Passport Magazine Fall 2016

HELPING

HAITI SIMILARITIES? DIFFERENCES BOLOGNA AUTHENTICITY LENS OF LANGUAGE Volume 24 Fall 2016

EDITOR’S NOTE The Fall 2016 issue of Passport International Magazine marks yet another instance of diversity not only in terms of the genres featured (poems, opinion essays, memoirs, etc.) but also in terms of the topics covered. In this issue, Aamir Azhar enlightens us about why we shouldn’t even think we can be “one of them” during short visits to foreign places. Thuy−Vi Nguyen shares with us insight into how being fluent in a language is not a prerequisite for speaking it confidently in public. Helen Yang dazzles us with her lyrical response to the result of the U.S. presidential election. These are just a few instances of the incisive journeys on which our writers have taken us via this issue.

Importantly, Passport dedicates this semester’s staff corner, Election Night and Post−election Days, to presenting our staff’s voices regarding the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election both before and after the election results were published.

Given the recent happenings, I hope we all learn something for ourselves, regardless of our nationalities, from reading these insights.

As Passport continues to grow both in depth and in breadth, I would like to take this opportunity to introduce our exec team with both the original and the newly joined members: Chief Graphics Editor, Jenny Shang ’18, Executive Communications Officer, Marisa Witayananun ’18, and our Assistant Executive Editors, Deeksha Malhotra ’18, Maegan Stanley ’19, Amanda Sear ’19, Zhengtao Qu ’19, and myself, Editor−in−Chief, Liane Yanglian ’18.

I would like to thank all those mentioned above, along with all the other writers, editors, and graphics editors who have contributed so much time and effort into this issue. As I always say, none of this will happen if not for your valued contribution.

Finally, thank you, Ms. or Mr. reader, for entrusting us with the responsibility of entertaining and educating. I value your participation just as much.

Email me at xy48@duke.edu if you are interested in joining us as a writer, editor, graphics editor, multiple of those, or if you have any questions or concerns. We welcome domestic as well as international students and faculty members to publish in Passport!

editor−in−chief Liane Yanglian graphics Jenny (Jingyan) Shang editors assistant Deeksha Malhotra executive Zhengtao Qu editors Amanda Sear Maegan Stanley editors Zhengtao Qu Maegan Stanley Liane Yanglian graphics Sherry (Zijing) Huang editors Jenny(Jingyan) Shang Marisa Witayananun Liane Yanglian Heather Zhou Lin Zuo writers Aamir Azhar Ziqi Deng Deeksha Malhotra Thuy−Vi Nguyen Zhengtao Qu Altamash Rafiq Krystelle Rocourt Maegan Stanley Micaela Unda Helen Yang Liane Yanglian Junette Yu

Sincerely,

Liane Yanglian Editor−in−Chief, Passport International Magazine

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 authors' author’s own and do not reflect the opinions of the magazine.

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cover photo by Anders Sandberg via Flickr back photo by Siavash Ghadiri Zahrani via Flickr

CONTENTS (Almost) Too Late Now to Say Sorry

by Deeksha Malhotra Free Fall

by Helen Yang On Election Night

by Ziqi Deng La Rossa, La Grassa, La Dotta

by Maegan Stanley Why Do Westerners Like Foreign Children?

by Aamir Azhar The Tradition

by Liane Yanglian Same Same but Different? Different, but Same Same

by Junette Yu

9 11 14 17

For All Those Who Actually Want to Help Haiti

by Krystelle Rocourt

19

WWOOnder on Farm

by Zhengtao Qu

21

Traveling Through The Lens of Language

by Thuy−Vi Nguyen

23

Home, Sweet Homes

by Micaela Unda Choice Works

by Altamash Rafiq Election Night and Post−election

current page photo by Ales Kladnik via Flickr

3 5 7

25 27 28

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Memoir

New Delhi, India

(Almost) Too Late

I

f ever you rendered John Cage’s renowned three−movement composition 4’33” a stretched interpretation of true art, come spend a few hours in Delhi.

Stand yourself underneath the Pitam Pura metro station by the curb and among the canines, then inhale, listen, and savor the silence that the city has never known. Silence of every sense – ponder it, long for it, and then unlearn it forever.

…

New Delhi, the metropolitan capital of India busting at its seams with a population close to 25 million, is a melting pot of cultures, colors – and smells. Individuals of Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Jain, Buddhist and Christian faith coexist in peace and synchrony, as do mammals all and sultry. The same soundwave carries Quwallies from the Nizamuddin Shrine and verses of the Gurbani. The same odor molecules collide Haleem with Chole Bhature to concoct a fragrance of exemplary unity and its consequential enhancement.

But the bubbling of the pot is initially scalding. It claws at you some, has you yearning for escape some, and then –

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just as you begin to inch out, reminds you that after this heat, no surroundings will ever deliver as much sensation. You feel self−contempt, astonishment, disbelief, but you are addicted. And the withdrawal is painful.

“The Indian public struggles with the cognitive dissonance that arises between the box office and the open defecation that lines the movie the-

aters.”

As a younger kid traveling with my parents, I was less aware. But today, as a 20− something who’s been fortunate enough to remain nestled in order and hygiene, every flaw stands out like a disformed mosquito bite. Of course, don’t underestimate the wealthy in Delhi – they’ll reinvent luxury and privilege to boast their presence. But for the masses, life is tough. Traffic is omnipresent and debilitating, water is suspect or flooding, tradition is insecure and impressionable.

My parents complained every day about being in a city they no longer recognized as the distinguished capital they once called home.

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fall 2016

This past month I was in Delhi for my cousin’s wedding. For someone like me, there exists no occasion more exciting to return to my homeland than one that involves majestic apparel and fine jewels.

So, wishlist in hand and a blueprint in mind, I came prepared to purchase the outfit that would leave the masses staring and the enlightened proud, all while intending to engage in feasts of every decorum and an experience of the native kind.

But they say the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. The shopping experience once marked by Bollywood hits old and new have now been replaced with Justin Bieber’s “Sorry.” The lunches that rest our aching feet have moved from Khub Chand to Chilli’s, from Roomali

All photos by author unless otherwise cited Background pictures by David Gil via Flickr Movie poster by Somasandram via Pinterest

Now To Say Sorry

by Deeksha Malhotra

Roti and Seekh Kabab to fast−food joints that offer “Quick! Easy!” Chicken Tikka that has lost its right to be named so. The biggest heartbreak of all came with the confused look that met my desire to wear a lehenga for the wedding, the universal choice of attire for young women. Supposedly anachronistic and excessively traditional, the elegant cropped blouse and flowing skirt has been replaced by the one−piece gown, offering the appealing façade of westernization and modernization. Let alone my parents’, my Delhi was nowhere to be seen. Brainwashed by a movie industry that flaunts an accented English, acronymed texts, and rampant

promiscuity, the Indian public struggles with the cognitive dissonance that arises between the box office and the open defecation that lines the movie theaters.

So, what exactly is the point to this piece, then? If it sounds like a confused article with tones of pride, love and hate, then I have done my job adequately. India and Delhi are the homes that I have never resided in, and my allegiance to them is forever and unwavering. That is why I care about its degradation, about its distancing itself from the very tenets that made it unique. I do not deny it the right to progress or evolve, for developments such as the Delhi Metro and the fight against homophobia have been healthy and mature. The surge of Uber and Ola, the drastic enhancement of the airport – all of these mark illustrious feats that swell my chest with pride and patriotism.

The rest of India must puff their chests as well. We must support and encourage our Prime Minister in his decision to communicate in Hindi, we must preserve our lehengas, and we cannot loosen our grasp on the food that leaves the globe salivating. The latter, specifically, is a personal plea.

As for me, I’m not sure if their scarcity

made the hunt more enjoyable, but I eventually found the perfect lehenga and I danced my shoes off at that wedding.

My views may be ambivalent and my aspirations charged but my memories are fond, and I will remember that trip over the years to come. And over the years to come, I hope my memories remain accurate, and that one day I can walk in with my children to a Wenger’s playing Koi Mil Gaya.

Editing by Maegan Stanley, graphics by Sherry Zijing Huang.

(almost) too late now to say sorry

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Essay

United States

Passport does not apply the standard English capitalization in free fall due to respect of Helen's original style of writing.

I

t feels like i am in free fall, perpetuated in a time where everything and anything is happening all at once. the nation is screaming from every direction, and i want to scream back. i want to feel something again, i want to feel something other than the numbness and sadness i have been suspended in. i am processing, i am still processing.

free fall

by Helen Yang

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the political realm is one entrenched in complexities, and i wholeheartedly realize that i am still learning, still trying to read more, listen more, and talk more. political dialogue is important because it is versatile. it is flexible, adaptable, and sometimes that makes it dangerous. sometimes that makes it necessary. this election season has been filled with whirlwinds of conversation; friends and strangers and enemies all together have shared opinions and expressed sentiments, fighting for policy and advocating for change. the decision made yesterday has done a lot of damage – it has implemented an avalanche of emotional violence, of physical violence, and it is damaging,

so it is vitally important to empathize. for those who are emphasizing the importance of unity and staying strong during a time like this, pause. reflect and indulge in introspection, listen to the unspoken words of others. look into peoples’ faces and really, just really think about how they are being afflicted. i admire those individuals who are pushing for continued reform, who are utilizing their encouragement as a vehicle for progress, but it is also important to mourn, to breathe. give people their space and their time to process the events unfolding. let others be angry, and let others be sad. give people their space to be human. recognize that this election is more than about you. if you are not personally affected by the decisions made, recognize that others are. do not let yourself forget. this is bigger than you yourself. you are entitled

to support the candidate you want, to hold the beliefs that you want, but do not pretend like the nation is not wounded right now. political polarization, racist, xenophobic rhetoric, and the invalidation of many peoples’ lives – those are real. those are here. the fact that so much of the nation has been instilled with sheer melancholy means something – the fact that so much of the nation feels threatened, means something. do not compare this to other political races because we have fallen down the rabbit hole into something of new proportions. do not diminish the worries of others – take a moment and maybe consider why others feel the way that they do. when somebody feels as if their livelihood had been stolen from them, when somebody would prefer to have their identities erased from existence to protect themselves, you listen. you respectfully digest their stories and their thoughts, and you grow from that. there is value to utilizing humor as deflection, to making fun of something incom-

prehensible in order to make sense of it, somehow, but please be cognizant of the fact that many people are cemented in pain. people of all communities are sitting with their hearts shattering, so please be wary. this nation is a backbone of immigrants – people of color have come from all over the world in hopes of pursuing a golden, twinkling vision of success in the United States, and yesterday they were given the brutal reminder of inequality. remember that some people don’t have the privilege or the capacity to make jokes about moving to Canada because they have worked so diligently to fight their way to this nation, and now they are blanketed with defeat – hollowed kneecaps now collapsing under the weight of grief, hollowed kneecaps that are only getting stronger. for those who are hurting, please be sure to drink lots of water. bundle up and stay warm. take a few moments out of your day to let the sun shine on your beautiful skin. stand under a tree and look at it dance in the wind. cherish your organic relationships. talk to your loved ones, and always, always appreciate yourself.

Editing by Liane Yanglian, graphics by Jenny Shang.

background by Simon Matzinger via Flickr

free fall

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Essay

United States

I

’ve been haunted by messy emotions for the twelve hours since the election results were published. It is truly hard to rationalize these emotions into concrete thoughts. Yesterday I told my best friend that I was feeling really angry and at the same time sad, to see that so many of my Chinese friends were in support of Trump sharing an instinctively ridiculous and poorly written article.

She said, “if it’s an instinct, you should dig into the instinct, rationalize your instinct and say something. Because if not you, who else? ”

Last night the most historic moment of my life happened. Now I can’t help the ongoing thoughts constantly blowing my mind.

It’s always an easier option to let it go and tell myself that all I need is to care about what’s directly related to me about this country: U.S. Dollar exchange rate, H1B visa, and a green card. While I’ve let it go for way too many times, I cannot forgive myself for not trying hard enough to account for the feelings I am experiencing so vividly and harshly now. They deserve an explanation and an action.

I just started to learn more about politics this year. I have never been confident enough about my underdeveloped insights, always seeking more backup before saying anything on all occasions. And I sincerely don’t know how to handle political disputes, especially with friends: this past summer a well−intentioned politics−centered conversation turned out to be a watershed moment for my Duke Engage group dynamics which were fine until then. I always regard myself as a mediator, not a debater. Rather than the underpinning uncertainty from bringing up a conversation without knowing people’s stances, I am more scared of conflicts.

As an international student, my grief comes from multiple levels of inconsistency. The inconsistency of knowledge − the disparity between what I have so enjoyed learning, in public policy and statistics classes, and the Black Mirror−like plot that essentially refutes the assumptions on which those classroom theories are based. The disparity between the tragic histories that people have unfortunately lived through, critical lessons we’ve learned together, and a possible resurgence of similar tragedies even though they had happened time and again.

The disparity between the world I thought I lived in, the values I took for granted that people across the United States would hold

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as truths, and those values I thought everyone would fight against collectively, and the unfriendly reality that I will neither be able to ignore nor escape. In fact, the consideration of the idea of escaping and ignoring makes me hate myself the most. It might be a privilege just to believe in what I am believing in, to care about what I am caring about, and not to care much about what “others” care about. I have been enjoying this privilege throughout my life. “The relative freedom which we enjoy depends of public opinion,” said George Orwell. This privilege is now shattered, and I am feeling rootless.

Trump’s triumph is a direct reflection of the sentiment of dispossession and anxiety among a great number of others who feel they have been suffering and underrepresented over the years under the current social structure so much that they cannot wait anymore for a change. They’ll take anything as long as it is a change.

The challenge for me is that as I grow more acquainted with politics and form more of my own ways of seeing the world, it gets harder to see, listen to, emphasize and, ultimately, be open to different opinions. I do not mean to close my reflection here by

disclosing any answer or any way to handle my flawed subconscious tendency. Because as much as I am stuck in this place and confused about my deep and heavy sadness, I feel desperately helpless at this stage of my life.

I have to act accordingly. To study harder, work harder, think harder, acquaint myself with more solid understandings of the world so that I will have more developed instincts and articulate them better. To be more fearless, push myself to step up, and embrace criticism whenever I can. To initiate conversations with nothing but a genuine heart for a better understanding of the complex world. Most importantly: take nothing for granted, and search actively for the answer.

Editing by Liane Yanglian, graphics by Jenny Shang.

background by Sarath Kuchi via Flickr

On Election Night

by Ziqi Deng

on election night

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Memoir

La Rossa, La G

Bologna, Italy

T

here is no question that Rome, Florence, and Venice are the holy trinity of Italian travel, and for a good reason.

Each of these cities is an absolute marvel, crammed with more history and art then one city’s cobblestones should be able to hold. It cannot be denied that going to Italy without standing in the shadow of il Duomo or shakily clambering into a Venetian gondola would frankly be a waste of airfare.

Yet due to the steady stream of tourists all trying to complete the Italian tour, these cities have lost a good deal of their Italian authenticity. Views of the Grand Canal are blocked by aggressive street vendors thrusting selfie sticks in your face for ten euros, and hordes of sweaty tourists in shorts ruin your Insta expectations in front of the Coliseum. The shopkeepers and the camerieri begin the conversation speaking perfect English, and men on the street yell “Ciao, bella!” with greasy, olive−oil grins because they know it makes the tourist girls giggle and blush. Considering that they’re the birthplaces of the Renaissance and the modern world, these Roman streets and Florentine piazzas can sadly feel an awful lot like the artifice of the Italian Pavilion at Disney’s Epcot.

But nestled within the northwestern region of Emilia−Romagna is the oft−overlooked red−headed stepchild of Italy − Bologna. Literally “red−headed”, the city is known as La Rossa (“the red”) for its chianti−stained terra cotta rooftops, La Grassa (“the fat”)for its rich culinary tradition, and La Dotta (“the erudite”) in honor of l'Università di Bologna, the first and oldest university in the world.

While the majority of tourists just know Bologna as a station on the Trenitalia line to Venice, the city is much more than just that − it’s where you go to authentically experience Italy.

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Bologna is where you go to never have a bad meal. It’s where you eat hand−folded, ricotta−stuffed tortelloni tossed in a cream sauce with sautéed mushrooms and walnuts, and don’t feel a pinch of guilt. It’s where a glass of vino is cheaper than a bottle of water, and the wonderfully rich balsamic vinegar on your table is made just twenty minutes away. It’s the beautiful meal called the aperitivo served before dinner, where a few euros buys you a sgroppino −lemon sorbet mixed with vodka and sparkling prosecco − as well as access to the buffet full of butter−soft prosciutto and crispy bruschetta.

It's where the waitress refuses to serve you a cappuccino after noon because that's just not how things are done and scoffs when you try to order a dessert wine (Oh Dio!) with dinner because you aren't yet used to the vinegary taste of vino rosso − but don't worry, you will be soon. The experience is similar with espresso: at first it tastes like ash stirred into tar but you'll quickly learn to add a little milk foam and sugar, and soon your day will feel incomplete without that tiny ceramic cup pinched between your fingers. Bologna is where you order coffee at the bar for breakfast from a handsome barista and drink it while you stand, because sitting is a luxury and in this city coffee is not a luxury. It's lifeblood.

all photos by author

rassa, La Dotta

by Maegan Stanley

Bologna is where you experience the medieval Italy of Dante, Giotto, and Saint Francis of Assisi. It's where the domes and classical proportions of the Renaissance never actually managed to supplant the heavy majesty of the Middle Ages as you walk beneath weighty vaulted arches and colonnaded streets that keep you dry in the rain and shaded in the summer. It's a massive basilica in the central piazza whose unfinished existence is a result of Pope Pius IV's order that Bologna could not be so bold as to try and outsize St. Peter's in the Vatican, for the city has always had a high opinion of itself. It's an ex−monastery brought back to life as a university building, as you study Boccaccio in a small stone room that once housed medieval monks. It's where you can climb up a rickety wooden staircase to the top of the medieval defense tower in the city's center (the tallest in Italy, and that includes Pisa, thank you very much) and get the glorious view of the terra−cotta swath of city tucked within the rolling green hills of the Italian countryside.

Bologna is where you should go if you want to experience Italy as the Italians experience Italy, rather than how the travel agencies have mutated Italy. Your first day there, go to Gamberini, the oldest pasticceria in the city. Tell Federico, the barista with the cute smile, that Mae from Miami sent you (I’m not actually from Miami, but it’s the only city in Florida he recognized). Stand at the bar and order un caffé latte con zucchero and a sweet brioche filled with salty prosciutto, and taste the flavors of Italy while the city moves around you. An experience of a lifetime is just beginning.

Listen to the cello music drifting from the piazza, envision your next stop at Cremeria Funivia for the world’s best mascarpone gelato, and be prepared to never want to leave – trust me, I know the feeling well.

Editing by Liane Yanglian, graphics by Heather Zhou.

Bologna is where chain−smoking university students flood Via Del Pratello every night and drink on the graffitied street because Italians don’t have homework. It's where you try to flirt in bad Italian with ragazzi attempting to teach silly American girls the rules of soccer in a university bar, and where a cheer erupts across the entire city in such force that even the pilgrims climbing 1,000 feet to the top of the Santuario della Madonna di San Luca know that Italy has just scored a goal. Bologna is where people have apparent phobias of air conditioning and going outside with wet hair, and where you’ll never see an Italian knee because they walk the streets in long pants and scarves in even the warmest summer. It's where you go to be yelled at for not jaywalking and where every traffic law is flagrantly disregarded by crazed Fiat drivers and even crazier cyclists. No big surprise, then, that it is also the birth city of Lamborghini. It's where you can buy a train ticket with only the coins in your pocket that takes you to the neighboring tiny towns of Modena to taste syrupy balsamic vinegar aged a quarter of a century in oaken casks or to Parma to sample parmigiano−reggiano from the wheel. It’s a great home base, with Florence, Venice, Verona, Rimini, Ravenna, and Milan all about an hour or less away by train for day trips.

la rossa, la grassa, la dotta

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Type Essay

Region Jordan

I

’m studying abroad this semester in Jordan to practice Arabic and explore a project or two. The study abroad program I’m with (Middlebury) is maybe 90% white this semester. Sometimes I feel disconnected from, or skeptical of some of the other students and their perspectives on studying abroad. This story is an example of that.

Do you ever notice that the vast majority of friendly relationships made between these Westerners and the ‘natives’ are with foreign children? The vast majority of the pictures are with a bunch of goofy kids; those who

To illustrate this concept, I’ll generalize with an image a bit. So, we’re all familiar with voluntourism, right?

If not, it’s a loose term used for Westerners (hyphenated Americans included) who go to an exotic third world country to do volunteer work, but also to “explore” the culture and take pictures while they’re there.

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are missed are mostly the friendly kids.

See, while I was familiar with voluntourism, I never noticed how skewed it is to foreign kids, and how meaningful relationships/ conversations are rarely made with the adults there until I actually talked about this concept with a POC friend in this program.

Just in my program alone, there were so many people who wanted to work with refugees, but for some reason “preferred” refugee children. So many people wanted to meet “real” Jordanians but in reality only talked to young university students (most of whom were also familiar with Western culture and spoke English), their host siblings, and friendly storeowners in Western malls – never adult Jordanians who occupied spaces in which they didn’t feel comfortable. They were avoided because those

Why do Westerners like foreign children?

by Aamir Azhar

Jordanians may be sketchy; they may seem off−limits; they may seem less welcoming than a taxi driver who makes money off rich Westerners.

So, why exactly this preference for kids?

I’ll answer that after making a quick clarification.

I only presented this occurrence with voluntourists, a.k.a. service workers. But the truth is that when we discuss this voluntourist archetype, we exaggerate it to distance ourselves from it and not feel guilty.

In reality, this mentality is very common and all of us Westerners embody parts of it to a certain degree (even POC). And this includes not just service workers, but those studying abroad (e.g. my program), and even those who go from a Western country to a third world country for work.

So, when reading or writing about these occurrences, I try to keep myself in mind because I am considered a Westerner. I both photos by DFID via Flickr

ask that instead of distancing yourself and condemning it, search for this mentality within yourself and try to fix it.

Now, to the main question: Under this impression/assumption that Westerners prefer foreign children to foreign adults, why does this happen?

The reality lies in comfort and accessibility.

In some ways, it’s understandable. Foreign children provide a watered down, friendly, and innocent version of the culture we’re trying to “understand” and “immerse” ourselves in. They don’t have all of the baggage, the jadedness, and the reality of the adults. This goes especially for refugee families. Children may have gone through a lot but may not completely understand the context of the war, and most don’t want to bring it up. However, adults, who more often live that raw reality, have to face the political and social context. For that reason, they may even harbor some resentment against Western powers for contributing to

their situation.

Kids are just easier; even among adults, so are the ones who “love America” for its freedom, modernity, and money. In fact, in the countries I’ve been to, there are more people who idolize Western culture and treat whites as exotic than those who may resent it. But that’s expected, given how globalization prefers Western civilization to any others.

But these types of people, especially the kids, allow us to enjoy another culture while forgetting about all the history, the politics, and the instability that we, by association of being Western, may have contributed to. Yes, you. And yes, me.

We (meaning Westerners) all play a part in reinforcing or being complacent to the power systems that kill, hurt, or simply passively colonize other countries. And we can avoid that history of imperialism, of colonization, and of orientalism when we talk to kids. why do westerners like foreign children?

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That’s why being harassed for looking American, introducing yourself to someone who dislikes America, or even walking through an unfamiliar, non− Westernized neighborhood can be so scary and uncomfortable. “Why do they hate us?” one may think. “Why do they treat me so differently?” another may think. But maybe these questions, albeit uncomfortable, actually do need to be contemplated.

But I get it. I’m not saying to approach every local, or to force relationships with those who aren’t as accessible or as interested in you. In fact, it’s probably best to stick to those who are accessible, i.e. kids, storeowners, students, etc. I just wish we understood the hypocrisy of claiming to “experience”, “understand”, and “immerse” ourselves in a country, when in reality we’re only exposed to the parts that are open to Westerners, that are more easy−going, that are more fun.

We have to acknowledge our Western− ness, our whiteness (if you’re white), our differences, and accept that as much as we want to learn what it’s like to be a foreigner (or worse, try to become one), we never really will. What we should hope for instead is an ‘alliance’ of sorts, where we make mutually beneficial relationships, educate ourselves, and reflect on what we can do to dismantle the Western power system from our own contexts, while being clear to stay in our place as Westerners. And by stay in our place, I mean stay in our place. I mean don’t speak on the culture or social issues without clarifying your Western point of view. Don’t try to pretend to be “one of them” (maybe pretend to be an expat instead). And for God’s sake don’t get annoyed if something makes you uncomfortable, like a “sketchy” neighborhood, the style of living, an anti− Western remark, or whatever.

Now, this is approaching my own personal opinion, but I think we should do away with this whole notion of being able to experience a foreign culture, of being able to understand it, of being able to become a part of it. It’s dishonest, especially because it’s clear none of this ever happens, given our limited experience in any foreign country.

You may say it’s semantics, but I think it’s important. I’ve seen too many people casually proclaim they want to live like [Country]−ians for a semester, who want to really “experience” a culture, who, after spending a couple of years in an Arab country, think they can stamp ‘comfortable with Arab culture’ on their passport, or even adopt Arab as part of their identity.

Surrendering ourselves to our limits, then building upwards from that is better than building ourselves up to these Western

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ideals and winding up being delusional, problematic, or disappointed in the end.

Disclaimer: This article generalizes Westerners and was mostly directed at those who are disconnected from the country/culture they are exploring. Often times, your relationship with another country can be more nuanced, such as if your parents were immigrants to the U.S. and you are trying to connect further with your heritage by going abroad. There is still a barrier by nature of being American, but depending on our situations, the context changes.

Editing and graphics by Liane Yanglian.

photo by icecairo via Flickr

opinion

THE TRADITION International

P

eople are obsessed with penises as opposed to vaginas – at least human tradition is such.

“She was so sad because she might be divorced from her husband for not having a baby boy,” my mother told me about a close friend of mine, Betty.

Betty is a twenty−five−year−old woman from rural China. I had numerous conversations with her the summer before she gave birth to her daughter. Even though it had become illegal to check the gender of the fetus, that information was still photo by Alick Sung via Flickr

by Liane Yanglian

accessible to the future parents at a price if they sought the opportunity. Even though we trusted each other, there were deep thoughts she hid from me. Perhaps out of embarrassment.

Betty told me she was indifferent about the gender of her baby, yet she revealed to my mother that she was excessively worried about the baby being a girl. “It’s not that I have a problem about daughters,” she told my mother, “I’m fine with having multiple daughters. It’s just the tradition.” The tradition.

In the region she is from, the tradition dictates that a married woman keeps giving birth to children until she has a son. The convention also demands, interestingly, that a couple get married if the woman becomes pregnant (although this is neither required nor always the case). “Why do people from your region think having a penis is so important,” I asked her. She didn’t have a convincing answer to that, other than that people think men can continue the family whereas women cannot. Quite ironic, I would say, because women are the ones who actually give births to new lives.

the tradition

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During her pregnancy she told me numerous times how she must be having a boy because of the shape of her belly. According to her, if a pregnant woman’s belly looks pointy, then she must be having a boy; if it looks flat, then she must be having a girl. It did not seem scientifically compelling to me, but out of curiosity I showed her a picture of an elementary school teacher of mine who was pregnant with her second child. “I think she has a girl,” Betty said. Many people also told her she was having a boy, just from looking at the shape of her belly. These people included passers−by on the street and my parents. She never had a gender test of her child before she gave birth, because she didn’t want to be bothered even by the thought of sex−selective abortion, like so many women like her had to face.

that her child was a girl. She never told me she was disappointed, yet she didn’t tell me the news until hours after her operation ended.

“You should console her and not ask about the gender of the baby,” my mother advised me, “Betty just had a cesarean section, which means preferably she should give birth only once more.” That indicates that Betty only has one more chance at having a son for her husband’s family, and she faces the possibility of divorce if the next time she gives birth to another daughter.

Then came the day. I was nervous for her and I hoped that she had a boy just because this way she didn’t have to give birth again if she didn’t want to. However, news came

Having learned that Betty gave birth to a girl, her mother–in–law, who had enthusiastically urged her to give birth and confidently promised that she would take care of the baby, now dodged the issue of looking after the newborn. In fact, she now says she has schizophrenia, something never mentioned before, which would render her unfit to take care of a child. Is

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this deception? I would call this fraud: a deception intended to result in personal gain. In her mother–in–law’s case, the personal gain would be the attainment of a male heir.

This March my family had dinner with another family who was considered to be of high social status and wealth. The family consisted of a mother, a father, a daughter, and two sons. The parents told their children during the dinner that they should have at least five children because this is what successful and highly educated people should do: spread their genes. The daughter seemed unconvinced, but the sons nodded – they aren’t the ones who need to give birth anyway. They also told their sons that one of their standards for their future daughters−in−law is that they should be willing to have children – at least five, if not more.

Sexism sounds cliché because it is real. It

exists to some extent everywhere in the world. I don’t think it’s fair or humane for the man's family to ask the women to give birth against her will and threaten her with divorce or other unfavorable consequences.

I don’t think the man's parents or the man himself has the right to tell their daughter− in−law how to use her body. I don’t think that children should bear their fathers’ last names, as opposed to their mothers’, because women are the ones who go through the painful experience of pregnancy and giving birth while all men have to do is to provide sperms. That’s one of the most important reasons for which I actively made my last name the combination of my parents’ last names.

Many men are so terrified by the word feminism, and they don’t think it’s their business. However, all men have mothers, women without whom their existence will be denied. Furthermore, feminism is not well−termed. We might just as well call leftmost photo by Ingrid Guimaraes Fotografa via Flickr, all other three photos by Ritchea Photography via Flickr

it manism. For to have men and women be on equal standing is as liberating to women as it is to men. We will no longer forbid boys and men to cry because crying is feminine and thus weak. We will no longer expect men to be the major bread− winners of the family or the society, and their wives will share the burden with them so that they shoulder the same amount of responsibilities. They will no longer feel ashamed to be a house−husband, because it is perfectly normal for a man to want to stay in the household to better educate and look after his children, like so many women do.

In short, we should recognize the physical differences between men and women, but we should not extend that to their mental capabilities, their character, their ability to achieve success, their authority, or anything of that intangible quality.

ask themselves these questions. I know my answer would stay the same if I were a man.

Betty is considering a possible divorce as I write this update to the article, due to the treatment she has been receiving from her husband’s family. However, nothing is set in stone now. I hope her happiness regardless of her final decision.

Editing and graphics by Liane Yanglian.

What can the addition of a sex organ, or the lack thereof, do? What can a man do that a woman cannot? Seriously, people need to the tradition

16

Memoir

Cambodia

Same, but different?

Different

but

Same

by Junette Yu

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passport

Fall 2016

same same.

T

he Cambodian girl smiled shyly, said something in Khmer, then turned back to fiddle with her mother’s hair.

“She goes to the hospital with her sister because she likes the play room,” our interpreter translated.

“Does she go to school?”

Again, our interpreter dutifully translated our question into Khmer for the Cambodian family we were interviewing. The mother of the family started to answer, but was interrupted by her husband. He spoke with a muffled voice. At one point his voice cracked and it became evident he was holding back tears. He continued speaking. Although we didn’t understand his words, the desperation in his tone could transcend any language barrier, yet all we could do was stand there and nod awkwardly to show we were paying attention.

“She doesn’t… Her father really wants her to…but he can’t,” our interpreter’s voice was unsteady too. “He can’t...afford education… but he really, really wants to.” The tropical rain pelted down relentlessly on the metal roof under which twenty−something of us tried to squeeze, drowning out her voice.

Reflexively, we shifted closer towards her and the Cambodian family, but my mind was no longer on the interview.

Everything about us standing there with notebooks and cameras seemed wrong.

We, a group of students, were on a field visit as part of UNICEF’s Young Envoy Programme, to explore UNICEF’s front-

background photo via Flickr

line work in developing countries. We were technically advocates of children’s rights, but what right did we have to force the family to share their heaviest regrets and uncover their deepest hurts in front of a group of strangers? What exactly did we intend to achieve when we set off towards this foreign country? To feel sorry for the people there?

Or to assume a higher social standing and offer what we believed was “help”?

These questions streamed through my mind as the trip continued. In subsequent days we visited a primary school, the child center of a hospital, and interviewed a few other families. We ran around playing games with the children, doodled on coloring pages with them, laughed with them, and sometimes even cried with them. Everything between us and them on the surface appeared different, regardless of our age, education, or culture, but the connection between us was so genuine, so compelling, so human.

We personally encountered the liveliness and playfulness of children as well as witnessed parents’ painstaking efforts to sustain the family and strive for better futures.

These familiar sentiments were surprisingly reminiscent of my own life, how eagerly my friends and I had dashed to the playground back in preschool days, and how my parents have been wanting me to do well in school.

portrayed in stereotypical charity advertisements. In Hong Kong we get easier access to education, but we are also exposed to the materialistic desires of a commercialized society; the Cambodian children might not go to school, but their families’ resilience in the face of adversity is one of the best educations they receive. They need to improve many aspects of their lives, not out of pity of themselves, but only because they deserve better.

The answers to my questions gradually became clearer. We travelled all the way to Cambodia not to study the children like tourists who go sightseeing or like outsiders who offer help without understanding the context, but to connect with them as human beings like ourselves. When we meet new people, we tend to approach them with a mentality of comparison. They’re that, and we’re this. Out of habit, we spot the differences first, subconsciously constructing barriers between us, but there are more similarities than differences. People should never belong under categorical labels. Behind the very different paths our lives might take, there is always something beautifully and delicately common about humanity, regardless of the context under which it is expressed.

Editing by Liane Yanglian, graphics by Marisa Witayananun.

I used to take for granted that the Cambodian children are “less fortunate” than ourselves, but meeting them in person made me realize their lives are not as pitiful as

same same, but different?

18

opinion

Haiti

For all those who actually want to help Haiti:

by Krystelle Rocourt

"H

aiti, the poorest nation in the western hemisphere.”

Chances are you’ve read this cliché recently if you have even slightly followed Haiti’s recovery efforts in the wake of Hurricane Matthew’s Category 4 destruction on October 4th. According to media sources Haiti is little more than an unfortunate country that for centuries has known nothing other than disaster and suffering.

How would your interpretation change if they started instead with “Haiti, the first post−colonial independent black nation in the western hemisphere and world and the only nation whose independence was gained through a successful slave rebellion”? Both of these facts are true, but the Western media only wants you to focus on one. I’ll tell you why.

Haiti is indeed struggling to develop, there are global power structures that impede its development beyond the isolated hyper−broadcasted catastrophes. Graphic images of starving children, newly homeless people treading through murky waters, and the skeletal remains of old bridges and homes testify to the emergency, the need for urgent help. They don’t show how the foreign policy remaining after the story disappears from the headlines exacerbates the complex local problems of corrupt governance, a flawed justice system, and weak infrastructure.

In the early 1980s, USAID exterminated the Creole pig due to fear of the swine flu.

The US then exported American−bred pigs which very quickly died due to their inability to survive without clean drinking water, vaccinations, and imported food. They were called “four−footed princes” by Haitian farmers. In the 1990’s U.S. rice subsidies sent to Haiti under the Clinton administration destroyed local rice production. Again after the 2010 earthquake in Haiti, 15,000 tons of U.S. rice were donated and remaining local rice farmers instantly lost their income and ability to provide for their families. Just this year, 500 tons of surplus U.S. peanuts were

Your emotions drive your donations, and your donations keep the industry of humanitarianism operating. In the age of the clicktivism and global interconnectedness, we believe that anyone can make a difference behind their screens and have their emotional needs satisfied. Sometimes you can make a difference with a click, but the wrong click hurts more than it helps. In the words of Teju Cole, “if we are going to interfere in the lives of others, a little due diligence is a minimum requirement”.

One major problem with the Western media’s representation of Haiti during crises is that it suggests that the best way to help is to send loads of foreign aid. Portraying Haiti as a helpless and desperate nation on its knees ignores the fact that although 19

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left photo by Cpl. Samuel Guerra via Flickr right photos by author background picture by Ishamari Colon via Flickr

to be dumped in Haiti to “feed malnourished schoolchildren”, a move which would halt local peanut production and crush the livelihood of thousands of Haitian famers.

Haiti needs industrial reform to support national production, not a constant flow of donations. The needs of the people will not be understood until they are consulted to propose solutions. This is why if you want to help, you should donate to local organizations that make positive impacts without undermining local economy.

trustworthy grassroots and local organizations based in Haiti who have insider experience, receive funds directly, and know how to put them to good use. These organizations are better equipped to use aid to make long−lasting differences. They have long−standing relationships with the communities they work with, before and beyond the moment of disaster. Be conscious of how you use your “click” today and I can assure you that you can help where it counts.

As someone from Haiti, it has been unsettling to scroll through the sensationalistic headlines that dominate my social media newsfeeds. Readers are still being encouraged to donate to the same international NGOs that have become increasingly untrustworthy for handling massive donations inefficiently and failing to make a constructive dent in emergency situations. After the earthquake of 2010 in Haiti, over 13 billion dollars were collected in donations, much of which flowed through the hands of large humanitarian institutions like the American Red Cross, USAID, and UNICEF. Large amounts were unaccounted for and promising claims made by many organizations didn’t match the actual impact felt by those in need. Simply put, with high overhead costs and poor understanding of cultural context, aid does not trickle down to where it is most needed. It is funneled through actors who don’t understand how to best meet the needs of locals.

List of local organizations:

In this time of need, I urge all interested in donating to send their money to more

http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2012/03/the−white−savior−industrial−com-

1. Heartline Ministries (Haiti Housing Fund) http://heartlineministries.org/relief/ 2. Gaskov Clerge Foundation http://gaskov.org 3. Fondation Aquin Solidarite http s : / / w w w. g of u n d m e . c om / aquinhaiti 4. The Three Little Flowers Center https://3littleflowerscenter.org 5. Paradis des Indiens http://www.friendsofpdi.org 6. Project Saint Anne http://projectstanne.org 7. Fonkoze http://fonkoze.org 8. The Lanbi Fund of Haiti http://www.lambifund.org 9. Flying High for Haiti http://flyinghighforhaiti.com 10. Saint Boniface Foundation http://haitihealth.org 11. PRODEV http://www.prodevhaiti.org 12. Sow−a−Seed http://sowaseedonline.org/

plex/254843/ http://haitireconstruction.ning.com/page/pig−project http://www.nbcnews.com/id/35608836/ns/world_ news−americas/t/food−imports−hurt−struggling− haitian−farmers/#.WAVu_eArLb0 ht t p : / / w w w. np r. o r g / s e c t i o n s / t h e salt/2016/05/05/476876371/u−s−to−ship−peanuts− to−feed−haitian−kids−aid−groups−say−this−is− wrong http://newsoffice.duke.edu/duke_resources/oped. html http://www.nbcnews.com/news/investigations/what− does−haiti−have−show−13−billion−earthquake−aid− n281661 http://foreignpolicy.com/2013/01/11/subsidizing− starvation/

Editing by Maegan Stanley, graphics by Lin Zuo. This article was also published in The Chronicle.

Links used as references:

for all those who actually want to help haiti

20

Memoir

Indiana, USA

WWOONDER ON FARM A WWOOF* EXPERIENCE

by Zhengtao Qu

R

iding on the country road in the immense fields of soybean and corn is a freedom, a feeling of it.

You’re not really free − the road leads to a limited number of destinations − but that is the feeling. That is the feeling that, no matter how big an apartment is, you only feel openness of space living in a house.

Likewise, you only feel freedom driving on the country road. It is the freedom of vision from blocks of buildings, and you see how the sky is round and the earth flat.

It is also the freedom of pace: you may not drive as fast as on an expressway, but you drive by your mood, calmly ambling or lightheartedly galloping.

This is how I travelled with Linda and Rick in the four weeks “wwoofing” on their farm in Indiana, to markets and friends’ places, to buy supplies, to help out, and to have fun.

Linda and Rick are as accommodating as the word can possibly mean. They saw the wwoof thing as knowing new people and making new friends. To them, I was just a foreign guest from China who temporarily lived with them and enjoyed the life on farm with them. We did not set any agreements on a working schedule or anything. We had a general schedule about what needed to be done, and Linda made more specific * WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) is a platform where volunteering opportunities are organized and posted from organic farms all over the world. WWOOFers usually work 25 hours a week on farms to get food and board. WWOOF is designated as an opportunity for people to, as on its website, “live and learn” on an organic farm.

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the temperature went up at noon, we would all get back to rest. Sometimes Linda and I would drive to Chinese Markets, slowly going over the entire market. Every time I introduced to her some new Chinese culinary ingredients, which Linda would experiment with our dinner in the next days. We would work for some more hours before it got too dark. In the nights, Linda would cook an exotic, experimental dinner, with Rick and me the laboratory rats. Sometimes, friends would come to visit and we had food and talks and music on the balcony. After dinner, we would take walks on the brim of woods. June nights in Indiana were cool and clear, and in the fields were thousands of fireflies.

skills of fence building, like hole digging, nail fixing, and wiring by spinning tools, come−alongs, and so on, because we were going to build a pig fence for four piggies, for which Linda would exchange three of her goats, with another farmer known on a Facebook group sharing local milk supply.

No time was there for me to practice, I learned the skills by doing them. Several friends of Linda and Rick also came to help, but I was the only novice there. At first, I was lagging in the building process.

A young woman named Kelly demonstrate how to dig a hole, and I dug my one using twice as much time. When we took a break, I talked with Kelly and got to know that she knew Linda and Rick two years ago as a wwoofer like me, when she travelled to Lafayette from Canada for someone in Purdue University who would have become her husband. She has moved to Lafayette now and often comes by to help and to chat. Kelly also taught me wiring, which is more skillful. I knew my wiring that day was largely second−rate, if not inadequate. Kelly, Linda and Rick were so nice that they encouraged that they are good enough. thankfully, I made notable progress on the next day, and, on the third day of building that fence, I was able to do wiring half as quickly as the experienced and burly Rick. Actually, I was able to do more elegant, precise knots and spinning than what others were able to do. I was quite proud of this.

I went at the start of the season, “at the right time” as Linda put it. Just on the second day after I arrived, I picked up a miscellany

Another cool job was driving the tractor.

With zero driving experience, I learned the basics of driving in literally one minute

fall 2016

photo by author background image by ACJ1 via Flickr

daily plans. On a typical day, I got up and made my own breakfast. Then I went to help Linda or Rick on the farm, who would assign specific tasks to me. Usually, Linda or Rick and I work collaboratively, but I was free to have breaks if I wanted. When

"I enjoyed weeding because each weed is different in its shape, size, location, depth of root, and, if you may, disposition. "

and then got on the tractor and drove! I never thought I would learn how to drive first on a tractor and never thought it would happen so quickly: basically, Linda asked me did I want to try that without any forecast. I began to delight in driving the tractor immediately. With unexciting speed yet exciting power, the tractor grumbled over the earth and plowed it inside out. The tractor an extension of my body and its power my power, I felt so energized and powerful as if I were some divine master of the land. Other activities were all exciting and novel experience, too. Seeding (with a handy cart spreading seeds while going forward), feeding goats, watering fields, planting tomatoes, carpentry… I did too many things worth mentioning to put them all here.

direction so as not to leave their roots in the soil. Sometimes you expected a weak enemy and ended up realizing the cunning (long and thick root) it hid underground.

Sometimes your hand surrendered and had to call for the assistance of a shovel.

However, all this fun cannot persuade the sore back out of constant bending of the body. Construction work was fun yet tiring in a similar fashion: after so much carrying and wiring, my body got sore and my hands stiff with scratches. Physical activities, insofar as they do not wear the body, are enjoyable; otherwise, I imagine, they would eventually become grueling and grudging. I was happy to work on a farm four to five hours a day, but I would not be happy to make a living on farming. I would get worn and bored in the end.

However, in the latter days I began to wonder about my daytime. I might solve the problem by working more, but working got tiring while it was still fun. I wonder if I would enjoy farming after the first excitement and novelty I experienced then.

I am not concerned about the monotony, for the subtle variations in every monotonous job, once perceived, are endlessly enjoyable.

I am concerned about the physical wear resulted from some common repetitive tasks. For instance, I enjoyed weeding because each weed is different in its shape, size, location, depth of root, and, if you may, disposition. There are a thousand of distinctive battles between the weeder and the weeds: how much strength to use, where to position the weapon−hand so as to avoid their tricky spiky leaves, from which

Linda and Rick don’t seem to get bored.

They also got fun things to do other than agricultural activities. Although living on a farm in the middle of no where, Linda is not apolitical. During my stay, she spared two days to travel to Indianapolis to attend a Democratic conference. I saw the Bernie for President sign in the study room, so I knew they supported Bernie, who was about to lose the nomination. She complained to me about how the party’s establishment fixed the nomination and it was unfair. She also liked to point out that Columbus, who represents imperialist ideologies, should not a model for the American people, and that Columbus’s Day should be abolished. Another time when we were driving, she remarked the bunch of bland houses we passed. Those

packs of houses belong to conservative communities and are required to be painted all with the plain−vanilla color.

The communities strictly prohibited any nice−looking paint. “I can’t bear my house in so bland color!” And for that she quit good bids from these areas. Rick was not that explicit with me on his political ideas.

But he reads every issue of The Economist, and commented on my narratives of some social and political issues in China, obviously familiar with them.

The contrast between the local, small town ways of living and the national, even global sense of political minds, which seems to me a potential feature of postmodern life, amazed me several times during my stay there. Apart from the farming experiences, what I got is the recognition of some people and their life. The kind of life depicted in this essay is just one of the various kinds out there in the American countryside.

Editing by Liane Yanglian, graphics by Jenny Shang.

wwoonder on farm

22

opinion

France

Traveling Through The Lens Of Language

by Thuy−Vi Nguyen

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background photo by Marcosnr92 via Flickr quote frame by Artsy Bee via Pixabay

“When you make the effort to learn a local language, you become a traveler who sees an authentic view of the culture rather than a tourist who sees but postcard attractions.”

F

lip to the back of any travel guide and you will probably find handy translations of touristic phrases in the local language, like “Where is the bathroom?”. These phrases may be useful, but often they blot out the true beauty and potential of a language. Even on a pragmatic note, seldom does this language section prepare someone for the responses to such phrases, like “The bathroom is around the corner, past the white clock, and across from the statue”. While people in most countries appreciate any attempt of using the local language, traveling with the intention of learning more than the basics of a local language will lend itself to a culturally−immersive experience unfound with only saying “where is the bathroom?”.

I visited France with only a year of French under my belt a few summers ago. Thus, I could tell you the colors of the rainbow in French, but that was about it.

Since I was so excited to explore the French food scene, it was only a matter of time before I found myself in a French restaurant. Please picture this scene: I was scanning the menu for familiar vocabulary – maybe if I was lucky I would’ve caught a cognate? I heard the waiter’s footsteps approaching. Though I knew what to order, I was not sure how to do it. I scoured my head to find the gender of the word poulet, and clumsily blurted out le poulet. I took the waiter’s subtle nod as an affirmation that I had said it correctly. A new entry was added to my brain’s French dictionary, and my cover as a mere American who is trying to get speaking practice on her quest to fluency was not blown.

The chicken was delicious. I had passed this round, but I would be tested again when the waiter came back for dessert orders.

During that one meal, I learned a good lot

about French gastronomy. I learned what an aperitif is (after I prematurely jumped to the conclusion that it means appetizer), and why I was not allowed to have one yet. The slow pace of the meal reminded me how I ate too quickly compared to the French natives, as gastronomy is almost a religion there, and people intently savor each escargot−sized bite.

The learning continued thereafter. When I was shopping for ingredients to prepare my dinner, I understood why you bother to learn the French translations for spice− distributor, baker, or cheese−producer: given American hypermarkets, I thought those words were archaic, yet they’re still an integral part of contemporary French culture − they, the vocabulary, speak to the French penchant for fresh, local ingredients.

Learning French as an academic subject taught me that, at its very core, language−learning consists of drills familiarizing oneself with tongue−twisting vocabulary and irregular verb conjugations. However, hearing the language in action contested that misconception, for that grammatical framework and those tedious memorizations were essential in allowing me to understand the vernacular, so that I could see and interact with the quirks of French culture. My linguistic abilities enabled me to ask merchants about their wares, and ask locals for directions to festive performances. I didn’t bury my head in grammar books for hours at a time to strengthen my linguistic skills; instead, I came in ready to take risks of being wrong. I tried to be perceptive of how language was being used to describe the world around me, and I ended up deciphering the ads I kept seeing in the metro and the daily specials I saw on café menus. Take advantage of being in someplace where you have thousands of opportunities to hear a language in action!

Being in a foreign country where you’re not fluent in the language can surely be uncomfortable, but why not embrace that feeling and break out of your comfort zone? Being fluent in a language isn’t a prerequisite for speaking the language in real life. In fact, a quest for fluency is all the more reason to try out your tongue and get corrected by native speakers.

Language helps you connect with local denizens, for the mere effort of trying their language lends an instant air of familiarity. Think of how you feel when you hear someone use slang specific to your hometown! Furthermore, learning a language is more than a mental exercise; it constructs a framework for the new culture you’re learning about. How can you understand a foreign phenomenon when you don’t have the vocabulary to describe it? In learning new, culture−specific vocabulary, you are opening yourself up to novel concepts and ideas. When you make the effort to learn a local language, you become a traveler who sees an authentic view of the culture rather than a tourist who sees but postcard attractions.

Let’s take travels as opportunities to delve into foreign languages. I encourage you to try this yourself the next time you adventure anywhere where English is not the primary language, even if that means glancing at Duolinguo on a bus ride! Languages are nets that capture the diverse traditions and lifestyles of cultures. The more nets you have, the better you will be able to catch nuances of cultures and understand this beautiful multicultural world.

Editing by Zhengtao Qu, graphics by Sherry Zijing Huang.

traveling through the lens of language

24

Memoir

International

Home, Sweet Homes

by Micaela Unda

T

he desire to wander is never lacking. With travel comes lostness, newness, mishaps, memories, experiences, adventures, confusion, and an endless changing horizon.

A trip outgrows its initial motives and evolves into something entirely of its own accord, its own purpose. Roaming the roads of remote lands, I am infinitely curious to see not just where I intend to go, but where the trip takes me. With every new airport, different country, and vibrant city, my world grows. Yet, no matter how many miles I travel and how many places I live that become a temporary home, I am perpetually met with the simple question of “where do you come from?” Simple questions as such often bring ever more complexity to answers.

If “where do you come from” means “where were you born and raised”, then I am from California. That is my home, and that is where my childhood memories were shaped and formed, from craving Bug Sur campfires to embracing Yosemite as an extension of my backyard.

Where do you come from? In answering this, I come from Spain.

My name finds its roots in the Basque language, and family gatherings are amongst those who include Spanish in our conversations.

But I don’t think I’ve earned the right to be Spanish. I myself am still struggling to learn the language and have never lived a day of my life within its bounds.

But if “where do you come from” asks the question of which place you feel deepest inside of you and where you wish to spend your time, then my home is New Zealand, where breath−taking landscapes truly are my backyard. In New Zealand, life is defined by adventure, shaped by spontaneity, and founded in comfort. It is where I have forever longed to go, and now get to wake up to.

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Yet I left California for college. Now I find home in the city of Durham, North Carolina– a city I never imagined I would live in, in a state I’d hardly noticed until that Duke acceptance letter found its way into my mailbox. In the past years, its coffee shops have kept me company on many late nights of study and its endless mirage of forests and vibrant culture have shaped my last three years.

But it is not permanent. Perhaps, my home is what I carry around inside me. People living in countries not their own now number 220 million; they would once be called foreign but now belong to the great traveling tribe of expatriates and adventurers.

“The beauty of being surrounded by the foreign is that it slaps you awake; you can’t take anything for granted. Travel for me is a little bit like being in love because suddenly all of your senses are in the setting marked on, suddenly you’re alert to the secret patterns of the world.” − Pico Iyer

Before studying abroad, I set one goal – to embrace the paradigm of a tourist, as studying abroad is not about the place, but rather the mindset. I’ve come to realize that once you have new eyes, even the blocks you’ve walked a thousand times reveal new sites, and your home itself becomes ever−different. Endless movement is founded in moments of stillness and respite, as home shifts and forms and changes with you.

Maybe that’s home sweet home.

Editing by Zhengtao Qu, graphics by Heather Zhou.

all photos by author

home, sweet homes

26

Poetry

1

Cultural

D

o you see on yonder hill that crowd of people?

Choice works

by Altamash Rafiq

I fain would know what they are up to.

Why burns there a fire like hell itself has burst forth onto the world of men?

Each day they prick and stick the earth, at nights they rage with songs to the devil and dance by yon fire crying blood and sweat.

You see I decided to get close to them one night when the sky had no stars; none of those little diamonds to wink back at me.

I crept, I leapt, I crawled, I brawled and yet all I could find was this stone, this emerald that burns my hand yet as if I were holding my own mother’s heart.

2 I’m sure the crow there staring beady−eyed back at me through the bars of this window must think it queer to have its own pet human.

3 One night I looked to the heavens and saw the crescent moon smile back at me; a nice pearly smile.

And I could not tell what it meant, for in one hand I held a rose and in the other a dagger.

4 Our bus was raging through the countryside when I told the girl who snoozed next to me to open her eyes and take in her world.

She tipped her head and let me know that she sat awake and had never slept.

I kissed her then and in her blush told her to see anew.

5 Do you remember the night when you and I went into the garden there to search for fireflies? I can still see you pouting in disappointment at catching all the little lights fast asleep and the world as shadowy as the streets where you and I would steal to meet as children, as black as the rarest pearl in the ocean and as dark as your beauteous eyes. I stooped to kiss you then and do you remember what I said?

“If you wish to stay, you may, but I, for sure, will break away.” Aha you laugh because you do remember. You remember how I pounced and fell amidst the dreaming flowers and around me rose fires from the singing heart of the earth; tall and proud a plume of fireflies that danced upon the breeze and you with them, my Ophelia, and you with them. I gazed at you and thought of your beauty and then I saw, in a moment when your world had become mine, I saw that there was fire in your eyes.

Graphics by Lin Zuo.

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background picture by Ryan Hallock via Flickr

Staff Corner

PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

1

Which nationality or region do you identify with?

2

Hillary or Donald?

17.6%

76.5%

3

In light of the results not being published yet, what are your thoughts on the 2016 US presidential campaign and its candidates?

Both candidates in this campaign have demonstrated to us the tremendous ability humans possess for evading responsibilities and embracing deception. Expressing one view on an occasion and denying she/he had said so on another if doing so gains her/him political advantage have become standard practice for politicians around the globe. The media has also proven to be immaculately biased. Whatever happened to objectivity in the journalism profession? Let’s not say: the North Korean government is corrupt, or the Chinese government is evil. Let’s instead say: all governments and politicians share common traits. They are in it for the win.

And they aren’t to blame − they wouldn’t be where they are today if they don’t have certain priorities.

Growing up, I have never followed politics closely, yet during this presidential election, so much has happened that it is simply fascinating for someone like me (who, as a non−citizen, cannot vote) to observe. While I think the election result will definitely have a huge impact on the American society as well as the rest of the world, what’s beneath the surface also deserves our attention: How has this election unraveled to what it is today? Why are some people supporting a candidate that others think as utterly ridiculous? What does democracy embody? These are the things that people need to consider.

This election has been such a spectacle through which I have learned a great lot about American politics. It is essentially fun, for an disinterested outsider like me, to see how ideologies are processed through media, how party machines work for or against candidates, and how people are categorized and their identities flattened in campaigns by all sides. If I were an American, I would probably vote for Clinton as I am one of the sensible bourgeoisie. However, people supporting Trump are also sensible people, simply. On the other hand, many Clinton supporters are just as simple−minded as many Trump supporters. In my view, the dangerous thing is not a Trump administration, but to lose our individual consciousness and let the political forces categorize, symbolize, and utilize it.

Technically I’m a registered Republican, but I cannot possibly bring myself to vote for the embarrassment representing my party this year. Yet I also couldn’t sleep at night knowing that I voted for someone who I not only disagree with on most bipartisan issues, but who I truly also believe is as immoral as her counterpart. Some may accuse me of throwing away my vote by going third party (and they’re technically correct) but at least at the end of the day I know I voted in a way that aligned with my conscience. And besides, third−parties would have a chance if everyone who admitted they don’t like either candidate actually took a stand and voted third−party.

This election is proof that a two−party system has failed us, and I feel that by voting for Johnson I’ve made my own personal stand against it, even if I stand (mostly) Secretary Clinton will be a strong, qualified leader and will promote values the US can be proud of.

I am definitely more left−leaning than Hillary, and I do not condone her complicity in US imperialism and global exploitation. However, as a minority in the US, I recognize the necessity to vote for her because she is objectively better than Trump. That said, it is important to organize independent of the election and force political change through grass−roots efforts. I am just frustrated both with those voting 3rd party out of spite (just to prove a point), and those who abstain from voting because politics in America are rigged. Though I understand, this election is very real for me and my family, and the least I can do is vote for Hillary to make sure things don’t go completely bad. staff corner

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While I initially didn’t want Hillary to be president because of the fact that she has been around for such along time and she flip−flops on issues, I’ve since changed my stance. The most powerful thing I’ve read about her is that she’s a normal politician with normal issues and normal failings − she just gets a lot more scrutiny because she is a woman and there is no standard for what we think a female politician at her level should be like. If I’m being generous, Donald is doing what he genuinely believes is best for the country, but a) I don’t think that America can or should be run like a business and b) his language is just problematic.

I strongly support Hillary Clinton because I stand with someone who is experienced, mature, will fight for women’s rights, will fight for a more affordable education, will fight for a safer American public, will celebrate diversity, and work towards a country that all future generations will benefit from, not be excluded from.

My dislike for Donald Trump is pretty intense.

For some reason, I clearly remember my high school AP Comparative Politics teacher complaining how boring American elections are compared to the UK parliamentary ones. Well, at least I know he is entertained right now! In less than 24 hours we will know the name of the next Commander in Chief, and all I care about is that she sincerely cares about the well−being of the citizens and puts effort into making this country a safe yet welcoming place.

In all honesty, I would say I don’t know enough about the American sociopolitical climate to make any informed comment.

I’ve been following the election − yes, but not really mentally processing much. Coming to the US for college has definitely helped me learn more about it and hear diverse opinions on both candidates. It’s definitely an interesting election this year, and both candidates are very unique from any previous president/presidential candidate in the past. Regardless of who wins the election, this will be a critical time in history. #ImWithHer I usually love following politics, but this election cycle has made me a bit cynical. Never has there be a candidate who is so qualified and experienced, yet she has been overshadowed by a media circus and a candidate who has absolutely no place running at all. This election surpasses party lines, for it really comes down to a question of American values. Thus, I hope that our country will rally together and elect the only candidate who will guarantee us a secure and prosperous future.

What a mess.

This campaign has made me pay more attention to American politics than to politics at home, and never have I wished so strongly that I could have the privilege to vote.

Dramatic but still, I am unimpressed.

Results now known, extremely disappointed in the outcome.

POST−ELECTION DAY...

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Mood?

SHOCKED 5

processing

exhausted SURPRISED

resistant

Any thoughts?

On Tuesday morning, the polls had Hillary with a decisive lead so I was confident that she would secure the Presidency. Additionally, I had just seen her in person early Tuesday morning, and I was very fired up by her message, so I was quite taken aback when the results started coming in Tuesday night.

I just didn’t expect someone as qualified as Hillary to lose to Trump.

I’m glad that Clinton wasn’t elected, but I’m sad that Trump was elected. As an international student, in the past two months here at Duke, I seldom met people who would support Trump, but in the real world, most of the people actually support Trump. Even if Trump has proposed policies that favor some Americans, even if he does shouted out benefits for some underrepresented group of people, how can people tolerate him as a public person who’s sexist and racist and dare to talk like that? How can a person like him become the president? The result made me realize that I lived in a college bubble that is fragile and idealistic.

Most of those around me was vouching for Hillary vehemently. I do not personally know more than one person who has expressed her or his support for Trump publicly. The professors in my classes passionately stood against Trump. The media portrayed him as this existential threat.

The New York Times predicted that Clinton had more than 95% chance of winning the presidency. Almost everything with which I had contact pointed to a Hillary Clinton presidency.

People seem so shocked, but did they not realize that The competition has always Trump polling so highly meant that he had a good shot? been close between the two candidates. I went in with the Being at Duke, a predominantly mentality that both had a good Democratic campus, I didn’t really chance, and that’s it. realize the power of the “silent voice”.

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passport

fall 2016

6

What do you want to say to president−elect Trump?

This is your dream come true. You should cherish this opportunity. Be a president not just for all Americans, but for everyone in America. Instead of propagating hate, you should start promoting love and condemning hate in this country.

Please try not to screw anything up.

I honestly couldn’t think of anything I would want to say to him. Maybe just don’t ruin America? (can’t really piece this part together yet) President−elect Trump, I’ve heard what you’ve had to say about women, about minority groups, anddisabled people and you’ve lost my respect for your divisive words. You incite hate and to be frank, I am scared of living in your America. However, I retain a glimmer of optimism for the sake of our country, and I sincerely hope you prove me wrong and manage to affect positive change.

Take control of your supporters and denounce their hate crimes.

I hope that the Campaign Trump and President Trump aren’t the same person. Make the America GREAT again.

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What do you want to say to the other presidential candidate Clinton?

You are an extraordinary woman and someone to whom I look up. Like everyone, you have made many mistakes, for which you have already paid steep prices.

However, I respect you and your ambition. I’m proud that you are the first female who was one step from being President of the United States.

Can you try something besides the pantsuit one day?

Timing is just wrong for you.

I want to tell her how much I respect her for her efforts, and being gracious about it even after losing the election. I want to tell her that everything she has said, about the future of America, about the lives of Americans, and about the attitude with which we should approach crisis, will never be wasted. The people she has inspired is the emblem of her success, regardless of what the numbers say.

Secretary Clinton, I have the utmost respect for you. You’ve dedicated your entire life to fighting for the public good, and I know that you won’t ever stop. Your concession speech was the epitome of class, and I know you’ve inspired millions of women like me that being a woman shouldn’t stop us from doing anything we set our minds to, especially if that feat is being elected to the highest office in the land.

Sorry. You deserved to win over him.

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