Passport Magazine Spring 2018

Volume 26 Spring 2018

“She waxed existential.” from New York by Christina Cheng

“Hurricanes. Earthquakes. Floods.

Forest fires. A mass shooting. That was my Fall.”

from The Fires We Keep by Adair Citlalli Necalli

“Meat, Pasta Meet your friends on the plaza”

from Things to do in Salta, Argentina by Jasmine Wang

Cover photograph taken by Micaela Unda, graphics by Diane Da-Eun Lee

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Deeksha Malhotra

CHIEF GRAPHIC DESIGNER

Diane Da-Eun Lee

WRITERS Maegan Stanley Micaela Unda Janie Booth Samantha Steger Jasmine Wang Christina Cheng Adair Necalli Namratha Atluri Elle Winfield Tyler Goldberger Pinelopi Margeti Deeksha Malhotra CONTENT EDITORS

GRAPHIC DESIGNERS

Micaela Unda Janie Booth Samantha Steger Jasmine Wang Christina Cheng Adair Necalli Elle Winfield Pinelopi Margeti Justin Ching Jenny Shang Ashley Kwon Priyanka Purohit Deeksha Malhotra

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’ own and do not reflect the opinions of this magazine.

Welcome to yet another issue of Passport International Magazine!

As always, we have for you an eclectic mix of light-hearted photo essays and eloquent opinion pieces, all of which capture the thoughts of some of the most creative minds here at Duke University.

Travel is an immensely personal and profound experience, making its translation into words a complex and delicate problem. We push our writers to embrace this challenge and to write from the depths of their reflections, the fruits of which are born in the quality and sincerity of every piece. Our graphics team then breathes life into these pieces to produce a magazine that is multimodally enriching to every one of your senses.

This will be the last issue I preside over as Editor-in-Chief of Passport.

It has been an honor and a privilege to write for, edit and eventually, lead this magazine; it’s journey and growth mimics mine. I am certain that it will continue to flourish and touch the hearts of many, inspiring class after class to explore, introspect, and write.

I would like to acknowledge all of the brilliant individuals that have contributed to this issue, including the writers, content and graphics editors, as well as our wonderful publisher, Moli Jones. A special thank you to Diane Da Eun Lee for her unconditional initiative and enthusiasm in this, her first year participating with Passport. Thank you also to Jenny Shang for her continued efforts with the magazine despite her departure last year. And of course, our deepest gratitude to our readership – you are whom we write for.

My warm wishes and love to all of those that have been a part of Passport’s history and to everyone who will write its future. I hope it brings you as much joy as it has me.

Deeksha

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Malhotra

CONTENTS

New York 6

By Christina Cheng

My Summer in India: I Didn’t Know that I Didn’t Know 7

By Namratha Atluri

By Jasmine Wang

By Maegan Stanley

By Samantha Steger

By Tyler Goldberger

Things to do in Salta, Argentina 10 Venetian Gothic 11 Light 14

Proud to be a Tourist? 16 The People make the Place: Mapuche & Maori 18

By Micaela Unda

By Janie Booth

By Adair Citlalli Necalli

By Elle Winfield

By Pinelopi Margeti

By Deeksha Malhotra

Keeping the Flame Alight 20 The Fires We Keep 24 Olives Don’t Grow Here 26 Not Not a Tourist 28 Twilight Travels 30

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Coffee on, eggs to pan Same routine Business casual (Whatever that meant) The doorman cheerfully saying, “L’chaim!”

(He had just seen Fiddler on the Roof.

When were they going to stop making lousy revivals?)

She took the R train every day from 23rd to 49th She felt like some kind of injection being shoved into some patient, Being absorbed into the veins of “her” city, She waited to be ejected from this bloodstream of underground tracks.

She people-watched on the train, She pushed her way through the crowd of yuppies (What was that line from school?

Petals on a wet black something?)

She was one of those yuppies, she agonized.

She used to be excited about art; the world was her oyster.

She’s now excited about spreadsheets; the world was her phone.

Something about an athlete dying young?

She waxed existential.

(She knew it was annoying, slightly pretentious for her age, but she did so anyway.)

NEW YORK

by Christina Cheng

She worked her long hours (At least she was getting paid handsomely) She told her co-workers she “lived for the weekends.”

Late-night, free Ubers Work to home Home to work Work to home Home to work Work to home Weekends came, She ate eggs and smoked salmon in Chelsea, She went to the Met and didn’t know what anything meant, She ran around Central Park chasing away pigeons, She head banged at concerts in Brooklyn, (She didn’t know the names of the bands but who cares?), She went to bars in East Village, She pranced around drunkenly in avenues, She counted the hours until Monday.

6 Graphics by Ashley Kwon, Deeksha Malhotra

Coffee on, eggs to pan Same routine Business casual She waited for her two day freedom L’chaim!

My I didn’t know Summer that in I didn’t know India Namratha Atluri

When I was applying to the Student Research Training (SRT) Program last October, I definitely knew I wanted to be part of the India project examining the physical and mental health outcomes of orphaned and vulnerable children living in residential care homes. I love children, and child health/policy is something I am passionate about. Moreover, I have volunteered in Indian orphanages before and enjoyed meeting and playing with what always seemed like lively and welcoming children.

So I anxiously went through the application and interview process, really hoping to be placed on the team. After I got accepted, I excitedly spent around six months with my three other teammates planning for the trip. We had weekly meetings with our faculty advisor and frequent Skype calls with our community partner—Udayan Care, a residential care organization in New Delhi—to learn, develop ideas and finalize project objectives and design.

I obviously had several expectations for the experience. I expected to see how NGO’s functioned, learn how to plan and manage global health research projects, understand and improve team dynamics, meet and get to know children and staff and eventually collect and analyze data that can help Udayan Care improve its services as well as further psychological literature in the area.

What I did not expect is for my perceptions and thoughts about residential care homes, orphans and India to be drastically changed.

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Prior Assumptions About Care Homes, Orphans, and Service in India Before my experience in India, whenever I thought of orphanages I just imagined big school-like buildings that housed many children with maybe a few supervisors to run the home. I always one-dimensionally thought of the children I played with as “orphans” who had no family, and I often worried about their futures in terms of development and education. But, I never once thought about the children’s pasts. It never struck me to wonder how the children got to the orphanages or what they may have suffered before getting there.

Similarly, I had preconceived notions about India’s efforts to solve its social issues. Both Western and Indian media/entertainment that I was exposed to growing up led me to believe that not much was being done to solve any of India’s problems.

The traditional Indian education system that my parents grew up with and what I saw my cousins experience prioritized academics, with extracurricular activities and volunteer work having much less value. And with the popular stereotype of how many Indians tend to become either doctors or engineers just to earn a decent living, it made sense to me that people may not know how to engage in community service or social work.

My thoughts seemed validated by the fact that a huge bulk of foreign global health and service projects take place in India.

However, spending two months in India working with Udayan Care easily proved my beliefs to be misconceptions.

A Vastly Different Model of Child Care Udayan Care is an NGO based in New Delhi, India, that has been working for 18 years to provide quality care to orphaned and vulnerable children as well as financial support to girls and underserved adults to pursue higher education and vocational training. Udayan Care runs several programs such as vocational training centers for underserved youth and adults, education programs to support economically disadvantaged girls and women, advocacy initiatives to improve research on and quality of alternative child care, and many more.

During our two months, we worked with Udayan Care’s Udayan Ghars program, which consists of 13 long-term residential ghars (the word for “homes” in Hindi) that each housed, on average, 12 orphaned and vulnerable children. These ghars are located all through New Delhi and the surrounding states. Unlike any orphanage I had volunteered at before, the Udayan ghars had a clearly outlined system to take care of children.

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Orphaned, abandoned, or vulnerable children are first identified by the local city’s Child Welfare Committee (CWC) and

are either restored back to their families or referred to residential care organizations like Udayan Care. The children that are referred to Udayan Care by the local CWCs are placed in the nearest Udayan ghars, which are typical-style houses or apartment flats located in busy, ordinary neighborhoods so that the children can grow up in a conventional environment.

In order to create an authentic family setting, each of the ghars has at least a couple of caregivers who live with the children and take care of them as parents would.

In addition, each ghar also has a social worker who handles all the legal work for the children as well as mentor parents who spend time with the children to provide guidance and motivate them.

In addition to this care model, the ghars have an aftercare program to financially support those who are older than 18 years (hence not qualifying as children anymore) but want to pursue higher education or vocational training. And throughout the year, there are programs to keep the children engaged, such as summer camps and annual sports competitions, where children from all the ghars congregate.

Passion for Children and Change:

A Theme at Udayan Care I was so impressed to see such a structured care model at Udayan that was not just providing food, shelter and clothes to the children to help them survive, but instead was giving children a family, quality education from the best schools, access to various extracurricular activities, and a real chance to thrive.

I was also surprised that so many people working in Udayan were extremely passionate about bringing change to alternative child care. All the Udayan staff and members, from the head office employees to the caregivers, social workers and mentor parents at the ghars, were very enthusiastic about their work and loving towards the children. They were always interested in our research and were excited that the results could help improve their services.

In addition to the staff, Udayan also gets more than 500 applications every year from eager Indian college students who hope to work with Udayan in their own journeys of pursuing social work.

Holistic Orphan Care Includes

Considering their Past In addition to introducing me to a great NGO like Udayan Care, my summer experience also changed the way I think about orphans. Our research was focused on the mental and physical health outcomes of the children living in these homes. To collect this data, we interviewed children in all the ghars using several psychometric tools/questionnaires, measured physical health data and gathered information about children’s backgrounds.

Most of these children have gone through traumatic experiences that do not just include losing their parents, the first and only trauma we tend to associate with orphans. Many of these kids suffered physical abuse, sexual abuse, bullying, child labor and familial discord, and some even witnessed murders of their parents or immediate family members. And, based on the data collected so far, these experiences seem to have a significant impact on their current mental and physical health statuses.

Until this summer, it had always been so easy to ignore the dark pasts disadvantaged children have experienced and to be completely focused on their present lives and futures. Having spent time in the ghars, I now realize the importance of acknowledging and unraveling these pasts because they continue to have lingering effects on the quality of their current lives.

Proven Wrong about India’s Commitment to Social Change Throughout my stay in New Delhi, I also found out that there are many other great NGOs in India like Udayan Care that address a myriad of social issues.

One of the aftercare individuals that I interviewed was pursuing his bachelor’s degree in social work, and he described his internships and volunteering experiences with around 10 different organizations in Delhi alone. These organizations were working on issues ranging from slum development to HIV/AIDS and family planning services.

Another aftercare individual I interviewed described an initiative by the University of Delhi to send homeless children, who can usually be seen selling small merchandise or begging on the streets, to school. In addition to financing their education, the initiative also sought to tackle barriers, such as transportation costs, that could prevent them from performing well at school.

One of the mentor parents I talked to described how the Indian government recently passed the Right of Children to Free and Compulsory Education Act, making education free and required for all children between the ages of 6 and 14. The government was taking many actions to ensure the law is properly enforced. I was amazed by all the progress happening around me, and I had never been so happy to be proven wrong about India’s potential to address its social issues.

Beyond my Expectations My fieldwork experience definitely met all the expectations I had prior to the trip—and much more. I gained an appreciation for how NGOs work despite the difficulties, understood how to navigate the roadblocks associated with global health work, and had the chance to meet inspiring children and alumni as well as passionate staff members.

And, more personally, I have grown as an individual and have a much more mature understanding of alternative child care and social justice within an Indian context.

Graphics by Diane Da-Eun Lee

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Things to do in Salta, Argentina

Jasmine Wang

Ring, ring, jump out, walk out New day, new sights Get lost Get found Refill your phone Refill your card Step on, swipe in, sit down, stare out Open your mouth Empanadas steaming, dreaming Pastries line the windows Drink the grass, my mate The smoke goes up, up Meat, bread Meat, pasta Meet your friends on the plaza

Open your eyes Art museums, frilly churches Shiny trinkets from weathered hands One peso, two peso TV screens crystallize Pigeons run, stray dogs fly Climb a thousand stairs Step, step,

Open your ears Hear the hum, the drum Drink the rum Are you feeling numb?

The Balcarce calls my name tonight Tango, passion, lovers, drama Fall deeper down the rabbit hole Kick, kick, pass, goal!

This is good This is gone This is something from a song Stop.

Turn back the clock Feel it one more time Ring, ring, ring, ring

step

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Graphics by Diane Da-Eun Lee

V E N E T I A N G O T H IC Venetians are prideful - where God put water they demanded land, and they broke their backs to build the foundations for bone-colored palaces in the slick black mud. But their ambition was man’s folly, and now the salty lagoon reaches up with wet fingers to drag the city back down to its depths.

go? Perhaps the fog has swallowed them.

Drinking water is precious and costs twice as much as wine. You desperately order some through parched lips and the waiter brings back a single bottle for your entire table. This city’s drowning but you’re dying of thirst. You silently savor the three swallows you are given.

The vaporetto is not running. The workers are on strike, grim-faced as they pass by tourists who anxiously hang off the docks, waving their arms desperately at the boats, searching for a way off Giudecca. But this is a strike. You can’t leave.

Ten pigeons go unnoticed in the campo, thirty pigeons become a nuisance. But then the swarm comes, smothering innocents in diseased feathers.

You stay up late practicing Italian, and try to use it in the city when you buy your groceries. The locals blink back at you.

They respond, but in a harsh dialect that you can’t understand. This is Italy, but that was not Italian. You don’t try again.

No one talks about what happens to elderly Venetians who can no longer clamber over stone bridges or onto bobbing boats.

Sometimes you hear a cane tapping, but you never see its owner. Where do they

“You should buy some rain-boots before the acqua alta”, everyone keeps telling you. But you’ve looked in every store and can’t find a single pair, and now the water’s rising.

An Aperol spritz costs two euros and somehow you can always find a two-euro coin in the bottom of your purse to pay for it. The bitter liquid is an ungodly shade of acidic orange and it burns your throat when you swallow. You don’t like it. You order another.

Maegan Stanley

The Venetians pull their scarves tighter as the summer heat grows more stifling.

You realize you’ve never seen their skin, and then you remember this used to be a plague island.

Flower sellers walk through the streets trying to pawn roses. If you ignore them, they’ll nick your skin with thorns.

“Ciao, bella”, gondoliers croon from the canal in their black-and-white prisoner’s stripes, beckoning you towards their velvet seats with over-wide smiles. You rush past quickly - you aren’t supposed to talk to strangers.

In the daylight San Marco is packed with tourists, but at night they flee to the mainland and the piazza is deserted save for the leering black eyes of masks in shop windows. Sometimes you could swear they’ve moved.

You greet the dogs that run past you on the street but they don’t respond. You try in Italian, but still no luck. You start to think they can’t actually see you.

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It is the evening and everyone is ordering espresso. The barista looks at you and you ask for a cappuccino. Spoons clink to saucers and conversation drops as everyone turns to stare. The barista shakes her head. It’s too late for that. You flinch.

You walk into a lace shop on Burano. The old lacemaker smiles at you with too many teeth. She tries to sell you tablecloths and lingerie. You politely say no. She tries to sell you a burial shroud.

You run for the night boat through the darkness, its engine hum the only sign of its approach. You cannot miss this boat. There will not be another. You will not get home.

The stone stairs descending into the canal are slick with invisible slime. You’ve seen people slip into the black water. If they come

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back, they don’t like to talk about it.

One by one people disappear to Mestre on the mainland. You don’t know how to get to Mestre, the boat does not run there. You don’t know what happens on Mestre. You hope you are never summoned to Mestre.

You can’t sleep at night because there are mosquitoes buzzing in your ears. Winter comes and they still don’t die. You wonder if you’re just imagining the sound now - if you’re going crazy - but you wake up with less blood than when you fell asleep.

You stand in line at the Poste Italiane for hours. They call another number, but it’s not yours. It isn’t anyone’s. Your postcards never reach your family. There’s no proof you were ever here.

Graphics by Diane Da-Eun Lee

Photograph by Maegan Stanley

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LIGHT by: Samantha Steger

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“Let’s go!” my mother said cheerily as we assembled by the door. Despite the tropical weather, her holiday spirit was in full gear. A few nights ago, she’d played a sixties Christmas CD and spun me around our plastic tree, twirling over hardwood in fuzzy socks.

We were on our way now to another festivity, one we were experiencing only for the third Christmas Eve in a row: Diego’s party. I was excited to run around with my wild friend and the other members of our rambunctious group of preteens, but I was also glad to have my family with me. Since moving to Guatemala two years ago, we’d gradually been shifting our holiday traditions. I welcomed the change, but some traditions I wasn’t ready to dismiss. Experiencing the first moments of Christmas with my family was one.

It was eleven o’clock. As my brother and I tied our shoes, my parents went about turning off lights and pulling the bars on our windows shut.

Already, we could hear fireworks popping across the valley.

Outside, the four of us stood in the street. We lived in a gated compound, in a house that had been an inn until the Embassy made it our home. The street was empty. But around us, the city that enclosed our neighborhood was waking up. Celebrants had begun lighting off fireworks intermittently from the tops of the apartment buildings that surrounded the valley of Guatemala City. My dad pointed to one orb erupting by the peaks of the two volcanoes that loomed beyond the buildings. Gold glitter splayed across the orange glow of the urban night sky.

“Look at that,” my dad shook his head, eyes alit.

His whiskers had just begun to grey. He rarely spoke but had a pronounced appreciation for beautiful things. One night, when he’d picked Diego and me up from a friend’s house in the hills, I’d seen that same excitement in his eyes.

I was chatting away in the back with Diego, buzzing from the energy of our earlier game of hide-and-seek. Diego stopped short as something caught his eye out the window. I turned.

The car slowed as we wove around the brown, muddled mess left behind by yesterday’s landslide. Workers rummaged through the rocks, searching for survivors.

I watched my dad in the rearview mirror as he looked out at the destruction. I caught a flash of deep concern in his dark blue irises. He blinked.

“Listen to this,” he said suddenly, sliding a CD into the player of our Honda. Three strums of a strong guitar sung out, and soon, bachata filled the car. Traffic resumed its regular pace as we wound down the dark hill. My dad maxed the volume and every inch of the car was filled with sound. Requinta, segura, bass, bongos, a beautiful Spanish voice. We descended dazedly toward the lights in the valley, music reverberating through us.

Now, he pulled himself from his stupor to send us on our way: “Let’s get moving.”

We walked side by side down the middle of the sidewalk-less street in a quiet fleet of four. My dad, my brother, my mother, me; the kids enclosed. Beyond the barbed-wire-topped walls of homes, I could hear clinks of glasses, roaring laughter, excited Spanish chatter. It was too early to come out yet; there were still fifty minutes until midnight. For now, it was just us and the tangerine glow of streetlights.

My dad directed us toward a cobblestone staircase that descended into a dark, lush canyon. It would save about five minutes on the way there.

My mom paused at the dark before us, then offered her hand. At twelve, I felt a little old to be holding it, but even then, I had a feeling her reached hand wasn’t for my sake only. I wound my fingers around hers. We journeyed further through the black brush of palms, descending

deeper into darkness. She smiled at me. Her grip tightened.

My brother walked a few steps ahead, whistling.

We’d recently fixed our internet and he’d spent the last weeks watching instructional whistling videos online. His off-key tune echoed now throughout the forest, occasional fireworks his only competition.

My dad led us up the other side of the canyon. At the top, he paused, forming a black outline at the edge of the street. He turned to to us.

“I...” he trailed off, blocking our exit from the forest. My brother stopped. My mother’s other hand reached for his. We stared up at the lamppost that had caused my dad to pause outside the canyon. It was black, tall, looming ominously over the road. Its bulb half-dying, it emitted a weak, eerie white light onto my dad. I listened to it buzz.

For a moment we stood there, no one mentioning the body we’d seen hanging over it last week.

We didn’t mention that one, or the six we’d seen in the two years we’d been there.

“It’s okay,” my mother said. “Just keep going.” She led us up the remainder of the cobblestone steps, green eyes wide but mouth strong, and stepped through the branches. On the equally dark and unpopulated street, we resumed our earlier form. I watched the lamppost as we passed.

Remnants of green tape still clung to the metal, fluttering with the breeze. Red paint showed through chips underneath. We walked on.

Finally, we neared Diego’s house. I knew it by its white and grey wall, the peeking tip of the unmanned guard house where we’d established the neighborhood club. To my dad’s mild distress, I was the only female member of that group, but the boys spoke English and taught me to skateboard; that was good enough. Diego’s parents had welcomed mine into the country since we’d arrived, hosting us annually for Christmas Eve and almost weekly for dinner. Of the few walls we’d seen beyond, theirs was one.

I rang the bell and put my face as close to the camera as it would go, as was custom of a kid in our neighborhood doorbell-ringings. Diego’s voice came through the intercom, along with a clatter of others in the background. The party was at its peak.

“Finally!” he said. Like the previous years, my parents had chosen to skip most of the party and arrive in time for fireworks. They welcomed the new tradition but still balanced it with the old, where we sat around the tree in Santa hats drinking hot cocoa. The cocoa made us sweat now, but we did it anyway, playing old Christmas CDs and waiting until it was time to go.

When Diego finally got the lock open, we were greeted by a band of five or so pre-teen boys who excitedly beckoned us in. “Come on,” Diego said to me, pulling me toward the guard house. “We have to get a good spot.” I looked back over my shoulder at my family, who still stood in the entryway. My mom smiled. My dad waved. My brother looked around.

I followed them up the ladder. Diego, Juan Pablo, Luis, Esteban, and me. Diego’s house was situat-

“embers rained on us, flecks of biting gold”

ed atop a hill and the large, flat roof of the guardhouse offered a spectacular view of the city. Our view extended beyond the streets around us, to over the walls of others’ homes. We could also see past our compound, into the city, and as midnight approached, bits of light were beginning to burst across the sky in glorious patterns.

Ten minutes before Christmas Day, they emerged. Men hurriedly lined rows upon rows of firecrackers down the street. Women and children stood restlessly on the side. Others assembled bottle rockets on the periphery. Some held smoke bombs.

I glanced at Diego’s watch: 11:58. I looked nervously around at the dark silhouettes scattered across the roof for my family, not wanting them to miss the countdown. Seconds later, my brother’s head popped up over the edge of the roof as he ascended the ladder. My dad followed, then my mother. I wormed my way out from the corner that my friends had established and joined them on my mom’s soft red blanket, receiving a casual nod from Diego on the way out. This was tradition, too; I’d rejoin them later.

My mom lay half of the blanket against the sloped part of the roof so our backs were sup-

ported as we overlooked the city. The temperature had dropped slightly since the start of our walk. We squeezed closer together. Soon, there were ten seconds to midnight. Five, four. My mom squeezed my hand. Très, dos. My dad’s eyes glittered. Uno: the city exploded.

The sound was immense. Bangs from all directions, above like bombs and below like gunshots.

Dazzling, glittering lights off at every point of available sky, green, silver, red. Embers rained on us, flecks of biting gold. Joyful shouts of Feliz Navidad. We choked and gagged, laughed and hugged. Arms wound around me, a hand over my chest, my brother’s forehead in my shoulder.

Coughing with teary, smiling eyes, my family held tightly, as if the chaos might sweep us from our sanctuary on the roof. We shook our head, grinned. My mother kissed my cheek. My dad ruffled my hair. My brother watched in awe.

The roar of celebration raged intensely for the first five minutes of Christmas; by the sixth it began to lessen. The mothers left first, laughter following them beyond their walls. Then the men brought in their drinks from the curb. Lastly the kids, chasing each other to their homes. And the doors shut.

The lights dimmed. The sky quietly reverted to its neutral orange. Popping sounds became distant, rare. I lifted my head from my mom’s shoulder. Diego and the others were still on the other edge of the roof, playing a card game we’d invented. I’d play another day.

“I think we’re gonna go,” I told him. He nodded.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He would.

At home, I watched my dad lock each door, my hand in his. He closed the door to the wall first, walked five feet, then locked the gate.We went inside, the house dark and quiet, and he pulled the last wooden door shut behind us.

“Merry Christmas,” my mother whispered.

My dad set the house alarm. My brother yawned. We went to bed.

Graphics by Justin Ching

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After days of ravenously researching a city, you land with an ear-to-ear grin and a list of the “must dos� while there.

Now for me, I have been fortunate enough to have spent the last five months outside of North Carolina, so I have had my fair share of lists and giddy anticipations. Between spending a summer in the Middle East and currently living in Europe for the semester, I have counted my blessings as I continue to travel and gain a sense of other languages, cultures, and people. Taking your first steps off of the plane, any travel exhaustion is immediately swept aside for your first precious moments of a new land that has received so many positive reviews.

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Some embrace their role as tourists while others awkwardly laugh as they shy away from the fact that they are, in fact, tourists. This term, especially when associated with short-term travel or study abroad, carries an ambiguous connotation. Some love this weekend role, some hate feeling uncomfortable due to language, among many other, constraints, and some simply explore without taking into account whether or not they fit this description. Recognizing what this tourism means and how we impact the local landscape can make our travel much more fruitful and rewarding. I am in no way an expert on travel or tourism, but spending five months in two major world cities has opened my eyes to the extreme pros and cons of being a tourist.

In all honesty, most of the positive consequences of tourism stem from selfish desires. Traveling is inherently a selfish decision, a choice to better your own world perspective. Traveling as a young adult puts my wants and desires above all else as I investigate and choose my destinations.

And this is not a bad thing. While traveling and acting as a tourist, you are opening your eyes to a new region, a new culture, and a new identity to which you probably have not had access. You are expanding your network and knowledge of other people and how they eat, breathe, and sleep.

And, if we are continuing this honest streak, you are checking off another city or country to add to your arsenal for when you return back home and can suddenly contribute to conversations when discussing Muslim architecture during the Middle Ages because you spent a day in CĂłrdoba, Spain. These things are good; they feel good. You are embracing your new surroundings to explore and to learn. You are contributing to the job market of these cities, as many popular cities depend on the tourism market to maintain the high standard of living for these places. There is good to tourism.

Tyler Goldberger

However, the dark side of tourism is one that we often overlook in our desire to travel. Having spent a majority of the semester traveling through Catholic churches in Spain, I can recognize that my interest in these ornate masterpieces have detracted from their original purpose to act as a religious prayer space. My fascination in the Baroque-styled chapels causes these churches to lose their sense of holiness, becoming a place to worship as opposed to a place of worship. Also, my tourism directly and drastically increases the standard of living for citizens who choose to call these tourist attractions their home. For larger cities like Madrid and London, this issue affects a relatively smaller percentage of the population because it just continues to separate the upper and lower socioeconomic classes. While this is certainly an issue, in tinier tourist attractions, such as Ibiza or Toledo, the tourist industry is driving up the prices to a point where local residents cannot afford to stay in these areas.

This then destroys the town of its unique culture and replaces it with the stench of weekend travelers. This stench has the power to make a town unique solely for its tourist attractions, removing the richness of the people and culture that makes every place special.

I have loved traveling, and I am so thankful to have been able to see such great sights!

However, I truly believe I have enjoyed myself and learned more because I have critically thought about what it means to be a tourist while traveling through these cities for a weekend. Taking the time to read up on the history of a place before landing so I can feel prepared for what is to come, or spending an hour learning key phrases of the native tongue so I can feel more engaged in the local community are just some steps to embrace my tourist role while also embracing the culture in which I am immersing myself for the weekend. Tourism is an ambiguous phenomenon. While seeing these historical sights and sounds and while appreciating a new area normally depict positive experiences, these must be balanced with the direct impact your decision has on the local area and its identity. Preserve this identity, embrace their uniqueness, and you will find that your tourism will become a more intimate experience.

Graphics by Diane Da-Eun Lee17

The People make the Pl

T

he people make the place.

I’ve heard this expression used many times before, but I also know it to be true. Yet in traveling, I have discovered a new interpretation of such a ubiquitous phrase. The people of the lost and forgotten, the overlooked and the ignored, these are the people that truly make a place.

As we walked the short path from one house to another, the rain soaked paths of our small Neltume compound fill with puddles, growing and growing as the deluge continued to fall. Days of soaking up the sun passed as weeks of rain followed. We meandered down the road to the nearby waterfalls, passing the vibrant murals with neighborhood dogs falling in our footsteps. Snow peaked mountains lay behind us as we set our way on the path we’d come to walk numerous times. Our days in the sleepy town began much the same way each day -- rain falling, fireplaces roaring, blankets scattered about, and Radio Neltume calmly playing in the background. The town we knew was clear and distinct, as the wandering roads which were once the great unknown had transformed into streets lined with homes we had been welcomed into.

Sipping mate on a July morning, the

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Graphics by Deeksha Malhotra, Jenny Shang

sky had transformed from a bright blue to a foreboding grey as winter had set in. Yet even within the small Chilean town of Neltume, surprise, newness, and intrigue still awaited.

In efforts to beat cabin fever, we set to explore the Museo de los Volcanes, a museum that aims to shed light on Mapuche culture, indigenous tribes of South America, and the history of the Neltume community. The attractions of such a small community continue to overwhelm as a massive museum emerged from the fog and downpour that had surrounded us.

Wandering inside, the museum walls were written with words of “Estos objetos del Mapuche muestran las intervenciones que los pueblos originarios realizaron a los elementos naturales que encontraron en su respectivo medio ambiente.” The museum embodied the relationship of people and the land.

Wandering the floors, I couldn’t help but draw parallels between countries of travels past as the Aborginal culture of Australia described the foundational belief of baranyi yagu barrabugu -wisdom of acting now for the future of our garrigarrang. Garrigarrang is a

lace: Mapuche & Maori Micaela Unda

concept that is defined as “the place of the ocean, plants and animals, the beach, land and estuaries; and the seasons, weather and sky.” In short, baranyi yagu barrabugu was a simple notion that one should act with the mindset of protecting his or her environment, quite similar to kaitiakitanga, a guiding principle among the New Zealand Maori.

Approaching the environment from a Māori paradigm, environmentalism takes on lessons of spirituality, kinship, respect, and value. The Māori concept of Tikanga dictates a way in which one lives; for if one acts in accordance with the examples set by virtuous people, this is referred to as tika. Embodying such tika is Tāne Mahuta, the god of the forest and a parent to the trees, leader of the kaitaki, the guardians of the forest.

Within the walls of the museum, I found the same connection encompassed in the Mapuche traditions surrounding the environment. The Mapuche name Kallinko makes reference to the ngen, the defender, guardian, and benefactor that dwells in Lago Neltume. The current ten or so communities now serve as living embodiments of Lago Neltume, nurtured by their “newen.” Mapuche place a similar value system on their natural world. In native populations, such

spirituality of nature is written into the moral code of environmental protection and can even be integrated into policy.

Nature is approached as something to be respected and protected, often done so with the Maori concept of Rāhui, which places restricted access on land usage, or the Mapuche concept of Admapu– “el conjunto de simbolos, practices y creencias tradicionales que propugnan que el pueblo mapuche y la tierra, fueron creados por Nguenchen.” Even within Mapudungun, the Mapuche language, words of value surrounding nature fill the pages. Tree -- mamëll. Sky -- wenu.

Mawida -- mountain, jungle, forest. For mawida is spoken about with shakin, or honor, something to be protected. As we both descended and climbed countless floors, historical, cultural, and geologic exhibits were abound.

Throughout travel, foreign tongue and intriguing accents ignite a sense of curiosity. Yet in being fortunate enough to live out of a suitcase over the past year, I have found that the communities that have defined and created a country’s original culture are in fact the ones to learn the most from. For in the end, it is these people that make the place.

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KEEPING THE FLAME ALIGHT Janie Booth

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I am a stranger here.

Here in this big city where the cars drive on the left side of the road and traffic lights seem to be only suggestions.

Here among the neighborhoods which housed freedom movements, places where history has been made on nearly every corner. Here in this great rumbling city where the grassland and the bush meet, and where mountains and valleys come together like pieces of a perfect puzzle.

“just past those towering walls is a bright eternal flame” In the past week, we visited the townships of Soweto and Alexandra, the Voortrekker Monument, Constitution Hill, the Union Building, and several museums: the Apartheid Museum, Kliptown Museum, and the Hector Pieterson Museum. We also had the unique chance to speak to residents of the townships, a Methodist minister, a university professor, and an organizer of the 1976 student uprising. Convening with these sites and people has invited me to examine the layers of hate and injustice which led to the atrocities of apartheid, as well as the layers of privilege and comfort in my own life. It’s one week in and I already feel challenged.

Of all the museums and monuments we encountered this week, my favorite was visiting Freedom Park, a living monument to all killed in the struggle against apartheid.

High atop a cliff overlooking Pretoria, the park combines elements of nature, water, light, and air to act as a poignant reflection of South Africa’s past. A spiral path leads the way through a symbolic burial ground, a gallery of leaders, an eternal flame, an amphitheater, and wall after wall of names.

The walls are made from stone tiles that reach forty feet high, and on each is an engraving of the name of a person who sacrificed their lives to win freedom for South Africa. Our guide pointed to thousands of blank tiles still to be engraved. But this, already, is a representative sample: any section looks as though it could come from the pages of a Johannesburg phone book.

I stared at these for a long time, lost in thought. I read the names over and over again, like the lines of a prayer.

How many people had to die to achieve democracy? How many are still unknown? How can we do justice to their lives?

Just past these towering walls is a bright eternal flame, lit as a reminder of the heroes and heroines who played a role in shaping the country. However, on the day we visited, no flame could be seen; it was being serviced by maintenance.

I watched as new canisters of fuel were loaded. It served as an apt reminder that reconcili-

ation, remembrance, and most of all, maintaining freedom, requires work.

So what kind of work will it take?

A constant fuel of love and forgiveness, of courage and compassion.

This week has been one of deep witnessing, of learning, and of listening. There is so much more to experience, and still to learn: it is my hope that the next seven weeks here will illuminate the complexities of freedom and justice, and I hope that we can do our own small part in keeping the flame alight.

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Sacred Spaces On Saturday we visited Robben Island, the place where political activists were imprisoned during Apartheid. In Long Walk to Freedom I’d read about the eighteen years that Nelson Mandela spent there, his story only one among thousands of prisoners.

A former prisoner wrote a poem about his return to the island twenty years after being freed. Molahlehi wa Mmutle begins the first stanza: On Robben Island / The Mecca of our people / We are about to embark / On a journey of pilgrimage / To pay homage.

These words rung in my ears as I stepped on the well-trodden pathways where Mandela, Walter Sisulu, and Robert Sobukwe had once stood.

How does one pay homage to this place?

Our guide told us that visitors before us had once stolen the spoon Mandela used, and others had demanded to spend the night in his cell, refusing to leave. I watched as the

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people around me posed for photographs in front of the cells, their iPhones and eyes hungrily searching for meaning, or the opportunity to say I was here.

I was there. I lingered in front of each cell, pressing my fingers to the iron bars.

The fourth cell from the left, our guide motioned. There lies a red toilet bucket, a blanket, a tray, a bench, a cup, and no spoon.

There is no plaque or special marker. There are no lines on the wall tallying the number of sunrises and sunsets seen from behind the barred windows. Just the fourth cell from the left.

Somewhere amidst the austere cell and the empty corridors, history felt distinctly pinned to this place. I could touch it but I couldn’t grasp it fully, the weight of the lives that had suffered here. So I was quiet instead, trying hard to understand but also trying hard not to disturb.

The following day we hiked a mountain called Lion’s Head. We followed another well-trodden path like pilgrims, the trails worn down from centuries of footsteps making identical journeys.

We sat at the summit for a long time, our eyes fixed on the view spilling out before us, mountains and ocean and sky stretching as far as we could see.

We spoke in the same kind of hushed tones as the day before, on the island, whispering as though not to interrupt the weighted silence.

What is it that makes these places feel sacred? Is it the land itself, the air, or the water that trickles down the mountain? Or is it what they’ve witnessed, long after history’s active moment? Is it what they’ve endured?

Maybe it’s the millions of prayers soaking into the dirt, into the cells, into the people who have made the journey along the way.

I am grateful to have stood for a brief moment in these spaces, grateful to be challenged by what I’ve seen and to have my words taken away from me by the sheer expansiveness of what is in front of me.

I think I’ll pay homage to these places in the best way I can: I’ll remain quiet, trying hard to understand but also trying hard not to disturb.

One More Sunset I’m writing this after sitting down to eat dinner, where a “Welcome Home” sign rests on the kitchen table. Hundred-degree temperatures have replaced the cool air of Cape Town, and where there was once eleven, the table is set for five.

Right now, I’m soaking up every little sliver of home: Lying awake listening to cicadas chirping outside my window. Peach Pie. Driving with the windows down and the music turned on as loud as it can go. My sisters.

Ordinary life hums around this ordinary place, and I am here, savoring all of it.

On our last night in Cape Town, together we watched the sunset on Clifton Beach. It was the kind of night that required bare feet and big smiles, our very own goodbye parade through the sand. I traced the winding trails our steps left behind and remembered a poem by Elizabeth Bishop, called Questions of Travel. In it she writes, Must we dream our dreams / and have them, too? / And have we room / for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?

Dreaming my dreams and living them too– that’s exactly how it felt to be in Cape Town this summer. Every sunset felt wrapped in something bigger, as if the footsteps we printed on the sand were more permanent than just outlines erased by ocean tides.

Bishop continues the poem with another question: Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?

I consider this for a second.

The nest of family and friends that I call home is easy, safe, and comfortable–but maybe that’s why leaving was so important, and so difficult. To have stayed at home wouldn’t have showed me the lessons that guidebooks and textbooks can’t even begin to describe: How history here isn’t only recorded in monuments and museums; it is written with presence and protests and poems.

How justice is complicated, and there is always work to be done.

How the stories of everyone you meet have a purpose, one that is being rewritten every day.

How discomfort might be the force from which change will begin, change rooted in activism and a collective voice and vision.

How legal systems can be the difference between a woman beating the odds and being beaten.

How walking, and noticing and thinking and listening, will lead to an understanding of privilege and all of the decisions that have lead me here.

How the number of people you can squeeze into one bed to devour pizza and watch The Bachelorette is far more than you might think.

How mountains can fool you: the journey is longer and steeper and harder than it looks, but the view is far better than you could ever imagine.

For these lessons I am grateful to so many people: Our incredible bosses and coworkers at the Women’s Legal Centre–not a day has gone by that I haven’t missed the laughter in our office. Our professors, coordinator, and speakers–I learned (and unlearned) something with every conversation. All of

the strangers we met along the way–their kindness made each adventure through airports and up mountains feel infinitely more special. And, especially, the ten other strangers I began the summer with, and now hug tightly at the airport. It took a long time for me to unwrap my arms around these people that I now am lucky enough to call friends.

The last line of the poem ends like this: Should we have stayed at home, / wherever that may be?

Wherever that may be. I look to the “Welcome Home” sign that still rests on the table, and think of how my definition of home has broadened this summer. Home can found navigating the winding streets of Tamboerskloof, in the bonds formed from conversations in a coffee shop downtown, in a church pew, in meals and laughter shared at a table set for eleven.

When I ask myself where I want to be and what I want to do, I know that my choice of home has widened past North Carolina, or even North America. So here’s to the next adventure, one in which I find home in all of the unexpected people and places along the way.

Graphics by Justing Ching

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Hurricanes. Earthquakes.

Floods. Forest fires.

A mass shooting.

That was my Fall in 2017.

Tell me, how are we all expected to just keep going about our days as college students, turning in assignments, going to meetings, running clubs, while the rest of our world continues to Fall? How am I expected to return to Mexico, my homeland, to do research there this summer like everything is suddenly alright now?

There are children in Puebla reading a storybook about earthquakes to try to work through their trauma after experiencing two of them.

There is a young man in a pueblo near Cholula who can’t afford a blanket to keep himself warm at night, but he is still working every day to rebuild the houses that crumbled after two earthquakes in a row, which shook their livelihoods during their already-difficult rainy season, and took some lives too.

And yet today, everyone continues with their lives. Wounds, physical and emotional, will heal.

Those who have passed will be remembered. Though not without change.

This summer, I return to Mexico remembering the fires I felt within its citizens the last time I was there. A mother in Cuetzalan lights a fire three times a day to feed her family in a house with no heating or indoor plumbing. A young Mexica dancer subjects his feet to the hot Mexico City pavement to pay tribute to our ancestors. A Spaniard expat dedicates his days to learning the histories of the indigenous peoples in Mexico and dedicates his life to rectifying the injustices enacted on this country by his country of origin. A little girl in Cholula learned Nahuatl as a second language and begs her parents to take her to the public classes in the town’s cultural center so that she won’t forget it.

I return to Mexico remembering the fires I feel every day within the hearts of those I am lucky enough to call my friends: one of the most outspoken and fearless feminists I have ever met, rallying everyone she meets to join her; one of the bravest and most dedicated protesters I know, putting in hours every week for the causes she believes in; one walks this campus with a radiance unlike any other, with a smile that never leaves his face and a kindness he never fails to give to all who cross his path.

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thefires we keep AdaĂ­r Citlalli Necalli

There is a young woman in my university who didn’t hear from her family in Puerto Rico for entirely too long after the hurricanes, and she has worked every single day since then to help her island in any way she can, even through her commitments as a student.

There are entire communities in Las Vegas, where I attended school from my first day of kindergarten through my high school graduation, that will never be the same again because a reasonably well-off retiree with a gambling habit went unnoticed while stockpiling rifles and ammunition to commit the unspeakable.

All of these people inspire me every single day.

I can only hope that the fires I am lucky enough to experience in others can help keep mine lit as well. I can only hope that I can be that fire for others, so that theirs may keep shining. It is our only way forward.

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Graphics by Diane Da-Eun Lee

Olives

Don’t Grow Here.

Elle Winfield

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“All I want is to go home, lay beneath an Olive tree and die.”

T

hose words didn’t attack me three days ago. They came to me masquerading in a crinkled smile, on a foreign tongue that lulled through cracked teeth, insidious plaque to my gaze. Your acceptance for death guided my own, as though a longing for an end was a normality -- as though this limbo was hardly real at all.

This was the Shatila Refugee camp, rotted in Beirut, Lebanon. Duke has a long established connection there, sending students in the attempt to understand -or at the very least empathize. But this sort of history, of forced migration and the inability to move forward, was hardly something to be taught -- it demanded experience.

For you, the man I met off guard, talked with such easy grace, to the stranger with a shining notepad and tailored clothes.

The weight of your reality didn’t entangle me at first, dancing beyond my minds immediate distraction, so focused I was on breathing the gasoline air of your planet.

Your smile had tricked me to mimic what language could not translate, the wrinkles in your eyes deceitful. I had smiled back.

But those words attack me now. Their potency seeps into the glass imprints of my memory, endlessly gluttonous on the hollow wealth, of how insincere I must seem to you -- a stranger that never knew you existed, that was so uncritically privileged.

I left your world quickly, no memory of where exactly it had been or how to retrace my footsteps. I remember the guard at the entrance, how easily I had trespassed the camp and the oversized blue of UNICEF backpacks dotted at doorways of temporary homes that lived forever.

The more time passes, the easier the facts appear. I will never see Shatila again. I will not watch you making bread to sell nor folding scarves in the foyer. I will not hear of the horse you used to ride as a child, or how you have been strung in this time lapse for 69 years. I wont know if you found an olive tree.

In the days that followed something within me wrestled. Was I exaggerating the human capacity for emotion within an hour? Yet I had glimpsed a world that should not exist, where time ran so slow that it was as if the light of our own sun would never quite reach them, casting their spectrum into an infinite decay.

I learned later that day that Olives are plentiful in Lebanon. And in Syria. And Palestine and Israel. But none grow in the camp. The walls too close for daylight, the ground too choked with wires that their roots could subsidize life with only electricity.

It is a nonconsensual trade off but for every thought in which I recall you-in shame or resilience or pain- I am thankful for the shock of consciousness.

The Shatila Refugee camp in Beirut, Lebanon (2016)

Every moment of our conversation should not have existed. Your Arabic, my English, your Palestine, my England, your age, my youth. The bubble you spun in that paper world cocooned 36 minutes of audiotaped accents, and now, with them forgotten, I struggle to separate the colossal weight of your story with the integrity of my presence. Would I share this moment with others for that college research project?

Would I post a photograph of us smiling on social media to ease my conscience? It was as though you inadvertently gifted me something sacred that to display would be to prostitute. What black irony there was in my presence being the worst pollution your quarantine had yet breathed.

Graphics by Jenny Shang

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Not Not a Tourist Pinelopi Margeti

I am in my seat on a train touching elbows with the guy sleeping next to me.

I paid the extra euros and I’m in “first class” but the windows are graffitied, the luggage compartment above me is broken, the seats are torn, and it smells. I can’t help but smirk at the thought of what a tourist would say under these circumstances, or better yet, an American.

But me? Pff, it’s my third month here. I’m practically a local by now.

I didn’t even think twice before deciding to study abroad. It was always a given that in college, I’d spend a semester in another country. It meant learning a new language, meeting new people, seeing the world; it’s what my twenties are for, how could I not? “It’s a great opportunity,” “a huge learning experience,” “the only period in your life you’ll be able to do it,” etc. Although none of these words of encouragement really prepared me for what was ahead, they definitely reassured me that I was making the right decision -- not that I was considering otherwise.

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“A huge learning experience” was an understatement, though. I realized that within my first week here. There is so much more than a language that one has to learn when they’re dropped in another country. Although Italians are notorious for their terrible English skills, communication wasn’t that much of an issue. There’s Google Translate, pointing fingers, speaking Spanish -- I managed to get messages across. It’s everything else about a culture that one can only learn from living in it – and inevitably and continuously making mistakes – that makes immersion a pain.

Italians are very serious about two things: food and fashion. The latter was an issue for the first month, and I was getting all kinds of stares. Just a heads up: gym clothes are only for inside the gym. I am not referring to wearing leggings to class or when out in the city, because apparently both are absolutely outrageous, but even wearing gym clothes on your way to the gym is not allowed. Italians change into their gym

clothes only in the locker room. Even if going to the gym is the first thing you do in the morning, zip up your jeans, button down your shirt, and stuff your gym bag. To me, that’s like putting on makeup before stepping into the shower – but hey, immersion, am I right?

Smiling at strangers in the street is, without a doubt, a very not good idea. At home, smiling at a random person you make eye contact with is normal. In Spain, you can’t walk a block without getting twelve “buenos dias” from people you’ve never seen before. I tried that in Perugia a couple of times and scared so many people... never again.

Don’t get me started on going grocery shopping. It is so stressful and chaotic; I have to mentally prepare myself days prior. Eggs are not refrigerated (they’re on the shelf next to the pasta, took me a while), you have to bag everything yourself at the register but bring your own plastic bags or you’ll get charged. Peanut butter does not exist, and don’t you dare grab a tomato without first putting on a disposable glove or the “nonnina” staring at you will kick you out of the store.

refrigerated eggs again. The reason, then, that studying abroad is a “huge learning experience” is because it forces you to learn how to be flexible and adapt to very different circumstances. It molds you into a more versatile and resourceful person with a mind that can now think in a global context. I feel three years older than I did in August and it’s not because I wear leggings less. It’s because I retained my composure with every shirt I lost while line drying my clothes. And because every time we blew a fuse when my roommate used the blow dryer while I was using the blender, I stuck my finger in the fuse box despite being terrified of it. Getting on the wrong train to Rome, on the wrong bus to Siena, buying dish detergent instead of shampoo, and forcing an espresso shot down your throat because “no Italian orders a cappuccino after noon,” all while maintaining your cool, officially classifies you as an adult.

I’d explain the recycling system, but I honestly still don’t understand the six different garbage bins we have in our kitchen. Six.

Staying in North Carolina the past four months would have, without a doubt, been easier and at times, admittedly, more fun.

Studying abroad is difficult, not just pleasant and exciting. But like my professor in Italy said, if you could walk into a cafe and order a “Venti Iced Skinny Half-Calf Hazelnut Macchiato, uh, Extra Shot No Whip” without a problem, it wouldn’t be study abroad.

Not much from all this is actually valuable information in the long term because when I go back home in forty days, I’ll have

And at the end of the day, does it really matter if the train that you paid first class for has torn seats if it’s headed to Florence?

Not Not a Tourist Pinelopi Margeti

Graphics by Diane Da-Eun Lee 29

** ** TWILIGHT TWILIGHT

Jakarta sings Durham a soft lullaby before a sweet kiss goodnight.

In the West, melatonin bottles are opened, tilted, then shaken; one dose is selected and consumed.

Like a glass slipper, an abashed sun leaks onto cheeks while running frantically away.

Stalactites and stalagmites rustle in the Jeita Grotto.

Adelaide's populace reduces by half.

Chests turn to the West in Taif; to the East in Jeddah; then, heads fall in reverence.

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TRAVELS T RAVELS

**

There is a man on Cameron Parc Drive who nestles into an embossed armchair and stares into the distance and ponders and weeps.

The entangled roads of Rajori are now best travelled in pairs.

Luciferase bests Satan's eclipse under the weeping willow.

There was a man on Kensington Road who rose, cleaned, and packed grits and grit for the dusk ahead.

Deeksha Malhotra

Graphics by Diane Da-Eun Lee 31

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