Passport Magazine Spring 2010

Passport Duke University’s International Magazine

Talons and Traditions

Cанкт-Петербург

Playgrounds of the Ancients Volume 11 Spring 2010

Editor’s Note The U.S. Government issued my first passport before I had turned oneyear-old. Since then, I have prided myself on the sheer number of custom stamps I collected from my travels, testaments to irreplaceable memories with my family and friends. Whether I was fighting to keep down my dinner on an overnight ferry in Italy or feeding ravenous kangaroos in Australia, every one of these adventures abroad left a permanent mark in my heart and mind. While I might not have changed the world in any significant way during my journeys, it has certainly changed me. Yet after all these years of traveling, what I remember is not the view of London from the top of St Paul’s Cathedral, but rather the long, winding race to the top with my brother. Duke offers its students numerous opportunities for travel, and I strongly encourage everyone to take advantage of them. Studying abroad and DukeEngage are both unique ways to gain first-hand knowledge about other people, places, languages, and cultures. However, as I have learned, sometimes it’s not where you are that matters the most, but rather who you’re with and what you’re doing. Our writers have preserved their memories in this issue of Passport, offering their own stories as examples of how significant experiences can be found everywhere you go. Lose yourself in the mystique of urban Russia, fly away with falconry from around the world, or rediscover Duke campus. We hope our experiences will continue to inspire our readers to travel and expand their horizons. Finally, I would like to thank everyone on senior staff for their hard work and dedication to Passport. Your support and assistance has been invaluable to me during my transition to editor-in-chief. To our seniors, I wish you all the best in your future endeavors. We will miss you dearly. Michelle, you have not only been an irreplaceable member of Passport, but also a great friend. Thanks for being there at 1’oclock in the morning!

Editor-in-chief Kara Li Producer Lehka Ragavendran

senior editors

graphics editor

graphics

editors

Welcome to the eleventh issue of Passport Magazine. Enjoy!

Kara Li

writers

Nick Chan Lindsay Emery Michelle Fang Bengisu Kuscu Sarah Newman Linda Qu Natalie Macaruso Eric Emery Lindsay Emery Jasmine Kim Jonathan Lee Minette Yao Sarah Zhang Connie Chen Marquise Eloi Joan Nambuba Amber Arnold Tyler Atwood Melody Chan Jonathan Cross Michelle Fang Mike Ma Sagar Mehta Susan Park Elisabeth Prey Yaoli Pu Carol Shih Sarah Zhang

Passport Magazine is a Franchised Publication under 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 the magazine. photo by Noodle snacks

SPRING 2010

CONTENTS

Passage to Peru

[Photo Essay (Caribbean)]

The Best of Both Worlds: Black Culture in the Americas

The White Nights

[Senior Staff]

Traditionally Tying the Knot

STUCK: Refugee Minors in Cairo

Below the Curve

Ruining the Past

Flying Free

Shangri-La: Doris Dukeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Islamic Palace in Hawaii

Snapshots from Below Uhuru Peak

Giving a Face to Palestine

by Michelle Fang

by Mike Ma

by Amber Arnold

by Carol Shih

by Tyler Atwood

by Susan Park

by Melody Chan

by Sagar Mehta

by Elisabeth Prey

by Sarah Zhang

by Yaoli Pu

by Jonathan Cross

cover photo by David Iliff Published under the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 3.0 license (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) photo by Luca Galuzzi - www.galuzzi.it

Spring 2010

Passage to Peru by Michelle Fang

Our van shook violently as it meandered down the cramped dirt road towards town. Dozens of faces peered at us silently, only briefly illuminated by our headlights before disappearing back into the darkness. Hunched old women crossed in front of us, donning knee length skirts and tall hats while toting heavy loads on their backs. Stray dogs ran around barking at the vehicle. We were on our way to Ollantaytambo, home of ancient Incan ruins and the beginning of the Machu Picchu trail. Though the little town was only sixty kilometers northwest of the city of Cusco, the bumpy winding mountain roads and the rickety van made it seem much further. Our primary mission in Peru was to hike the Inca Trail, a five-day backpacking experience that would end at Macchu Picchu during sunrise; however, we were also there to explore the beautiful country as much as possible in two weeks. My family and I had flown in to Cusco only the night before and had barely glimpsed the city before hitting

the road. My recollections of our arrival were hazy as I sat jetlagged in our van, daydreaming. The city was a perplexing maze of narrow roads, with sidewalks that often tapered off and disappeared, leaving pedestrians to scramble and press against the walls of buildings each time a car passed by. The air pollution and sound of taxis honking seemed to contrast with the cobblestone streets and classic cathedrals that dotted the cityscape. When I later returned to Cusco and had a better chance to explore, I would quickly discover that the city struck a playful-yet-careful balance between tradition and modernity that was difficult to maintain. Arriving in Ollantaytambo, the idea that a sizeable city like Cusco was so nearby was difficult to believe. The town seemed completely rural and alone, nestled in the mountains and blanketed in darkness. Peering out of the windows in curiosity, I could barely discern the buildings and people. There were no signs of electricity and only the flickers of candles in the windows illuminated a glimpse of the town. The smell of oven-roasted bread and garlic filled the air of the hostel as I entered. The wooden walls of the building seemed to pulsate and glow in the dim lighting, creating a magical feel. While navigating down the dark hallway to my room with only a candlestick to guide me, I felt transported back to another century. As it turned out, what I had assumed was commonplace was actually the consequence of a damaged power line that was the result of a strange auto accident. When the sun rose the next morning, I realized that Ollantaytambo—though still beautiful and rustic—was also a tourist’s town. The painted, shingled buildings were adorned with bright signs advertising the food dishes or goods within. On our short stroll towards the ruins, we passed dozens of market stands, where Peruvian women were selling colorful shawls and knitted caps. Though I was initially disappointed, I soon found that the tourist area was very concentrated and centered around the ruins. It was easy to walk around a few small streets and alleys and quickly find myself surrounded by a more genuine atmosphere: chickens pecking, children running, and women washing laundry outside.

My family and I quickly fell in love with the town. The air was clean and the food was fresh. Our meals were often healthy and filling, with numerous vegetable soup options, homemade breads fresh from the oven, and grilled meats. For once, my mother, who is vegetarian, did not have to dread meals or resign herself to eating only one dish while in a foreign country. And, despite the tourist influence, the town still maintained its own native culture. Perhaps what stood out most to me was how honest and hard working the people were. One woman I spoke to near the ruins told me she hiked over eight kilometers through the mountains each day with her children, wearing simple sandals that seemed to be made out of old tires. Her children were no older than five or six and the goods that she carried on her back were typical crafts, the same as every other vendor nearby. With the low prices of the goods and the competition among vendors, she could not be making much. Yet, instead of being bitter about her life or resentful towards tourists, she seemed friendly and generous, even offering us a sample of her produce. Indeed, the longer I stayed in Peru, the more I came to appreciate its people. Whereas the locals in poorer areas of other countries I have visited tend to crowd around tourists desperately or greedily, hoping to profit off their naiveté, the people I encountered in Peru always maintained their dignity and honesty. When my father accidentally left his wallet on a counter, the store clerk followed us into the streets to return it to us, unhesitatingly. There were hundreds of soles in the wallet and the temptation had to be huge—had the boy taken even just one bill, he might have had enough to feed himself for a month. Yet, not a single sol was missing. Similarly, when I accidently dropped a newly purchased knit hat, a little girl ran down the hill to give it to me rather than simply keeping it and reselling it. Such experiences are rare even in more prosperous countries. The generosity of the locals made it difficult for me to enjoy being a tourist. As I watched other tourists haggle with locals over a few soles, I could not help observing that their overpriced Northface and Patagonia clothing could easily pay for two weeks’ worth of meals in the region. On our last day in Ollantaytambo, I climbed up on the roof of our hostel early in the morning to soak in the view one last time. With my sketchpad in hand, I hoped

to commit the picturesque scene to my memory. Surveying the town from an artist’s perspective brought out details that I had not paid attention to before, such as the intricate pattern of the clay roof shingles that covered nearly every building, or the small, painted cows that blessed each rooftop. I watched as the storekeepers set up shop and women bustled about holding loaves of bread or merchandise to sell in the market, and thought back to a conversation I had the night before with the owner of the hostel, KB. He had visited Ollantaytambo with a few friends on a whim, and was instantly mesmerized by the town’s beauty. Returning to the United States, he sold his business, packed up his belongings, and hightailed it for Ollantaytambo, with only rudimentary Spanish speaking skills to guide him. I returned to Cusco with a strange feeling. Already I missed Ollantaytambo’s freshness and simplicity. It was easy to see why KB fell in love with the town so quickly. Yet, at the same time, it was exciting to return to an urban scene. Cusco was unlike any other city I had visited. While it buzzed with commotion and traffic and housed a huge population, it still maintained a rustic, town-like air with its cobblestone streets and elegant architecture. There were no towering skyscrapers, flashing lights, or shiny glass buildings. Instead, the city was centered around historic cathedrals and plazas. In these plazas, women carrying lambs and wearing bright Peruvian skirts approached all photos by Michelle Fang

us and offered to take a photo with us for a few soles. Small children shook hand-carved gourds at us, hoping to entice us into purchasing their goods. Vendors sold candies and snacks from their carts. Yet, as distinctly Peruvian as these plazas were, there were still reminders of the American influence and of globalization: for instance, a McDonald’s was located several yards away from an old Cathedral in the Plaza Mayor. At night, other vendors rolled carts out with colorful herbal brews to sell, promising to cure headaches or prevent colds. Taxis rolled in, delivering eager, young tourists ready to check out the nightlife. Both Latino and American music blared from the dance clubs. The bars and restaurants were crowded and lively. One restaurant I visited late at night made me feel like Alice in Wonderland—a quirky staircase led me into a room full of eclectic people donning oversized bow ties, furry top hats, and felt jester hats. Strange decorations dangled from the walls and ceilings. Another night, while catching up with two high school friends, we were interrupted by sounds of cheering at the next table as cuy, or cooked guinea pigs, were brought from the kitchen. There were so many bars and restaurants to visit in Cusco that I soon found my head spinning. Trying to pack as much as possible during our stay there, I found myself too exhausted to lift a finger my last night in the city. Early the next morning, a taxi picked us up and drove us to the airport for our flight to Lima. As perhaps the most renowned city in Peru, I had always associated Lima with the little I knew about Peru—llamas, women with long braids and tall hats, and the Inca. Instead, I was shocked to enter an absolute metropolis. After staring up at the skyscrapers, I exchanged incredulous glances with my siblings and questioned if we had somehow mistakenly ended up back in the United States. Lima was the opposite of everything we had seen thus far in Peru. Instead of being narrow and cobble-stoned, many of Lima’s roads were three or four lane, paved roads. Men and women were dressed in Western clothing—not a single woman had braids or wore the traditional long skirt. The relaxed mood of Ollantaytambo was gone, replaced by a rushed and

impersonal atmosphere. Whereas there always seemed at ease, the people in Lima seemed unhappy, their faces drawn into tight lines. Even the weather was different in Lima—it was a depressing, gray overcast sky that seemed to reflect my mood upon arriving. (As it turned out, the sky was always like this in Lima.) Yet, Lima had its own special flavor; I just had to look harder to find it. While it there were few traces of traditional Peruvian culture there, Lima did reveal remnants of European culture instead. For instance, near the Plaza de Armas, the architecture was stunning—Spanish colonial-style buildings were adorned with ornate balconies and painted bold and vibrant colors. The plaza itself was dazzling and lively, with its palm trees and bronze fountain. Merchants set up stores and carts around the plaza, selling candies, snacks, and tourist souvenirs, and birds filled the air, pecking at scraps and crumbs. Lima also had its own metropolis culture, special to a larger city. When traffic was stopped on a four-lane highway, for example, runners wove in and out of the lanes offering everything from newspapers to peanuts. Drivers would roll down their windows and whistle if they saw something they wanted to buy. Overall, my trip to Peru was fulfilling. We ventured by taxi, bus, boat, and plane. I was able to see both rural and urban Peru, hop on a boat tour near Lake Titicaca, backpack to Machu Picchu, haggle in a market, and visit numerous ancient ruins. In two short weeks, I fell in love with the country. On my flight home, I thought about a conversation I had with one tourist in my hostel. “You might leave Peru, but Peru never leaves you.” .

Spring 2010

The Best of Both Worlds:

Black Culture in the Americas by Amber Arnold

A good friend once told me, “It’s easy to find what divides us, but to find what we share in common is true brilliance.” I realized the full force of these words in the fall of 2009 when I studied abroad in Ecuador, one of the most memorable and rewarding cultural experiences of my life. During my stay, I lived with an Afro-Ecuadorian mother and her two daughters. Although we were distinctly different in language and customs, I quickly realized that I shared something unique with this family – a common ancestral descent. As an African-American, I identified with many of the cultural observances of my new family. These practices have been preserved from the historical experiences of African slaves and were brought to the Americas in the fifteenth century. They have been modified or blended with South American, European, and indigenous cultures, contributing to the diversity of subcultures and ethnic groups within the diaspora. However, Africa’s imprint is still evident in a myriad of areas: politics, economics, language, aesthetics, and religion among other things. In this article I explore the profound similarities and differences between our two cultures concerning music, dance, family traditions, and cuisine. My personal experience among the AfricanAmerican and Afro-Ecuadorian communities has provided insight into black culture in the Americas.

A Look into the Past Africans and their descendants have been in the Americas since the fifteenth century. Slaves were taken from West and Central photo by Krosto

Africa and sold in the New World to labor in mines, on plantations, and as servants. African slaves first reached Ecuador in 1560 when a slave ship headed for Peru was stranded off the Ecuadorian coast. Subsequently, the Spanish brought more slaves to Ecuador during their conquest of the Incan Empire in the sixteenth century. These slaves settled mostly in the province of Esmeraldas and the Chota Valley, the two hubs of Afro-Ecuadorian culture. Eventually, Africans and their descendants moved from these traditional homelands and settled in all parts of the country. This is true of my host mother, whom I called Mama Edy. She was born in San Lorenzo, Ecuador (located in the Esmeraldas province) and moved, as a teenager, to Quito, the country’s capital, where she has remained ever since. Today, there are approximately 1,120,000 African descendants living in Ecuador, constituting about 8% of the country’s population. Approximately 70% of the Afro-Ecuadorian population lives in the Esmeraldas province and Chota Valley. 1 Similarly, African slaves were brought to what is now the United States by English settlers in 1619 in Jamestown, Virginia, the first permanent English settlement. By the 1680s, as more English colonies were established, enslaved Africans and their descendants were being imported in greater numbers. Initially, the majority of these slaves were concentrated in the southern states, but later migrated to regions all around the country. Ultimately, nearly twelve million Africans were brought to the Americas, undoubtedly influencing the native cultures

drastically. Black Americans now constitute about 13% of the U.S. population, making up the single largest racial minority in the country.1

Enduring Rhythms The physical isolation and societal marginalization of African slaves and their descendants contributed to the retention of two notable elements of traditional culture among Africans in the New World: music and dance. These tenets hold great cultural, social, and political significance in traditional African culture, a significance that has been sustained throughout the African Diaspora. Music and dance in the AfricanAmerican and Afro-Ecuadorian cultures are rooted in the stylistically distinct traditions from hundreds of ethnic groups across West and Sub-Saharan Africa, and have been influenced by European and Native American cultures. Traditional African music has great evocative and dramatic powers, as well as symbolic references. During the time of slavery in the United States, Africans blended traditional European hymns with African polyrhythmic music as a way to pass on history, teach lessons, relay coded messages, and entertain themselves while living under inhumane conditions. Lyrical singing has always been a crucial component of African-American music because of its communicative power. During the period after the Civil War, these songs, or spirituals, began to attract more attention. The introduction of Western instruments into African culture and the work

Spring 2010

photo by Amber Arnold

phoyto by CUPUAÇU

of various artists helped spread and revolutionize post-war African-American music in the U.S. By the end of the nineteenth century, African-American music became an integral part of mainstream American culture. Later periods saw considerable innovations and change in African-American music as it developed into various other genres—including blues, jazz, rock and roll, soul, rhythm and blues, and, most notably today, hip-hop. These genres carry on the tradition of relaying messages of pain, happiness, love, or socio-political issues to the audience through song. Though some styles are still largely instrumental, such as jazz and soul, technological advancements have enabled the creation of today’s AfricanAmerican music through electronic devices and computer software. For Afro-Ecuadorians, music is the cultural expression of their African roots and has helped them maintain their distinct identity and avoid occidental influences. The two most popular Afro-Ecuadorian genres of music and dance are Marimba and Bomba. These two genres differ greatly because of their sociological and geographical differences but also share many similarities due to their common heritage. Marimba music comes from Esmeraldas and is named after the prominent use of marimbas, drums, and other instruments specific to the region, such as the bombo, the cununo and the wasa. Sometimes this music is played

photo by Amber Arnold

photo by Heydee

in religious ceremonies, celebrations, and at parties where the audience chants, calls, and responses to the music. I met the most illustrious marimba player, Papa Roncon, when I visited the region. He explained that the music’s strong original African sound element is a way to create personal ties and maintain Black ethnicity and identity. Bomba, on the other hand, comes from the Chota Valley. This music tends to have more prominent Spanish, mestizo, and indigenous influences than marimba music. Characteristically, it can follow anything from mid-tempo to very fast rhythms. It is usually played with guitars, a bomba, a local drum sharing the genre’s name , a guiro, and sometimes bombos and bongos. To form their melody and unique sounds, both Marimba and Bomba seldomly incorporate vocals because instruments possess symbolic meaning usually associated with power and the nostalgia for African shores. Both African-American and AfroEcuadorian music contain infectious rhythms that demand the body to react through movement. Dance in these cultures is rooted in African tradition and was part of the daily lives of slaves. It is regarded as an important mode of communication. In the United States, many of the African dance traditions survive today in el-

ements of modern dance. Major forms of modern African-American dance include tapping, “steppin’,” unique subgenres of hip-hop dance, and various contemporary dance moves. These forms may include simple basic movements that accentuate the upper body, torso, or feet. They may also be quite complex, involving coordination of different body parts and intricate actions such as fast rotation and ripples of the body that vary in dynamics, levels, and use of space. African-American dance is usually centered on social dancing and places great value on improvisation. In a similar manner, Afro-Ecuadorian dance is improvisational and complex to varying degrees. The genres of Afro-Ecuadorian dance have the same name as their musical counter-

photo by Bunchofpants

parts, Marimba and Bomba. These styles are sensual and eye-catching; dancers regularly use symbolic gestures, mimes, props, masks, costumes, body paint, and other visual devices in their routines. One of the most spectacular dances that I witnessed in Chota Valley involved female performers dancing sensually with bottles balanced on their heads. For Afro-Ecuadorians, this activity is not merely dance, but a recreation of what nature offers them. Ultimately, music and dance serve as the greatest mediums of African-American and Afro-Ecuadorian cultures. They also serve to recall past struggles and express ethnic solidarity, faith, and hope for the future.

is an institutionalized heritage in African culture, where older members pass on social and cultural traditions, such as religion and manners, to the younger generation. These relationships exist today at all economic levels in the African-American and Afro-Ecuadorian communities, providing strength and support both to the family and the community.

Family Ties During slavery, it was common for African families to be separated. However, families sought to maintain strong bonds. Many Afro-Ecuadorian families worked together in Spanish haciendas or ran away to communities founded by other escaped photo by Amber Arnold slaves. Free African-Americans worked to buy their family members who were still enslaved. Their efforts usually failed and Taste of Flavor many slaves were separated from their consanguineous family. Thus, groups formed The cultivation and use of different foods their own family bonds based on fictive for African descendants can be traced to Afkinship and “play relations”—the extension rican traditions and boasts influences from of familial obligations and relationships to the French, Spanish, Caribbean, and indigeindividuals who are close friends. This is nous cultures. During their bondage, slaves a tradition that is still practiced in Black were given rations of meat scraps and low communities today and family friends are quality foods, and after emancipation many commonly designated the status and titles were still too poor to afford anything better. of blood relations. However, over time these rations were made into flavorful dishes and have passed down Even after slavery was abolished, it was through generations. African-Ameridifficult for African descendants to reunite can food is affectionately called Soul and rebuild their families, and the conse- Food, referring to a hearty cuisine quences can still be seen today. Because of commonly associated with Afthe continued fractionalization and socio- rican-Americans in the South. economic instability of African-American The cuisine makes creative use families, there has been a steady decline of inexpensive ingredients in the nuclear family structure and cur- procured through farming, rently the majority of African-American subsistence hunting and children live with only one parent, typically fishing. Typical foods inthe mother.3 Family ties tend to have more clude fried meats, green longevity in Afro-Ecuadorian communities vegetables, beans, corn (more so in rural populations than urban bread, macaroni and ones), but communities still follow this gen- cheese, and chittereral trend. To compensate for the weakened lings—the small family structure, extended family members intestine of swine. often provide the missing emotional and Afro-Ecuadorian economic support. The extended family cuisine from

the coast is based on seafood, while cuisine from the sierra includes more agricultural products. Nevertheless, both share common ingredients used in famous dishes, such as rice, beans, and different types of plantains. I enjoyed many of these dishes while living in Ecuador as my host mother was a chef who specialized in Afro-Ecuadorian cuisine. Some of my favorite dishes were pargo frito (a type of fried fish) and encocada (a rice, beans, and meat dish). Ultimately, the food of African-Americans and Afro-Ecuadorians today continue to reflect the creative responses to poverty and racial oppression. There are many other cultural aspects that demonstrate great differences and similarities between the African-American and Afro-Ecuadorian cultures. Not only did I learn from a new culture and a different perspective, I also saw my own culture through new eyes. The experience often challenged me to reconsider my own beliefs and values, but it also helped me find commonalities that I could draw from to identify with people from a different culture. ,My ability to appreciate the variance and equivalence between the two cultures has kept their remarkable historic ties alive in me. 1 Ecuador. (2009). The World Factbook [online]. Retrieved January 29, 2009 from U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. <https:// www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/geos/ ec.html>

photo by Amber Arnold

Spring 2010

The Nights

by Carol Shih

What sounds are these that poignantly kiss my soul and strive to win their way within it, and twine about my heart? Russia! What wouldst thou of me, then? What incomprehensible bond is hidden between us? Wherefore dost thou gaze at me thus, and wherefore has all that is in thee and of thee turned its eyes, filled with expectancy, upon me? Nikolai Gogol, Dead Souls

Sunlight streams through the gauzy curtain, bringing warmth to the drab colors of my room. It creates a dark shadow on my roommate’s bed and bathes the oval table near mine with light. A dresser stands awkwardly in the front of the room, nestled between the doorframe and wall. It’s nearing midnight and the sun, eerily out of place, is still hanging from the St. Petersburg sky. I lie beneath my blanket, wide-awake, my internal clock unwound. Even after three months in Russia, I’m not used to the White Nights—nights when the sun feels cold and distant and I wonder why I am here. How did I ever end up in a place like this? What compelled me to choose this cold, desolate land of gray? After completing my first year at Duke, I accepted a spot on the joint DukeEngage and summer Study Abroad Program in Russia. It’d been my dream to visit Russia for a long time, albeit for reasons I still do not understand. I was hooked; I was lured; nothing could have been done to prevent the forces compelling me. Three other girls from Duke, also in the program, shared my

apartment on the twelfth floor of the Chaika, a cheap hotel, and we spent our first night defending ourselves against Russian men who, drunk off vodka, were knocking on our door. We were in a land flowing with booze and old Soviet relics. Our wallpaper, chairs, and bed frames were coated with a peppering of dust that barely concealed the flowery décor beneath. We used a long piece of string hanging above our heads to flush our blue toilet. The oven was broken. The heater only worked after its metal bars were kicked a couple times. We were living in a dysfunctional apartment, but it was home. We spent our days taking classes in Russian at St. Petersburg University, more often than not mangling the pronunciations. After class, we would travel to the Blind Center to do volunteer work for DukeEngage. This assignment required us to ingeniously navigate St. Petersburg’s spidery network of canals and waterways, a task for which we found the perfect solution: the metro. The metro is the hub of Russian public transportation. Each station lies deep underground, necessitating a rather eerie el-

evator ride. All are inlaid with gold adornment or large statues of Lenin, and are dark and buzzing with sounds of life. A woman fumbles in her pockets for coins, a stranger’s shoulder brushes against yours, a train whistles its approach. A couple nearby is glued to each others’ lips, pausing to take a breath only when their train arrives. “It’s not okay to stare,” says the American voice inside my head. “Keep watching,” say the eyes of the other Russian onlookers. I peel my eyes off the couple and look around at the Russians. Their eyes stare back at mine, openly, frankly, daring … Do I have a green splotch lodged between the cracks of my front teeth? Is my voice louder than the humdrum of frantic activity? No. It takes me some time to figure it out. It’s because I have black hair, darker skin, and eyes that disappear when I smile. It’s because my nose lies flat against my face, and my bottom half isn’t dressed in panty hose and high heels like the women around me.

10 jects, and nodded at me whenever he expected an answer. Even though I struggled to find the right words and form the best sentences, he went on as if I’d said something that made perfect sense. Just as the comedy show was about to begin, Sasha reached into his pocket, fumbled around, and pulled out three candies for me.

Staring in Russia isn’t taken offensively the way it is in America. There’s the stare that you direct at those affectionate lovers who hold up the lines in the metro, there’s the one you give when you see a person with skin darker than white (a rare sight), and there’s the one that prune-faced babushkas bestow when you walk too quickly past them. And then there are the stares that I hate most, the ones the Director of the Blind Center (who we lovingly call the ‘Dragon lady’) give us when she remembers that our Russian is incommunicable. Those stares precede hours of menial tasks—washing the same floorboard over again, airing out mattresses, and cleaning mold in bathrooms. Smiles are rare in St. Petersburg—in grocery stores where the cashiers work mechanically, in the Chaika where the receptionist hands me my keys, and along the rubble paths to the metro station when you catch the eye of a stranger. Receiving a smile is equivalent to finding a precious gold coin. I had become so numb to the glares of starch faces that I was caught off-guard when a homeless accordion player, sitting in the corner next to the lepyoshka (bread) stand, flashed me a grin as he knowingly played my favorite tune. Smiles are not free here; they are given purposefully, and not just to anyone. This is not to say all Russians behave this way. At the beginning of my stay in St. Petersburg, I once found myself accompanying a semi-blind man, Sasha, to the theater. He was around sixty years old with a thin layer of gray hair covering the top of his head and thick-rimmed glasses that gave him raccoon eyes. We were paired up at the theater’s entrance and as I linked my arm with his, Sasha began an unceasing chatter about this and that and all of everything. I didn’t understand a word, but he didn’t seem to care. He smiled at the end of every sentence, with every pause between sub-

To this day, his candies are among my most cherished presents. An alarm rings and my roommate bursts into the room. “Time to get up!” she yells. I longingly hug my blankets closer, decide that getting up is unavoidable, and poke my feet off the bed. The rest of my body slowly follows. When we are done packing our lunches, we head out of the Chaika and begin our trek to the metro. We pass Patterson’s, the grocery store that provides my daily sustenance: jam and bread. A man dressed in a suit stands in front of the store and casually, at nine in the morning, lifts a beer bottle to his lips while waiting for the marshrutka, a public van, to pick him up. Just past the long row of sterile shops and the mobile store is Morskaya station. After twenty minutes of traveling on the metro, we reach the Blind Center where Kseniya, our translator, stands waiting for us. Around her feet lie buckets of blue and pink paint, brushes, and towels. Today, on our last day of DukeEngage, we will be painting walls. Kseniya and I are assigned to the same room and for a long time, we paint in silence. All you can hear is the sound of wet paint being sloshed in ways that would make a professional painter cringe. After eleven weeks of getting to know Kseniya, the silence doesn’t feel uncomfortable. She’s naturally quiet and serene, qualities unexpected from a professional flamenco dancer.

Russian people are unafraid to tell you exactly what they think. If you get a bad haircut, they will tell you that it looks awful. Americans will tell you that your haircut looks beautiful even if they don’t really think so.” I keep painting, drawing lazy lines with my brush as I consider what she says. This whole time Russia had felt alien to me, like a distant brother or cousin who I wanted to love, but never understood. Kseniya’s right about her country. Her country is unafraid. Their pianists, for example, play with a ferocity I’ve never seen anywhere else—their bodies swaying as their fingers fly across the keys. They dance in their seats and their faces contort when the key changes from major to minor and when the intensity builds with the progression of chords, wholly and rapturously in love with the music. In these final hours of my stay, I finally begin to understand Russia. Later that evening, I draw my blankets over my head, the sun peering into my room, its oval face concealed by a veil of cloud, hesitant to interrupt my thoughts. Into Yelagin Island my mind wanders—through the overlay of trees and soft green grass, next to the gnarled trees and the swan-filled lake. Slowly, deeply… I fall asleep, my consciousness sinking into my memories of Russia.

I decide to break the silence. “Kseniya, why do you like Russia?” She puts down her brush and looks thoughtfully in my direction: “I think it’s because all photos by Carol Shih

Spring 2010

lly Tying a n o the i t i K d no a

T r

by T yl e r

Atw o

Imagine your favorite Hollywood wedding film. Is it Made of Honor, with the sweeping panoramic vistas of Scotland and madcap traditions such as collecting kisses for pennies? How about Monsoon Wedding, in which vibrant flower petals and henna create a mystical atmosphere for a traditional Indian wedding? From the wedding branch of the Netherlands to the sumptuous array of culinary delights in Italy, the myriad wedding traditions around the globe differ greatly from one another. However, the current trend—especially in light of the financial and political situations worldwide—has been an attempt to return to tradition. Standing in stark contrast to the rigid structure of contemporary weddings, this practice allows couples to celebrate their love in a meaningful and festive fashion.

Italy provides a passionate and reverential look at marriage, from the lavish feasts to the exchange of priceless heirlooms. Traditionally considered a spirited and fervent country in matters of the heart, Italian fiancés typically express their love through song before the proposal.1 In addition, the diamond ring represents the power and passion of love. Do not be alarmed by physical obstacles intentionally arranged en route to the ceremony; these road bumps symbolize the couple’s future path in preparation for their life together. Once there, the consumption of food and symbolic breaking of glass will send the couple on their road to happiness and fulfillment.2 Next, we arrive in India, another country steeped in vibrant culture, where regional differences in ceremony make for unique marital celebrations. Premarital traditions such as the sangeet and tilak ceremonies provide for a beautiful and meaningful transition into marriage. Dance, song, and farce accompany the sangeet ceremony, a party for the women from both sides of the union. It not only bonds the two families but also emphasizes the jocund occasion: songs called ghoriya and suhaag are sung to celebrate the bride and groom, respectively.3 In the days leading up to the wedding, you will find the bride-tobe engaging in the symbolic tradition of metamorphosis into her new life through the art of henna. These beautiful ink designs represent her departure from childhood into marriage and additionally highlight her

eve Evans

photo by St

photo by

Bundesar

chiv

tiole

photo by Delirante Bes

femininity. The tilak ceremony promotes health and happiness for the future couple through prayer and, much like similar traditions in Italy and Japan, involves the trading of gifts such as foodstuffs and clothing.4

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Travel across the globe to Japan, a country in which beauty, formality, and quaint detail mark an extraordinary approach to marriage. Stroll through the homes of soon-to-be-weds and you may find 1,001 hand-crafted paper cranes, which bring longevity and prosperity to the couple. The wedding ceremony is incomplete without the san-san kudo ritual, in which the newlyweds and their parents take nine sips of sake each; three sips from three different cups. The consumption of the sake represents family union and protection against the flaws of ignorance, hatred, and passion. The proposal or yunio, a union in itself, creates harmony through the exchange of symbolic gifts such as kelp, preserved cuttlefish, gray thread, and a compact fan to suggest fertility, health, long life, and prosperity. On the day of marriage, the bride will wear white as a tribute to both her final moments with her own family and her emergence as a progenitor of a new family.6

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photo byMyo

A country where social tradition sets the tone for the marital process, the Netherlands takes a different direction. Ritual plays an integral role in solidifying the transition. The fusion of two families separated by social standing is punctuated by lavish arrangements and grandiose gatherings. A union that challenges social hierarchy requires even more decoration and celebration. In another tradition, friends and relatives express their joy for the union by inscribing their fondest hopes for the couple on notes attached to a tree branch. This “wish tree,” in addition to several other flower arrangements, provides beauty and life to the marriage. Social synergy thus proves an essential facet of wedding rituals in the Netherlands.5

photo b

Delightfully quirky and playful, Russia’s pre-wedding traditions provide a twist on the classics. In past years, the bride– to-be enacted the spiritual death of her former identity by wearing funereal clothing and abstaining from her everyday tasks. The sentiment of shedding the old self to prepare for the new has its parallels in both the Netherlands and Japan.7 In a similar symbolic gesture of overcoming future hardships, small obstructions are strewn on the road between the bride and groom. Walk along one of Russia’s urban roads post-engagement and you may happen upon a disheveled groom frantically writing his love’s name in rose petals on the way to find her. On less comical occasions, the bride may actually have an attached prix fixe, which the groom must pay before engaging in marital festivities. After this highly theatrical spectacle, the wedding becomes a matter of civil commitment and food. The ceremony involves a non-religious wedding by the Department of Registration of Civil Statuses. Afterwards, the couple engages in a battle of appetites as they try to bite off more than they can chew of their wedding loaf: whichever individual manages to secure the largest mouthful becomes the head of the household, a title which remains throughout their years together.8

Spring 2010

STUCK: Refugee Minors in Cairo Refugees who migrate to a host country become a part of that nation’s lower social strata regardless of their previous socioeconomic status. Service providers, whether in the form of independent organizations or governments, realize this phenomenon and attempt to provide aid to these refugees. Through interactions with unaccompanied Somali minors during my summer DukeEngage project at St. Andrews Church, an

NGO located in Cairo, Egypt, I realized that those who end up migrating from Somalia to Egypt often require more enduring aid than what is offered. Unaccompanied minors generally settle in Egypt to escape the violent warfare ravaging their native countries. They come seeking refuge and often hope to move to wealthier nations like the United States or Britain. Because minors have a difficult time finding jobs, they can rarely sustain themselves financially. Some refugee girls work as maids for wealthy families, while others are provided for by relatives living abroad in Europe. The rest of the young refugees have little to do in Egypt except attend schools like the one at St. Andrews Church. Because of the rise in unaccompanied minors migrating to nearby countries such as Egypt, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) has been active in providing aid. Classes in English, Arabic, and computer skills equip refugees with the practical skills they need to sustain themselves in a foreign environment. The UNHCR also provides assistance specifi-

cally for minors. Children receive monthly financial aid and use it to support themselves in Egypt. However, these payments stop when the minors turn eighteen, and they receive no further income. When I first decided to participate in DukeEngage at Cairo, teaching English greatly appealed to me; I felt that teaching a language was one of the most concrete, enduring ways to help someone. Having English language skills is greatly beneficial to refugee students who need advantages over Egyptian citizens when seeking employment. But after two months of service, I realized that simply equipping refugees with these resources is insufficient. The circumstantial problems that prevent Somali minors from becoming self-sufficient in Egypt are more difficult to resolve because they arise from their Somali nationality. For instance, Somali refugees do not have access to public education because they do not possess Egyptian passports. Their only source of education is from nonprofit organizations, where they may only learn English and Arabic. While this is an improvement over no education at all, simply knowing these two languages is insufficient for fulfilling the dreams of many students. They are not even given the chance for higher learning. The job outlook is also bleak; Cairo is already an overpopulated city and Egyptians have priority in employment—indeed, employers seem less willing to hire a refugee over an Egyptian. Yet, despite their financial and social situation in Egypt, young Somali refugees still manage to maintain their optimism and joy of life. One afternoon during my time in Egypt, I visited my Somali students in the Hadayek el Maadi district of Cairo, and was offered a revealing snapshot of what it truly meant to be an unaccompanied refugee minor. Samiha, one of my students, was supposed to meet me at the metro station, and as I waited for her on the strange, dirty street, I admit I began to feel a little scared. When we finally found each other, I felt as if I

by Susan Park

had been reunited with my long-lost sister amidst an inescapable war. As we made our way through the narrow street, the pungent smell of dead animal carcasses and swarms of flies swirled around us. We were in the middle of Hadayek el Maadi, populated mostly by Somalis and Sudanese. Because unaccompanied minors can rarely afford luxurious housing, they live in Hadayek el Maadi, which stands in dramatic contrast to the wealthy region of Maadi, home to many foreign diplomats. I realized that I had forgotten Samiha was more than just a student I taught, but also a refugee minor with a unique story and reason for coming to Egypt—to flee the seemingly inescapable violence. When Samiha told me that someone was killed last year on the same street that we were walking on, I felt a pang of apprehension for how I would get home later at night. More importantly, I wondered how she felt about living in an area where violence still reigned, despite escaping from her own war-ridden country. As we neared our destination, I wondered how Samiha’s home would look. In my mind, an apartment consisting of just five minors without any adults must be sparse and poor. In fact, as I groped my way up the dark stairs, my expectations seemed to be confirmed. The scent of delicious food drifted to my nostrils and I began to anticipate my first encounter with this apartment. I opened the door and a lanky boy greeted me in English. Pleasantly surprised, I replied “Setahai,” saying hello in the only Somali phrase I learned from my students. As I quickly started to sweat in the hot apartment, I looked around the tiny living room—surprisingly packed with clean furniture, a small television, and some decorative paintings. It looked exactly as a living room should. I admit I was surprised and silently berated myself for unwittingly conforming to stereotypical beliefs of refugee minors. Peeking inside the kitchen, I saw two of my other students cooking various dishes. With them was Samiha’s older cousin, who directed the girls and hugged me warmly like a mother. They had been there for two hours preparing dinner in the heat. These

two other students did not live with Samiha nor did they share the “luxury” that she enjoyed. One of the girls had worked as a housemaid for the past five years in seven different households and the other girl could only weep when asked about herself. I was struck by the singularity of Samiha’s

house and living conditions in comparison to other refugee minors—the situation of my other two students were certainly less fortunate. The mere title of “refugee” does not do justice to the various social standings that all refugees once possessed in their home countries. Their former identities have been stripped and replaced with the one-dimensional label of “refugee” since their migration. Consequently, in retaliation, they seek to learn English to overcome discrimination and stand on a more equal footing with the rest of Egyptian society. While I waited, the girls fussed over the food and one of them gave me her traditional Somali dress to wear. When I came out in the Somali clothing, all of them laughed and got excited. It must have been odd to see a small Asian girl showing off an oversized Somali dress. They showed me how to walk while holding the dress and told me that it suited me well. They kicked me out of the kitchen and refused my offer to help, and convinced me to sit on the couch. Yousef, one of the boys also living in the apartment, turned on the television and we watched a tennis match between Roger Federer and Andy Roddick. It felt strange watching the game in a Somali home. It was even stranger when Yousef turned to another channel and began watching a Korean soap opera. Here I was, dressed like a Somali, first watching a

Western sport and then a Korean show. For a brief moment, I did not know which identity I belonged to. Furthermore, it made me realize even more how the label “refugee” failed in capturing the whole refugee population and how misguided refugee stereotypes are. Finally, the girls brought out a feast and we sat on the carpeted floor. They had specially prepared fries with fried chicken, rice with vegetables, potatoes with meat, and “sambos,” which resembled Asian dumplings. They even bought a special “cocktail juice,” carrying it grandly and proudly. I could tell by the way they presented each dish and the way they glanced at me to check my reaction that this feast was beyond their usual menu. I was impressed, not because there were high-quality sushi rolls with my favorite raw fish but because I, a mere guest of six weeks in Cairo, did not deserve such fanfare. They then proceeded to give me huge portions of each dish. Suddenly, I noticed that some of them were eating with their hands, while others were using forks. Samiha, noticing my gaze, shyly apologized, and said, somewhat embarrassed, “Somali people eat with their hands. Are you okay with that?” I believe that their discomfort came from the assumption that a ”Western educated” person would be disgusted by eating without utensils. However, I was simply touched that they had brought out forks just for me. It showed a level of consideration that I had not anticipated. This particular incident also revealed that my students’ desire to learn English was rooted not only as a means to improve their employment opportunities and social standing, but also to understand Western culture, anticipating the opportunity to migrate to Western countries, and dreaming of a future beyond a financially dependent life in Egypt.

the catchy American pop music that blared from the crackling speakers. The Somali girls started to dance to the music, laughing and teasing me for not being able to “booty dance” like they could. While the Christian West is often pitted against the Muslim world, by that point I saw no difference between us. We were just girls having fun, despite our religious, cultural, and linguistic differences. Moreover, their laughter revealed no hint of any disappointment in Egypt for its inability to provide self-sufficient tools to refugees, no dismay at the poor region they lived in, no resentment for being perceived as unequal to other citizens, and no self-pity for their situation or their future. When it was time for me to leave, I realized that a Somali house with five teenagers did not mean it was extremely deprived or deserving of pity. It is true that all of them longed to return to Somalia and missed their family sorely. It is also true that since they are financially dependent on the UNHCR and their relatives, they are constantly worried about impending adulthood or the severing of family ties. However, they had an older sister to act as a mother figure and two boys to provide stable protection from sexual harassments in the neighborhood. None are living perfectly with their families back home, but they are strong individuals who formed a second family with their friends in Egypt and adapted their Somali culture to their host country. It is important to realize how inadequate the term “refugee” is in capturing the situation in its entirety. Perhaps in realizing that “refugee” cannot be a one-dimensional label, solutions can be created that focus less on short-term material aid but rather include long-term benefits for a whole spectrum of refugees. My visit to Egypt taught me to always think twice before dismissing all refugees to the stereotype— because stereotypes never do justice to the truth.

After dinner, the girls went inside the bedroom, shut the door, and closed the curtains. They took off their headscarves and revealed their hair. It was a different sight than what I was accustomed to, considering that the majority of women I met in Egypt were Muslim and wore headscarves. Samiha brought out a black stereo and put in a CD. I do not know what I expected but it definitely was not all photos by Susan Park

Spring 2010

by Melody Chan

Students in the United States are being surpassed academically by their peers on a global scale. By our own standards, the public school system is mediocre. American public high school students consistently rank below those from Finland, Canada, Japan, and at least a dozen other industrialized nations in crucial areas, including math, science, and reading.1 The statistics are staggering, yet they should come as no surprise. The necessity for educational reform is mentioned repeatedly at every level of government, backed by the belief that America’s ability to compete in the global economy will suffer as our education system falls behind. President Barack Obama recently made headlines with his efforts to spotlight education. Inspired by a number of different strategies, Obama has created programs such as the “Educate to Innovate” campaign, aimed at improving the participation and performance of American students in science, math, technology and engineering.2 While this is a step in the right direction, there is more to reforming education than merely inflating the national education budget with federal dollars. The money set aside for this campaign may never even reach the classrooms much less the students. Solving our country’s inadequate system will require fundamental reevaluations and societal prioritization of academics. By comparing America’s school system with those of countries that are consistently outperforming us, we can shed light on how to explain this learning disparity. Worldwide variations in government-mandated school hours, the style of education, and so-

cial attitudes toward learning are all factors that the government should consider in its efforts to catch up. At first glance, claiming that the quality of a country’s educational system is a determining factor in that nation’s economic standing may seem farfetched. However, schools build human capital, which directly relates to national social and economic well-being. A study conducted in 2009 by McKinsey & Company gave the sobering suggestion that the continued underperformance of American students over the past decade has caused more devastation to the economy, in terms of lost potential capital, than our current recession.3 This suggestion alone implies that concerns about the American education are not unfounded. Many believe that the United States is one of the most powerful countries in the world regarding wealth and influence. Yet, according to the Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA), America ranks only twenty-first in science literacy and twenty-fifth in math literacy among student academic performance evaluated across thirty developed countries.4 Other statistics speak volumes about the dire situation facing American schools. For example, only 23% of the U.S. population aged twenty to twenty-nine is enrolled in an education program compared to 27% in the United Kingdom and Germany. Only 39% of American adults aged twenty-five to sixty-four have completed some form of higher education compared to 55% in the Russian Federation. Perhaps most alarming, a mere 17% of undergraduate degrees in the United States are awarded in science,

mathematics, or engineering-related fields, the lowest percentage of all the G-8 countries, the group of the world’s economically leading countries. In other developed countries, these rates range from 20% in Canada to 30% in Germany.5 Our lagging educational institution cannot be explained only by inadequate facilities or lack of funding. What then, justifies these staggering statistics? One explanation could be that America simply does not place the same emphasis on a challenging education as other countries do. This laid-back societal attitude is costing America its competitive edge. The length of the school year set by governments in various industrialized countries can indirectly indicate the value these countries place on educating their youth. In the United States, students are mandated to attend school 180 days per year; in contrast, Korea, Japan, and China boast 221, 223, and 225 days, respectively.6 In Japan, the school year runs from April to March, with only one short month of vacation, compared to almost three months of vacation in the U.S. Not only does the U.S. have the shortest school year among these countries, it also has the shortest school day—students only attend class for six and a half hours. In Denmark and Sweden, where students are some of the top performers on international comparison tests, schools operate on a forty to fifty hour school week, which means students are in class anywhere from eight to nine hours a day.7 To be fair, America’s short school day is designed so that students are able to have a balanced lifestyle and have enough time for extracurricular activities such as sports and the arts. While this is important, these activities do not help students progress academically or improve their test scores in core subjects. In many developed countries outside the U.S., national curriculums include a more holistic approach to student development in addition to a sharper focus on math and science. These curriculums outline specific concepts that students are expected to have mastered after each grade and teachers are trained to teach such material in a certain way. Much of the coursework aiming to build proficiency in liberal arts subjects such as music or history also places an emphasis on good life skills and habits. In Japan, for example, students have tasks each day that encourage hygiene, maturity and discipline. In American culture, there is a de facto separation of school from home. Teachers are not supposed to help “raise” a student. Their domain extends only to what is required in the classroom. Furthermore, American teachers are given much more independence in their teaching methods. Although they are required to follow very general educational requirements, their course

http://www.commoncore.org/_docs/CCreport_whybehind.pdf http://www.whitehouse.gov/issues/education/educateinnovate 3 http://www.mckinsey.com/App_Media/Images/Page_Images/ Offices/SocialSector/PDF/achievement_gap_report.pdf 4 http://nces.ed.gov/pubs2008/2008016.pdf 5 http://www.acenet.edu/AM/Template. cfm?Section=Home&TEMPLATE=/CM/ContentDisplay. cfm&CONTENTID=23424 6 http://74.125.47.132/search?q=cache:Iil7h4zdlEEJ:www.timeandlearning.org/resources/International%2520Data.ppt+school +years+in+other+countries&cd=8&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us 7 http://74.125.47.132/search?q=cache:Iil7h4zdlEEJ:www.timeandlearning.org/resources/International%2520Data.ppt+school +years+in+other+countries&cd=8&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us 8 http://www.economist.com/world/united-states/displaystory. cfm?story_id=13825184&source=most_commented 2

ruining the past by Sagar Mehta

photo by Sagar Mehta

structures and how they choose to teach is up to them. This places a lot of pressure on the teachers and, can create numerous challenges, particularly in low resource settings. An article in the June 2009 issue of The Economist pointed out another drastic educational difference. American students have on average one hour of homework per day and many students do even less.8 It is clear that American students are far below the curve compared to those in many other countries. Such little homework is foreign to students in countries like Japan and India, where students have homework every day starting from the first grade, or even kindergarten. These students also often take after-school classes to further enhance their studies and prepare them for competitive high school and college entrance examinations. This work ethic manifests itself into the competitiveness and fierce determination that arm East Asian youths as they step out into global society and challenge their international peers. Yet despite all these apparent flaws of America’s education system, it is important to remember that analyzing the problem with a cultural approach is only one narrow view. There are many facets of education reformation that cultural comparison alone does not reveal, such as the ongoing effort to battle the achievement gap and eliminate the performance disparity between students of different socioeconomic backgrounds. President Obama’s education campaign and other government efforts such as President Bush’s No Child Left Behind Act are examples of attempts to revamp America’s schools. While well-intentioned, the right solution to improve the American education system still remains to be found and can be sought out in discussions of cultural differences.

There is something intriguing about experiencing ruins firsthand—a mystical abstract notion begins to form in your mind as you stand beneath a structure in complete awe of its vastness, pondering its construction so many years ago and how it continues to stand today. My family and I had the opportunity to experience this when we vacationed to Turkey and Greece two summers ago. I had highly anticipated visiting such famous ruins as the Parthenon and the Theatre of Dionysus— architecture that had been glorified throughout our early education by the History Channel and Hollywood glamour. In contrast, the Turkish portion of the trip, intended for my dad’s medical conference in Marmaris, seemed like a minor detour from our adventures in Greece. To my surprise, the stops we made along our drive down the Turkish coast would end up having an enormous and lasting impact on me, influencing how I now perceive historic monuments and tourism in general.

As often is the case in foreign countries, the sightseeing advice given by the locals proved much more valuable than that of our tour book. Among the places suggested

photo by Sagar Mehta

Spring 2010

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hta Me r a ag o by S

to us by locals were Bergama and Ephesus, two of the more striking, lesser-known ruins that became our first experience with Ancient Greece. Out in the cool, late afternoon I stood on the edge of the hill of Bergama peering down at the empty amphitheater seats as my sister gave a performance to our crowd of eight down below. My little brother stared up at the soaring pillars that seemed to invite him up for a climbâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and how could he resist? The area was amazingly open; there were no signs or laws prohibiting us from walking on or around the ruins. It was like being presented with a brand-new playground or jungle gym: we were free to sprint up the steps and leap from pillar to pillar. Instead of being disrespectful of the ruins, we found that this freedom allowed us to appreciate the site in a different way, by envisioning how people may have walked about centuries before. Ephesus offered similar liberties, despite its famous Greek Library being better-known. As we strolled down the path leading to the library, we were greeted on both sides by magnificent Greek architecture: housing, shops, and temples. Even the ancient latrines were surprisingly open to touring. After exploring both of these sites we were all eager for moreâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;for Greece, for Athens, for the Parthenon! Yet, when we arrived in Athens, we were dismayed by what we saw. Athens was a very modern city, much like New York City,

and we found ourselves hoping that the Parthenon would help restore some sort of mythical aspect about the city. Our first impression of the Parthenon was one of grandeur as we saw it atop the hill in the middle of the city, its reflected sunlight dimming everything around it. As we got closer, however, a completely different story unraveled. The apparent beauty from afar was clouded by noisy tourists rushing about, trying to get in the best position for a picture. Pole bars and guards prevented us from walking close to any of the actual monuments, thus keeping us at quite a distance from the Parthenon itself. We felt as if our license to freedom had been revoked as we became lumped with a bunch of other people blindly following the site path. Adding to this disappointment, half the monument was being reconstructed to fit a design based on theories of what the Parthenon looked like in the past. This seemed to contradict the fundamental idea behind ruins; a testament to the past and all that they have undergone since their first construction, not to be altered by our modern day age.

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From this adventure, I learned that excessive commercialization and efforts to protect archaeological sites can actually, ironically, obscure their beauty. While tourist offices often try to promote what they deem the best parts of a country, in reality what is hidden often contains truer value. More specifically, I discovered that other lesserknown ruins, such as those in Turkey, often allowed more freedom for exploration, providing a more fulfilling glimpse into the ancient world.

C am y Ad b o t o

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Flying Free by Elisabeth Prey

I drew a heavy leather gauntlet, the surface pockmarked and scratched, over my left hand and undid the latch of the flightmews door with my right. As I slid inside, I could see Frank on his favorite perch. His sharp gold-brown eyes were already on me, searching for food. Hands behind my back and out of his sight, I drew a thick strip of rabbit meat from the pouch at my waist and slid it between the thumb and forefinger of my gloved fist. I extended my left arm, ready to call Frank to me, but he needed no such encouragement. Within seconds, he was on my fist, hungrily tearing at the meat. Careful of his jabbing beak, I placed the rest of

the rabbit near his feet and began attaching the lead to his jesses, leather straps around his ankles. Frank finished gulping down his dinner moments later, looking hopeful for more as we began walking. Before I began spending my summers and weekends with Frank the Harris hawk, the term “falconry” meant little to me. It was an archaic hunting practice, lords and ladies on horses pursuing small game with hooded birds on their wrists. I presumed it an element of the past. As I later learned, falconry is very much alive, with practitioners in such diverse places as Japan, Scotland, and the Middle East. Despite its relative popularity, falconry is not exactly easy to pick up. I discovered it through seven years of volunteering at the San Francisco Zoo’s Animal Resource Center (ARC). I had a lot of previous animal experience, but none of it came close to my time with Frank, or any of the other birds I learned to handle. While falcons and hawks can be trained to perform and hunt,

the process is nothing like that of training a dog or a horse. Those animals are social, as are human beings. Like us, they respond to praise, and training is typically centered on the human becoming dominant in the relationship. Raptors (predatory birds), on the other hand, are solitary by nature, and do not recognize dominant or subordinate roles. In order to work with these incredible birds, people practice the ancient art of falconry, methods that take into consideration a raptor’s instincts and natural behavior. Falconers around the world have taken advantage of raptor diversity and employ different types of birds in accordance to desired prey. Falcons, genus Falco, traditionally known as “long wings” for their tapered wing-shape, are expert bird hunters, pursuing quarry such as pigeons or songbirds with spectacular aerial displays and dives. A famous example would be the peregrine, capable of attaining speeds above 200 mph during a stoop (dive). True hawks, genus Accipiter, are known as “short wings” and are known for both their agility and aggression. As a beginner, I have never flown one of these. Buzzards, genus Buteo, are not

Spring 2010

photo by Elisabeth Prey

more spoiled. During winters, when he was at his heaviest, Frank would sometimes bait from my fist and hang by his jesses, refusing to get up. He wanted to be carried. I would have to walk with my right arm under the length of his body, cradling him against my stomach.

vultures but rather “broad winged” hawks, such as the iconic red-tailed hawk. Harris hawks are similar in nature, but are the sole representatives of genus Parabuteo. Lastly, eagles, genus Aquila, can be flown, and thanks to their large size can take prey as large as wolf with some help from the falconer. Expert hunters all, these birds can be dangerous, and due to either temper or size (or occasionally both) many species are not considered best for beginning handlers. Before Frank, I had learned the ins and outs of falconry equipment on several owls, but the Harris hawk was my first real raptor. Harris hawks are an ideal starter because unlike other raptors, they are semi-social and have been known to hunt in “packs” of up to six or eight birds. This social behavior makes it easier to establish a working relationship with the hawk. Not overly aggressive nor heavy, Harris hawks are relatively easy to train and are less likely to develop bad behaviors more typical of accipiters. Beautiful as well as functional, the ARC always has at least one on hand.

Except for this odd behavior, Frank was very much a well trained hawk. From the time he was a fledgling, he learned the life of a captive raptor, so that by the time I came to work with him there was very little to worry about. As a hatchling, his breeder had imprinted him to humans, a common practice. The young bird is exposed to humans until they come to see other humans as familiar, rather than members of their own species. An imprinted bird is more likely to return when free-flown. It also helps prevent escaped birds from breeding and either establishing themselves as an invasive species or, in the case of many falcons, from interbreeding with and destroying local subspecies. When beginning training, the first step are the jesses. These are an essential piece of falconry equipment; without them, it

would be impossible to keep a grip on the bird. Straps of toughened leather, jesses are fixed into anklets around each of the birds legs, leaving a longish strip hanging free from one end. When a free-flying bird comes to the falconer’s fist (traditionally the left), the falconer grips the jesses between the thumb and first two fingers of that hand. While awkward at first, jesses are analogous to a dog’s collar and do not impede movement. Jesses, and the long lead to which they can be attached, keep the bird close at hand during a bait. “Baiting” describes a raptor’s habit of suddenly leaping from the fist or perch. The first time I saw a hawk bait, I felt terrible; I thought I had scared it into hurting itself. As it turns out, even the calmest of broadwings will bait quite frequently. While baiting can be a fear response, it is also happens when the bird is hungry, angry, or just wants to stretch. A raptor has the most control when in flight, so it is only a natural response to take off. For example, every morning Frank baits when passing a certain spot near his mew. Such baits are quick, a short leap and a flap or two before returning to the wrist. Panic-induced baits, on the other hand, like the baits of crippled birds, are scary. These baits are long and draw out flailing sessions, often ending with the bird hanging tangled and exhausted by its feet. While this does happen on occasion, falconers take precautions to prevent their birds from spooking. One key piece of equipment here is the hood. Diurnal raptors have excellent hearing, but their primary sense is sight. Any given species has visual acuity several times that of a human, designed to spot small camouflaged

The ARC’s animals, Frank included, are all former pets or injured wildlife. Frank, unlike some of the other raptors, was not a cripple; he had been a proud falconer’s bird for years. However, as time wore on, Frank realized that he didn’t need to catch squirrels or rabbits in order to fill his crop. He eventually stopped hunting, returning to the falconers truck as soon as he was released. Life at the ARC only made him

21 photo by Elisabeth Prey

image by T. E. Gordon Mongol horsemen hunting with golden eagles

prey while on the wing. Without sight, a raptor cannot focus on stressing factors. In fact, sometimes they seem not to notice them at all when hooded. The hood itself is a fitted piece of leather that completely covers the bird’s head, opening in front only for the beak. Designs are specific to closely match head shape, so that falcons, hawks and eagles all have differently shaped hoods, falcon’s being rounded and eagles being more oblong and streamlined. It may seem an impossible task to convince a high-strung, sight dependent bird to accept wearing a hood, or even to tolerate sitting on a fist, for that matter. These are not domesticated animals, after all. As any falconer can attest, the solution is largely through food. Raptors are certainly not motivated by praise or threats (yelling “bad bird” will just scare and or anger them), but they will do almost anything for a full crop (pouch like organ above the stomach). Everything part of these birds is geared towards finding and killing prey, so it makes sense that their brains are equally food-focused. Armed with plenty of patience and delicious looking rabbit, quail, or rat, a falconer can coax their bird to perform a variety of feats.

and no raptor will respond well to a sloppy, careless handler. I was a bit surprised to find that falconry is completely legal everywhere in this country, seeing as it involves the keeping of exotic carnivorous animals. I once saw a man walking with his Harris hawk down Haight Street in San Francisco, trying to familiarize her with crowds. However, a license is needed in order to own any raptor, even an owl. To obtain one there is a minimum requirement of one year’s apprenticeship to a master falconer (some states or birds require longer periods of study). Proof then must be provided as to a steady and healthy food supply. Donated laboratory control rats are a common choice. While hot dogs and ground chuck are technically meat, they are deficient in nutrients, and a bird fed on such a diet would quickly become obese and develop a host of health problems. The first bird is also limited, usually to a very few species. Red-tailed hawks, Harris hawks, and kestrels (a small falcon) are stan-

These training and handling methods are complex, so I did a lot of reading during my time with these birds at the ARC. Along with basic falconry itself, I found myself learning about mews construction, equipment purchase and mending, and common illnesses among other things. Every detail, which I was later tested by ARC staff, impressed upon me the serious commitment involved with the ownership of even one bird. Through learning these techniques, I came to have an even greater appreciation for these impressive creatures. They were not simply some exciting new exotic pet, but rather wild animals to be respected at all times. Like most animals, they seem to know when they are being taken seriously,

dard beginning birds. Some states, such as Massachusetts, require additional training and licensing for more “difficult” birds such as golden eagles. European falconry is practiced in a similar way to that of the United States, but in places like Britain laws about ownership are much looser. This does not lead, however, to a nation full of falconers; keeping a bird is expensive and time consuming. Falconry is either a profession or an extremely time consuming hobby. Birds need to be fed and handled every day, and if they are active hunters, they need to practice in order to stay fit. An out of shape bird will neither fly nor hunt well. Despite these demands, the popularity of falconry has been on the rise since WWII, with growing society membership in America, Europe, the Middle East, and elsewhere. Falconry exists today in many cultures, and where it does is usually considered to be a cultural heritage. Originating somewhere in ancient Mesapotamia, depictions of people holding hawks have been found dating back to before 700BC. From there, the practice spread East to China, West and South to Arabia, and from the Arabs North to Europe. Early treatises on falconry sometimes misidentify different species and their native habitats, but the protocols described are shockingly similar to many of those used today. While most regions today use falconry for its recreational or cultural value, it represents an actual industry in a few places. For example, Kazakh and Mongol nomads of Central Asia have long hunted big game with golden eagles. Among the most powerful of raptors, golden eagles have a wingspan of over six feet and talons like knives. They are also quite heavy, which may be

Spring 2010 photo by Reg McKenna

why these nomads carry the birds on their right instead of their left arms. While they can dive at speeds just under 200 mph, they will often fly low straight from the fist, overtaking sprinting quarry with powerful wing beats. Therefore, golden eagles need wide open spaces over which they can pursue prey, unlike aerial falcons or accipiters who dart over shorter distances. Rabbits are an ideal size, but Central Asian falconers like to pursue more impressive targets, such as wolves. If failing to kill the much larger animal immediately, the eagle will wrestle with it on the ground until assisted by the falconer. Such hunting competitions, where the birds are followed on horseback at a gallop, continue today. Another region notable for its falconry is the Middle East, where, thanks to tourists and wealthy local clientele the industry is worth over billions of dollars annually. Falconing has long been a sport of the Arab elite, as it was in Europe, and today many cities like Dubai have falconers who cater to tourism. They provide a bird and act as guides, taking clients into the desert and giving them a taste of the age old art.

Falconry is, I think, not so much about hunting as it is about the birds themselves. Cultures around the world seem to agree that birds of prey, with their size, majesty, and mastery of the sky are a source of inspiration. It is, then, truly an unforgettable experience to have one perched on your wrist, looking you in the eye. That piercing stare is unlike anything Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve experienced before or since. As a child, I would get excited at the outline of a hawk circling against the sun, but I never thought that someday I would see one take wing from my own hand.

photo by John Haslam

Though today China does not have many falconers besides nomadic minorities in the

west, it was once a past time of the imperial court. The art spread up from China to the Korean peninsula, where in South Korea a handful of falconers are sanctioned to keep the tradition alive. From the three ancient kingdoms of Korea, falconry came to Japan, where it came to be known as takagari. Like falconry in the Medieval West, takagari was a sport of the nobility, particularly the samurai. Birds denoted feudal rank, and it was even forbidden for the peasantry to touch a lordâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favored game, even if crops were harmed. After the Meiji Restoration, takagari was opened up to any willing student, and is still practiced today by falconers across Japan.

Islamic Palace in Hawaii

photo by Sterin

by Sarah Zhang

When James Buchanan Duke died in 1925, he left behind an enormous estate worth over $200 million. Half went to his non-profit organization, The Duke Endowment, which was primarily spent on Trinity College in Durham, North Carolina—what we now know as Duke University. The other half of the endowment went to his only daughter, Doris Duke. Heiress to her father’s tobacco fortune at the age of twelve, Doris was soon thrust into the aristocratic society of the industrial era. In those years, the press referred to her as “the richest little girl in the world.”

with her first husband where she was initially inspired to design an Islamic vacation home. Aside from its rich Middle Eastern architecture and exotic tropical environment, the Shangri La currently holds one of the largest collections of Islamic Art in the United States. The inspiration for the Shangri La came from James Hilton’s 1933 novel, The Lost Horizon, which depicted an exotic village near the Himalayan Mountains whose inhabitants never aged. Throughout her life, Doris would return repeatedly to Honolulu to renovate the Shangri La, realizing her vision of an immortal palace of the Orient. The Shangri La houses a collection of over 3,500 objects, including Turkish mosaic tile floor panels, glass cases of jewel encrusted enamels, and Mughal flower print curtains dating from the seventh to twentieth centuries. For visitors, the Shangri La provides new ideas for interior décor along with unique insight into the life of a tobacco heiress. At times, visitors from around the world will travel to the Shangri La to experience its ethereal intersection of modern, Islamic, and Spanish Mediterranean design.

photo by LizzyMcglynn

photo by Sterin

Doris was born in New York City on November 22, 1912. Until her father’s death, the two lived together on Duke Farms, the family’s 27,000 acre home in Hillsboro Township, New Jersey. The family’s wealth afforded Doris an extravagant life of freedom and upon finishing her high school education, the heiress’s mother sent her on a grand tour of Europe where she was presented as a London Debutante. Despite the interest surrounding Doris in the photo by Sterin press and high society, she chose to In the early 1950s, Doris Duke withdraw from the public eye. She built and cultivated her famous spent much of her life traveling, colMughal Garden. One of the Shanlecting art and plants from foreign coungri La’s most recognized attractions, the tries, and streaming her money into nonMughal Garden has a structure inspired profit organizations. After World War II, by the fountain gardens of South Asia and Doris embarked on a short-lived career as Pakistan. Emerging from the stairwell to a writer and foreign correspondent for the the garden is an elongated water channel Harper’s Bazaar. She would later be known flanked by two brick pathways. A row of loas a philanthropist, journalist, and the artus-shaped springs sits along the water and dent designer of many famous homes. ends in a set of electric candles. In the evening, when these candles are lit, the ambiOne of Doris’s renowned achievements was ence resembles the mythical gardens of the her construction of the highly Islamic-inMiddle East. Doris wrote that fluenced Shangri La in Hawaii. A seasonal her Mughal Garden was also home built in 1937, the Shangri La is a deeply inspired by the famous five-acre oceanfront residence on KaalaShalimar Garden in Lahore, wai Diamond Head in Honolulu. Doris first Pakistan. visited the Muslim world during a two year honeymoon tour around the world

Sh an gri L a

Doris Duke’s

photo by Sterin

The Damacus Room of 1954 and the technologically modern living room are other well-known attractions in the Shangri La. Built as a guestroom in 1937, the Damacus room was later remodeled to resemble the interior of an eighteenth century Syrian lounge. The room includes gilded wood panels and screen doors, glass cases of indigo ceramics, low hung lanterns, and a commanding view of the ocean. The Shangri La’s living room, in contrast, features a distinctly modern design. The focus of the living room is a sweeping oceanfront view, enhanced by velvet couches and plush cushions. To augment the surrounding tropical atmosphere, a remote-controlled glass wall faces the ocean, sinking and rising at the touch of a button.

After Doris passed away at the age of eighty in 1993, her inheritance was shuttled into the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation and Doris Duke Foundation for Islamic Art. The Doris Duke Foundation for Islamic Art is the current owner of Doris’ Shangri La. The foundation oversees the preservation of Doris’ collections, as well as the cultivation of public interest in Islamic art. Today, the Doris Duke Foundation preserves her Shangri La home as a public museum. Doris’ legacy leaves a rich cultural heritage that continues to thrive as a symbol of global awareness in the international community, incidentally substantiating the Duke community at large. Citations: “Doris Duke Biography - Biography.com.” Biography.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 6 Feb. 2010. <http://www.biography.com/articles/ Doris-Duke-9542083>. “Doris Duke Foundation for Islamic Art (Shangri La) -- Hawaii Museums Association Database --.” Hawaii Museums Association - Welcome to HMA. N.p., n.d. Web. 8 Feb. 2010. <http:// www.hawaiimuseums.org>. “Doris Duke’s Shangri La.” Shangri La. N.p., n.d. Web. 5 Feb. 2010. <http://www.shangrilahawaii.org/page.asp?pageId=4>. Fujii, Jocelyn. “Doris Duke’s Shangri La.” VIA Magazine-Travel articles, tips, and events for California and the West. N.p., n.d. Web. 2 Feb. 2010. <http://www.viamagazine.com/top_stories/ articles/shangri_la03.asp>.

Spring 2010

Snapshots from Below Uhuru Peak by Yaoli Pu

Last summer, I received funding from the Duke Global Health Institute to work at a clinic in Tanzania and implement programs focusing on health education and work efficiency. My partner and I stayed with a family in the village Mwika Uuwo,

near the Kilimanjaro Mountain. In two short months, our “father” Gilbert, “mother” Mama Nancy, their children, and the clinic staff became our family. These excerpts were written during my time abroad and reflect the many lessons I learned, of

the most significant being what it means to be human: although our knowledge and resources are limited, our capacity to connect with others, and to share our experiences, is boundless. First Impressions June 29, 2009

Tanzania. In little more than seven days those four syllables have come to represent so much to me — dry, dusty soil that turns into orange mist behind the rumble of rubber tires, lush green canopies of banana trees , women in colorful khangas, and hordes of smiling children always eager to greet wayfarers. Our journey has taken us 8700 miles from America, but the mere sixteen hours of flying cannot convey the differences in geography and culture.

As a foreigner struggling to adjust, I search the surroundings for commonalities, anything at all that can relate my life to theirs.

I notice similarities in food—tea with cream and sugar, rice and beans, boiled eggs, curried vegetables, toast with jam for breakfast. They even prepared coleslaw, potato salad, and spaghetti for us. I learned that American pop music is global. Radios emit the most recent U.S. hits — walking past shops, you can hear echoes of Jay-Z rapping about “dirt off your shoulder.” The death of Michael Jackson reached Tanzanians faster than me. It was the doctor at the dispensary who first informed me that the singer had passed away the night before. All over the media, from local papers to broadcasted news, radio programming to late-night

sketch comedy, people celebrated the life of Michael Jackson and his musical legacy. I am thankful that there are people here who can speak English — our hosts, the two doctors from the dispensary, the nurses Flora and Rachel, the English teacher at a nearby elementary school, and the staff of the Parish. We struggle to overcome our language barriers, utilizing gestures and facial expressions to transmit what our words cannot. But the disparities far outweigh the similarities. The clinic looks nothing like the hospitals at home. They operate without all photos by Yaoli Pu

26 technologies that are indispensable to American doctors — imaging devices, diagnostic tools, and medicine. The doctors in Tanzania examine cases clinically, relying on process of elimination to determine causation. Most of the symptoms are vague — general malaise, coughing, fever, diarrhea, and abdominal pain. The prescriptions can be equally broad — painkillers, a course of antibiotics, or an IV drip to recover lost electrolytes and mitigate low blood pressure. Patients who do not respond to treatment are referred elsewhere; it is their responsibility to make the trek to another hospital. Many people live in poverty. Quality of life even for the relatively wealthy is subpar to that of a middle-class American. Amenities

As in the United States, getting to know someone begins with gathering basic information — first and last name, ethnicity, age, hometown. However, religious affiliation is also a common inquiry of Tanzanians. In contrast, many Americans shroud religion in a veil of silence. Religious affiliation is not something shared along with one’s name. Imagine my surprise when my

partner Sanaa and I were repeatedly asked “What religion?” and “What denomination?” The Tanzanians I met accept religion with such ease; they talk about it so openly. They tell me, “We do not want strife. There are more than 120 tribal groups in Tanzania. We cannot afford to fight. So we say: we are all brothers.” We eat lunch daily at the Parish and we take turns praying in Eng-

we take for granted — daily hot showers, working toilets, a steady supply of electricity — are all luxuries here. There is no Medicare for the elderly or Medicaid for those with disabilities. The sick rely on their families and communities to support them. Basic drugs such as painkillers and antibiotics can drain a family’s entire savings. The clinic does what it can by charging only what it requires to maintain the facility, but even that cost is too much for some. An elderly woman we saw today could only pay 4,000 of the 9,500 TZS prescription fee for medication that costs only about $7 back home. She owes the clinic the rest. Her repayment lies only on a verbal promise. Those without the care of relatives have only one option — death.

We Are All One God June 30, 2009 lish, Swahili, and Arabic. Tanzanians are far more devoted to their faith than most Americans: they go to service every Sunday, make tides to their local church, and send their children to confirmation school. Yet, they are also some of the most tolerant people I have ever met.

A Stroll Around the Shamba July 1, 2009 During the brief window of time straddling day and night, Gilbert took us on a tour of his farm. We have been staying at his house for more than a week now, but have never ventured into his fields. Never sparing a moment to rest, Gilbert had just spent the afternoon planning an expansion to the chicken coop. His shamba, or farm, also boasts three goats (which he breeds to sell the young), seven pigs, and a bull (for harvesting manure to fertilize the crops). We strolled past the animal pens to survey the land. He points out the branches laden with still-green coffee fruit. Once red, the fruits are harvested and crushed to yield crude coffee beans. The beans are dried outside in the shade then sold to commercial companies for roasting and refining. Farmers here in Tanzania sell their beans for less than $1.50 per kilogram. In comparison, even the cheapest instant coffee costs more than seven times that price. This is the plight of commodity exporters worldwide — poor countries such as Tanzania sell cash crops or natural resources at bargain prices to companies that turn the raw material to expensive retail products. Meandering through the banana trees, coffee bushes, and rows of beans and maize, you can make many insightful observations about broader facets of Tanzanian life. Keen-

ly perceptive and engaging, Gilbert has the uncanny ability to understand how society and people function, even in environments vastly different from his own. During the trip, I witnessed this ability in his natural talent for tour-guiding and storytelling.

in Africa — the large labor demand also means that a child’s primary priority is not education but completing their share of the chores — gathering firewood for cooking, cutting grass to feed the cows, and lugging water in buckets from pipes far from home.

Wearing flats unfit for the precipitous dirt trail, I struggled to stay on my feet. Gilbert paused to show us the flat, long leaves of a plant on the side of the road. “This plant has special meaning to my ancestors, the Chaga people. It was used in ancient times to mark one’s territories.” We learned that you can also tie the leaves in knots to signify “no trespassing.” Tearing off a piece of the leaf and offering it to someone was understood as a gesture of peace to resolve conflicts. It is now prized as a robust and handsome houseplant.

In many of the neighboring shambas, we saw children kicking around a makeshift soccer ball and old women sitting and chatting outside on porches. But one plot of land we came across did not possess the rich foliage typical of the others. Instead, the ground was a carpet of yellowing and desiccated patches. As we walked by the abandoned farm, Gilbert told us, “Many young people nowadays go to the city, where they think life is better. They leave and there is no one to take care of the land.”

Walking further, we passed by dark, rich, upturned soil fertile for planting. Rain in Mwika Uuwo is thankfully, frequent, and the land is abundant in vegetation. All labor is manual. Farmers carve out the steep hills of the Kilimanjaro region by hand; powering large-scale equipment is impossible. Logs from fallen trees are sawed with manpower, not electricity. Although Tanzanians take their children’s education seriously — their country has one of the highest literacy rates

As the sky deepened from azure to a rich navy, we stepped down the trodden path slowly towards home. The view was breathtakingly beautiful—staggered mountain peaks peeking out from a hazy grayish mist. The hills were blanketed not by the glittering lights of civilization, but by lush emerald canopies. The only signs of modern civilization were the twin cellular communication towers flickering faintly in the distance.

Spring 2010

10 Meters Between Life and Death July 3, 2009 If you ever come to visit the Uuwo Dispensary, you will notice that behind the main two-story building, there is a little dirt path that leads to a smaller shack. Most days it sits abandoned and empty. On certain days, however, the little shed fills with people and life. More villagers crowd outside its tiny porch than in the whole dispensary. The hut has a name – mochwari. Inside, a tomb-like silvery fridge protects bodies in its frozen dark abyss. Another room contains a metallic table and cabinets laden with strange and foreign tools. Robertson, the Maponyesho, or master of the mortuary, is a friendly, energetic man. Thin as a rail but tough like a taut wire coil, he can

be seen working in the gardens, helping the nurses wash the bed sheets and blankets, or doing handyman work on days when the mochwari is vacant. But today Robertson is nowhere to be seen in the dispensary. He has more important work at hand. Meanwhile, the midwives of the Mother and Child Clinic are upstairs at the dispensary, busily scurrying about. On a separate metallic table, a young mother is in the throes of labor. We are following Dr. Raymond on his usual morning rounds downstairs when he is called to assist. He assesses the situation rapidly, and then reaches for a nearby thermos from which he pours a molten black liquid.“Black tea, to increase the con-

tractions”, he explains. After several tense minutes, the baby is born. “Asante asante Jesus,” the mother prays in relief. The baby girl is silent for the first few seconds — perhaps to catch her breath or recover from the shock of the new environment. Does her skin sense the cool air of the delivery room? Do her ears detect foreign sounds? Mary wipes the newborn with a washcloth and the baby gives a resounding cry, marking her assimilation into mankind. We welcome her warmly, enveloping her in a colorful khanga, the first of many that she will wear in her lifetime.

The River that Flows in All of Us July 4, 2009 A heart beats about once every 0.625 seconds. The map of a human body is remarkably complex — more highways than any nation, more alleys than any city. Yet each cell navigates through the maze with ease; it is just routine. It happens every 0.625 seconds after all.

Our blood is our lifeline and the staff members are Uuwo Dispensary’s most competent plumbers. Blood pressure checks, blood smears, hemoglobin counts, ELISAs for HIV, fast blood sugar levels—these are tests the doctors rely on daily to make their diagnoses. In addition to providing reliable diagnostic information, the circulatory system is utilized to rapidly deliver remedies throughout the body. Patients coming in with acute malaria or typhoid infections may receive antibiotics through IVs. Elderly patients suffering from dehydration or low circulatory electrolytes immediately receive saline drips to stabilize their blood pressures. In fact, almost all patients in

the wards can be seen with a scalp vein or cannula affixed to the back of their hand or forearm. The nurses diligently monitor the fluid levels of the drip bags and change them every six to eight hours. They ensure that the fluid is dripping steadily through the giving set and into the vein, forty-two drops every minute in fact. For the elderly patients, receiving an IV drip can be a difficult process. Forcing fluid through veins with poor circulation can be excruciatingly painful and result in severe swelling at the infusion site. Many patients are frightened by the severe swelling and complain to the hospital staff. Clots are another potential complication. They can stop the infusion of fluid entirely and therefore require another needle insertion at a new site. The risks blood presents rival its merits. Two of the deadliest diseases in Tanzania, malaria and HIV, are blood-borne illnesses. The first lesson we learned while shadowing Dr. Raymond was not how to care for

patients or treat diseases, but how to protect ourselves. “Any bodily fluid, especially blood, is a very dangerous thing. If you get infected, how can you continue to care for others? You must always wear gloves. After using a needle on another, you must be very careful to dispose of it. If you administer HIV tests, you need to observe the patient first. See if he or she is stable, calm, ready. You need to protect yourself at all times.” This could not be truer. At our dispensary, the staff is overworked and in short supply. The facility operates around the clock with two doctors and only a handful of nurses. Everyone multitasks. Stanley, the laboratory technician, performs diagnostics, gives injections, and files paperwork. Nurse Flora executes the duties of a pharmacist, accountant, and secretary. She keeps records of the drug stocks, files the insurance claim forms, and dispenses the medication. They only get one day off every week and cannot afford to be sick. But of course, in a country as poverty-stricken as Tanzania, no one can.

Living with Less July 7, 2009 One of the first lessons we learned while staying in Tanzania was surviving in simplicity. I have to cope with only three to five gallons of water a day. This means turning off the tap when shampooing my hair, brushing my teeth, and soaping my body. It also means using a limited amount of water to wash dishes and flushing the toilet infrequently. We do not shower every day, and we wash our clothes only after repeated wear. Energy must also be conserved. We can never be sure that there will be a steady flow of electricity when we plug our devices into the outlets. This underscored the need to always have a reliable flashlight or a candlestick and matches. There is not enough electricity to support multiple appliances. The sound system cannot operate in conjunction with the television; turning on our laptops dims our ceiling light.

Only after deprivation of modern-day equipment do I realize how many hours a day we spend on watching television, surfing the Internet, or listening to music. After finishing work at the dispensary, we often have nothing to occupy ourselves with and are forced to come up with things to do. We play with the children of our homestay parents and those of their relatives. They are ingeniously creative at entertaining themselves without Wii video games, computers, or sophisticated toys. We saw cars made from water bottles, a game involving just a wheel and a stick, and a â&#x20AC;&#x153;hacky sackâ&#x20AC;? made from grass. In the past two weeks, I have rediscovered the joys of jump-roping, playing with cards, bouncing rubber balls, and dancing to the radio. We also take walks around the village, learned to peel potatoes with a knife, and rolled dough for making chapatti flatbread. Instead of iced coffee or smoothies, soda in a glass bottle became a

rare sugary treat to savor under the afternoon sun. Living simply brings people together. Hordes of children of different ages can be seen playing together in the fields. Without complex machinery, chores are completed with the collaboration of many hands. But this also means the work is difficult and time consuming. Washing clothes, cooking, and cleaning can take hours. Yet many living with less embrace their life and its challenges. A bumper sticker I saw on the window of a truck summarizes their perspective. Yesu Atosha. Jesus is Enough.

Spring 2010

Lost Faces: A View in P

Palestine is defined by more than bombs and borders. The desolate reality of oppression is undeniable; the response varies from physically to graphically violent. In spite of this tension, young girls in Jericho attend Israeli schools to learn Arabic and Hebrew, as well as math and science. Boys in Nablus play soccer amongst ruins while enjoying music on their mobile phones. The Golan Heights, although sparsely populated and often ignored in international media in lieu of Gaza and the West Bank, is a beautiful expanse of green. Trapped between an antagonistic Israel and a slew of emotionally entangled, yet virtually unengaged neighbors, Palestinians reflect a hearty, if not defiant, resilience. But their warmth is equally palpable. These pictures attempt to tell the lesser-known story; Palestinians are more than Hamas and an abstract population. The late Mahmoud Darwish, arguably the most influential contemporary Arab poet, once gave this impassioned cry for the heartiness of his people: “Our land, modest in size, hosted vast cultures and civilizations, both in conflict and in harmony, our own culture emerging from the fullness of this diverse and rich heritage.” “Mahmoud Darwish’s Speech at the Occasion of the 50th Anniversary of Al-Nakba (the Catastrophe)”. 1998. February 23 2010. <http://www.arabicnews.com/ansub/Daily/Day/980514/1998051435.html>.

Palestine

by Jonathan Cross

all photos by Jonathan Cross

Spring 2010

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