbs alongside posts expressing African-print fashion.

As opposed to sharing just my point of view, I felt it would be beneficial and enlightening to see the proverbs through other people’s eyes.

Editing and graphics by Elaine Pak proverbs away from home

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Staff Corner

Humans of Passport Writers Gayle Powell, Class of 2016

Jeff McLaughlin, Law School Class of 2017

“Post-graduation I plan to travel to the ONLY continent that I have not yet been to...South America!”

“I'm ready for a new passport!”

Zhengtao Qu, Class of 2019 “I like handling cool discourse and delicious cookies!”

Chris Lee, Class of 2016 “Hi! I’m a senior studying English, history, and anthropology. Having studied or worked in five different continents throughout my time at Duke, I’ve grown to love exploring the rich cultural narratives that our world has to offer.

Thanks for joining us as we share our stories!”

Sarah Zhou, Class of 2019 “I kept journals from second grade to seventh grade, one black-and-white composition notebook for each year. They now have a cozy home in the back of my closet.”

Ukyoung Chang, Class of 2016

Deeksha Malhotra, Class of 2018

Risa Pieters, Class of 2016

“If I could have anyone’s career, it’d be Anthony Bourdain. What more could you ask of life than to unendingly consume delicacies of the globe and then, in pensive mood, re-live the f lavors through your own alphabet soup.”

“She enjoys traveling, old hostels, and trying new food. She's an avid coffee drinker and blogs about different cafes across the world when she travels.”

Ashan-wa Aliogo, Class of 2017

Maegan Stanley, Class of 2019 “I enjoy spontaneous road trips, rainy Sundays, caramel macchiatos, and long walks on the beach.”

Editors Amanda Sear, Class of 2019 “I used to be left-handed, but now I’m only right-handed.”

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fall 2015

Marisa Witayananun, Class of 2018 “Marisa is a sophomore from Thailand who hopes to major in Economics and ICS with a minor in French. She is a keen enthusiast in language and currently knows/ is learning Thai, Chinese, French, German and Italian.”

photos submitted by staff

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Elle Winfield, Class of 2019

Mia Huang, Class of 2019

"I'm a freshman from England who loves warm hugs and is still figuring out how to pull off a f lawless Texan accent.”

“Basically, I'm a down-to-earth person who loves late-night talks, road trips, double fudge brownies and connecting with people.”

Elaine Zhong, Class of 2019

Liane Yanglian, Class of 2018

“I’m Chinese, Canadian and a kiwi in disguise.

I sing professionally (in showers).”

Assistant Chief Editor “I really really really love cats (as pets), oysters (as food), and Passport (as fun)!”

Graphics Masha Stoertz, Class of 2019

Roshni Prakash, Class of 2016

“I once wrote a sixty page fan fiction about Albus Severus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy.

With illustrations and all, y’know...”

Editor-in-Chief

Jenny Shang, Class of 2018 Co-Chief Graphics Editor “A huge foodie made in Shanghai, China, currently upgrading at Duke. If you love good food, we can have a good talk.”

Heather Zhou, Class of 2019

“I'm a senior, sister, designer, dancer, musician, and dessert lover!”

Elaine Pak, Class of 2017 “I'm a South Korean born in Texas, Austin. I love studying diverse subjects, including Public Policy, filmmaking, and art.”

Sherry Huang, Class of 2019

“Persistent, yet f lexible.”

“A dreamer, a foodie, a music addict, and a graphics newbie. 16 years in China, 2 years in a Welsh castle and now I'm here!”

Wendy Lu, Class of 2017

Rhona Ke, Class of 2016

Co-Chief Graphics Editor

“Sometimes you forget to appreciate how blue the sky is, protect it...don't take it for granted, there are many cities in this world when a blue sky is frontpage newsworthy.”

Graphics by Wendy Lu.

“Life goal: live in central London with my cat and go to every film festival possible.”

staff corner

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LOOK BEYOND Begin the journey by sending us an email at: passportmag@gmail.com read

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