1 Spring 2017
SOUVENIRS 2017 STAFF Editor In Chief Jackie Bannon Editors Maggie Baruffi Madeline Heim Katey Van Ort Ruth Brandt Layout Editor Ashley Truttschel Social Media Coordinator Winnie Dresden Marketing Directors Hannah Pelfrense Tyne Oberlander Staff Writers Shannon Murphy Mary Larson Alia Paavola
Stories Winnie Dresden, Katey Van Ort, Sophia Dramm, Melanie Kohls, Alia Paavola, Ruth Brandt, Shannon Murphy, Mary Larson Features Love Sabharwal, Gabriela Negrete GarcĂa, Mannat Mehta, Carolina Silva, Leen Bnyat Photography Chloe Borut, Cameron Smith, Jeremy Liebman, Maggie Aletha, Isabella Stark, Sophia Dramm, Quinn Paskus, Thomas Miller, Jessi Haven, Julia Skorb, Helen Lewis, Meredith Johnson, Genevieve Anderegg, Lauren Swain On the Cover Jeremy Liebman WUD Publications Committee Director Victoria Fok WUD Publications Committee Advisor Jim Rogers Wisconsin Union President Deshawn McKinney
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EUROPE
6 9 11 12
Student Feature: Love Sabharwal Cities Nature: Travel’s Redemption Rituals of Leaving Behind
NORTH AMERICA
16 18 21
Student Feature: Gaby Negrete García
Banff Abridged Behind Paradise
AFRICA 3 Spring 2017
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Student Feature: Mannat Mehta Searching for Simba
SOUTH & CENTRAL AMERICA
32 35 36
Student Feature Cruising Over Coffee An Open Letter to the girls of Barrio Guiñazú, Córdoba, Argentina
ASIA & OCEANIA
40 44
Student Feature : Leen Bnyat A Jordanian Welcome
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
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travel for the people I meet along the way.
An elderly British couple who dubbed themselves “little old white-haired wrinklies” and cooked a mean Shepherd’s pie. A mountain guide named Andy who called me a “crazy yank” and led me to a local trail in a Welsh national park. A Lisbon Airbnb host who greeted me with local pastries and a complimentary walking tour. A 70-yearold woman hiking through Wyoming’s Teton mountain range who “pioneered” the acceptance of women in the outdoors. When traveling, the sites humble me. Sometimes I erupt with strange noises and dances because the views just get me. However, the people I’ve met make me feel. They’ve challenged me to cross borders and think in new ways. For me, traveling is all about the people. This issue of Souvenirs is also about people. We’ve highlighted international students who have traveled from around the globe and somehow ended up in the land of cheese curds. They’ve come from different cities, countries and continents with different backgrounds, religions, educations and goals. As a publication, this marks the first time Souvenirs has featured international students. Meeting new people isn’t always comfortable. In fact, my face usually turns bright red upon first meeting anyone. But as a staff here at Souvenirs, we believe connecting with others is important, especially when they can provide us with new perspectives. Although meeting people is one of the most rewarding parts of travel, we are capable of opening ourselves up and connecting with others right here on campus. Despite uncomfortable conversations (and maybe a red face or two), it’s time to start embracing one another for where we’ve come from, where we are and for all the places we have yet to go. Editor in Chief,
UWSouvenirs
4 Spring 2017
souvenirsmadison.com
IMAGINARY FRIENDS By Chloe Borut
5 Spring 2017
Photography by Cameron Smith
EUROPE
STUDENT FEATURE
By Winnie Dresden
L
ove Sabharwal was born in Delhi, India. At only two months old, he and his family moved to Lima, Peru, where he lived until he was 4 years old. Then, they moved back to India until spontaneously deciding to move to Spain to be closer to family. Sabharwal then went to a British school in Madrid for seven years and began college when he decided to drop out to travel and work in Britain — a decision he claims he will never regret. Sabharwal says traveling around Spain was one of his favorite things about living there. He believes Spain offers a rich culture that is unmatched by any other place around the world. “[Madrid] defined the person who I am today,” says Sabharwal.” “The culture, lifestyle and everything that the big city has to offer have influenced me and the way in which I think about and appreciate the world.”
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“The culture, lifestyle and everything that the big city has to offer have influenced me and the way in which I think about and appreciate the world.”
Photography by Jeremy Liebman
Photography by Maggie Aletha, Isabella Stark, Cameron Smith and Sophia Dramm
CITIES By Katey Van Ort cities are just bones upon bones, upon bones built upon the stories of someone else’s yesterday. and tomorrow’s dreams just become dust in a week, a fleck of time because we build & build & build upon the bones, the stories the fragments of someone else’s life forgetting that someone once stood where we stand now and we just ignore that we’ve built a world On top of history, someone’s memories that we built upon and destroyed until the fragments the moments, the memories the bones upon bones upon bones of a time long ago of another life are forgotten.
“When I am exhausted or stressed from traveling through the bustle of a new city, I try to escape the city lights to find redemption in the earth by allowing nature to consume me.� 12 Spring 2017
NATURE, TRAVEL’S REDEMPTION By Sophia Dramm Photography by Maggie Aletha
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This changed when I moved to London. Sameness saturates big cities. Each one blends together with the last. They’re crowded, full of tourists and overpriced tourist traps. Apart from the cultural differences, the architecture and the food, each city feels the same to me.
me, nature is pegged to its place in the world. My love for the outdoors blossomed on a trip to Dublin. I ventured through the Irish countryside to the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher. Since this trip, I’ve made time to delve into nature. Last month, I explored the Scottish Highlands, glens and lochs that were so stunning my jaw dropped. In Barcelona, my favorite part of the weekend was walking along the Mediterranean Sea, searching for shells and sea glass. I live for these simple beauties.
But nature is always distinct, no matter where I go. I experience the landscape in each corner of the world differently. Madison, Wisconsin cannot mirror the rolling hills of Scotland. To
When I am exhausted or stressed from traveling through the bustle of a new city, I try to escape the city lights to find redemption in the earth by allowing nature to consume me.
never pegged myself as an outdoor enthusiast. Sure, blossoming flowers, snow and Lake Mendota are beautiful, but I do not seek out nature. It has never been a priority.
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RITUALS OF LEAVING BEHIND By Melanie Kohls Photography by Jeremy Liebman
T
he best thing about chronic anxiety is the way I feel when it dissipates.
There’s a lightness, a force that rushes from my lower gut up through my chest to my forehead and out the tips of my fingers. It’s magical. All the meditation and diaphragmatic breathing in the world can’t conjure it. I have learned better than to try to control it. All I can do is immerse myself in conditions that relieve my anxiety. So, I travel. Odd that such a chaotic pastime – all timetables
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and time spent alone – should bring me peace. It didn’t at first. I used to worry I tainted every city I slept in for more than one night. I imagined a greasy smudge of sadness and fear flowing from me into London’s, Cardiff’s and Dublin’s cobblestones until it was visible from space. I previously bled this ink into Madison for years. In some places, I can’t even paint over it, no matter how fresh and pretty the new memories. They bead up like water on wax. I applied to study abroad partly for this reason: to escape that muddiness, forgetting that it bloomed from me.
No surprise, then, that I landed in Wales still feeling muddied. The things I thought would be hard – choosing classes, making friends – were surprisingly easy. But the things I thought would be easy were hard. To give myself a break, to get myself out of bed, I started walking. An hour or two of thoughtless marching, getting me slightly more acquainted with Queen Street or St. John’s Arcade, nothing more than a respite. Or so I thought. Faces, feuds and fears bubbled up in me as I walked. Things I thought I had overcome surprised me with their intensity. Then, they surprised me even more when I arrived at my flat’s door and realized I had left them on Queen Street. Cardiff gave me a gift: my first travel ritual, walking my anxieties off. It helped that Wales was gorgeous. I pounded miles of pavement and coastline, letting inky doubts present themselves and slip from my pockets and dry up, finally, in my wake. Traveling taught me to drop things as I walked. It wasn’t long before they became physical. In transit, I loved leaving things behind. Not necessary things, just tokens. The bits I no longer need. Pieces that would only weigh me down. I checked out of hostels with my old coats still hanging in the closet. I left a trail of paperbacks in airports and bus stations across Europe during my Easter break. I sure hope others found and read them. When I performed this ritual, my traveling body was a tiny hot air balloon, dropping sandbags. Each little trinket jettisoned
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me a couple extra meters into the sky. So traveling taught me to stay light on my feet. But sometimes these rituals fell short. Sometimes the weight of my worries would not be walked off, could not be jettisoned. I grew furious at myself at a bistro in Geneva and a record store in Bristol, unable to appreciate the miracle of what privilege and modern technology were allowing me to do. Hemorrhaging anxiety all over the furniture. I was acutely aware of the magic hidden in every step of the journey, but I was frozen in place. Trapped in my anxiety. At these times, I took pictures. Photography became another one of my rituals. Behind my camera’s lens, I vanished into Emerson’s transparent eyeball. My world shrank and magnified: a painted wanderer guarding a swingset in Amsterdam, finches arguing over a biscuit in Pembrokeshire, a tiny London pedestrian pointing me to a nearby café. When I got anxious, I lost myself in these details. And when I got lonely, I reinserted myself into the picture. My muddy shoes in a tiny forest of Welsh moss. My faux-fur hood reflected in the window of a Swiss eatery. Not selfish, but self-loving. I am here. I made it here. I walked all the way out here to see something I have never seen, to meet someone I have never met, to take a picture I have never taken. And in order to accomplish all of these things, I had to learn how to leave some other things behind.
NORTH AMERICA
16 Spring 2017
Photography by Quinn Paskus
STUDENT FEATURE
By Alia Paavola
G
aby was born in Mexico and lived there with her mother, sisters and grandparents until age 11. Her father was not present as he traveled to and from California in pursuit of the “American Dream.”
in town, locals perceived Gaby as an immigrant who did not speak English rather than the young girl that thrived in her academics in Mexico. Instead of being recognized for her accomplishments, others interpreted Gaby’s differences as underdeveloped.
All of her life, Gaby possessed the ambition to make a difference and pursue a college degree. Rather than admitting defeat, Gaby used her Although her parents were unable to pursue ambition and determination to fight back. higher education due to financial restrictions, they did everything in their She quickly improved her power to provide Gaby “In Mexico the United States English and graduated high and her siblings with more school as a top achieving is perceived as a place opportunities. student with awards in made of gold. The picture I math, social studies and In 2006, Gaby, her mother Spanish. She broke down grew up with contained and her sisters moved to blooming trees, clean streets her hometown’s stereothe United States and ended types by proving her inteland beautiful houses.” up in small town Seymour, ligence and determination Wisconsin. Gaby was eager to succeed. She became a to explore the opportunities the U.S. promised role model for others struggling to overcome because the American Dream her father had al- labels they did not deserve. She proved to othways chased finally seemed within reach. ers that she belonged. “In Mexico the United States is perceived as a place made of gold,” Gaby says. “The picture I grew up with contained blooming trees, clean streets and beautiful houses.” Despite her optimism, it was not an easy transition. As a member of the only Hispanic family
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At UW-Madison, Gaby is majoring in chemistry and environmental sciences and is continuing to push boundaries and overcome negative labels. She proves that limits do not exist, and she will not cease until she accomplishes her goals. The story of her own American Dream is just beginning to unfold.
Photography byThomas Miller
BANFF ABRIDGED By Winnie Dresden Photography by Quinn Paskus
20 Spring 2017
A
t 5:15 a.m., four of my closest friends and I climbed into my mom’s Ford Explorer. Patagonia-clad and with McDonald’s iced coffees in hand, we began the 1,549 mile drive to Banff National Park from Madison, Wisconsin. What would quickly become the most beautiful journey began, as most road trips do, with a quick run-in with the police. Twenty minutes into our drive (yes, 20!), police lights shocked us out of our sleepy haze. We pulled over, and the friendly cop let us know that a traffic cone was stuck under our car and had been dragging behind us. We wrenched the cone free, drew a face on him and adopted him as our new road trip mascot who enjoyed our middle school throwback songs just as much, if not more, as we did. Hours passed quickly. We sang along to top 40 hits and discussed everything under the sun, stopping every hour or so to brush our teeth or run around on the side of the road to stretch our legs. The day went by in a haze of Gogurts and “Closer” by the Chainsmokers. We crossed the border with ease. After asking each of us our college majors, the border patrolman stamped our passports per our request and sent us on our way. We were in! So far, the scenery looked exactly like the Midwest: flat and sparse, as most border towns are. After crossing into Canada, our LTE connection and
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morale began to dwindle, as everyone realized how tired they were. All we wanted was to get out of the car. Our original plan had been to drive straight through the night, but we realized a quick sleep in a bed would do us wonders. I tried calling hotels in Swift Current, Saskatchewan, but confused operators left us hotel-less and agitated. When we finally arrived in Swift Current, the Rainbow Motel offered up the last room in town, straight out of the movie Psycho. A short five-hour snooze and teeth-brushing later, we hit the road once more with fresh energy and rekindled excitement. As the flat land slowly stretched into mountains, we realized we were in for the trip of a lifetime. Driving through the Canadian Rocky Mountains toward Banff, the beauty continued to surprise us, and we knew we hadn’t even seen the best of it yet. When we finally arrived at Moraine Lake, we were dumbfounded. We hiked around the most beautiful Caribbeanblue lake any of us had ever seen. The experience boomed with gratitude: for the water we drank straight from the lake, for the hikes, for the hip Banff restaurants, for each other’s company. Pictures will never do justice to the views we saw, especially those at the summit of 9,003-foot Mount Fairview… or the sandwiches we devoured at the peak.
Photography by Quinn Paskus & Thomas Miller 22 Spring 2017
BEHIND PARADISE By Alia Paavola Photography by Jessi Havens
A
fine, white sandy beach stretches for miles as turquoise waves crash and bubble along its shore. Families, couples and friends spend each day basking in the sun, planting footprints in the sand and plunging into the ocean. An all-inclusive resort is perfectly sculpted with lush green grass, overreaching palm trees and the local flora of the Dominican Republic. The five uniquely designed pools sparkle with the reflection of the sun as people swarm around them Perfectly-patterned cobblestone walkways lead travelers through the massive resort, and a thatched roof made of palm leaves shades them from the blazing Dominican sun. Employees cheerfully greet each guest, meticulously responding to all their questions and guiding lost newcomers to their intended destinations. The resort’s restaurants features many cultures’ cuisines. The all-you-can-eat buffets are fully stocked with fresh fruit, several varieties of
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vegetables, cooked-to-order fillets and a wide array of fresh seafood. Around each corner sits a fully stocked bar, while drink after drink is dispensed free of additional charge. All buildings have fresh paint. The beds are freshly made. The rooms are spotless. Everything about my vacation to Salvaleon De Higuey in the Dominican Republic seemed so perfect. However, as I indulged in paradise, I began to detect its flaws. I began noticing the workers buzzing around, catering to any possible need. I began observing the people who made paradise possible. I watched as groundskeepers rushed to pick up a fallen palm leaf from the otherwise unblemished grass. I witnessed bartenders lugging heavy boxes filled with Dominican rum and weaving kegs of the local beer through oblivious travelers. I saw maids arriving at 6 a.m. and strolling out, covered in dirt and sweat, around 8 p.m. I listened as a laundry man quickly responded to a radio call about a
room having only two fresh towels. I noted each hurried worker blending into the background as vacationers soaked in the amenities of the resort. As my observations began revealing the backbreaking work involved in creating paradise, my impression of this dreamy world faded.
“Everything about my vacation to Salvaleon De Higuey in the Dominican Republic seemed so perfect. However, as I indulged in paradise,
Francis, a bartender at one of the resort’s six lobby bars, befriended my family. He was everything a bartender should be: enthusiastic, entertaining and amiable. He told us that every worker at the resort was obligated to work for 14 days straight for
10 hours minimum. They all stayed on the resort for two weeks in lodging designated for workers. These dormitories were crammed, each room filled with five to six individuals. After two weeks of work, they received two days off to go home and visit family and friends. Every dollar Francis made at the resort paid for his younger brother’s education. His friends at the resort did the same; their money fueled the well-being of their families. These workers earned 100 dollars a month as a base salary. The remainder of their earnings stem from tips, which were slim at an all-inclusive resort. On top of it all, before landing a job, they must work unpaid for one full year without any complaints. If they receive a bad review, they are fined and often fired. I began imagining the real life of each worker. I started understanding the reasons they worked efficiently and the explanations behind why they looked exhausted, yet always smiled. I began comprehending the imperfect work behind paradise: work that should not go unnoticed.
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26 Spring 2017
AFRICA
Photography by Jessi Havens
STUDENT FEATURE
By Ruth Brandt
M
annat Mehta, a 19-year-old political our cultures and learned about one another science and economics major, was with open minds and without bias. My parents raised in Zambia before moving to encouraged me to embrace the Zambian way India and then the U.S. for college. Having been of life and also emphasized the importance of born and brought up in Zambia, Mehta had the getting to know my own Indian heritage in what unique opportunity of experiencing a myriad seemed like a seamless manner. Because of this, I didn’t really grasp the conof cultures as well as growcepts of racism or discriming up in a setting that alination until I left Zambia lowed her to recognize the beauty in differences from a and moved to India and “I have the opportunity to the U.S. All of a sudden, the very young age. teach people about two differences that I had been “The best aspect of spend- extremely different regions taught to embrace and ening my childhood in Zambia of the world. I can break couraged to learn about had such a negative conwas being ignorant to the down any misconceptions notation attached to them. defined lines between peopeople may have.” ple in terms of color, race, Despite being a tough pill to swallow at first, it made religion and gender. I was fortunate to have lived in a me realize that I have the opportunity to teach peosmall ‘everyone knows everyone’ city, within an extremely tight-knit, di- ple about two extremely different regions in the verse community. The people in my school class world. I can break down any misconceptions came from different backgrounds. We all shared people may have.”
28 Spring 2017
Photography by Jessi Havens
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sat on top of the Jeep, scouring the land touched by sun for any sign of him… for any sign of Simba. We drove slowly through the national park, encountering Pumba and his warthog family, Rafiki and the Tree of Life, but nowhere could we find Simba. We had arrived at the national park the day before, welcomed by an elephant family outside of our bungalows. Blue-tinged monkeys ran around us, wondering if they could sneak a treat from my bag. They chirped and cheered as one monkey, an adventurous guy, stole the sunglasses from our guide’s pocket and ran for the rooftop. The sunglasses were never recovered, but our guide smiled and said, “Welcome to Ngorongoro Conservation.” We started our three-day adventure at 5 a.m. with the sun rising before us. Our sleepy eyes widened at the sight of giraffes and zebras grazing together, one protecting the
other as they feasted. The sun steadily rose as we awoke from our dreams, only to find ourselves in another dream-like realm full of animals we’d never seen in person. Our guide explained how many of the names in “The Lion King” derive from Kiswahili, including Simba which means lion. “If we are lucky,” he said, “we could see a simba today.” The days passed with no sign of Simba. We saw a panther, even more rare than Simba, but we seemed to be out of luck. On the last day, within the last stretch of our safari, we happened upon him lounging in the brown grass. He basked in the sun with a full belly outstretched, taking a siesta after his lunch. As excited as we were, we remained quiet to let Simba sleep, silently snapping pictures for our memories. Content, we rode back in silence. Our search for Simba in the land touched by the sun was over.
SEARCHING FOR SIMBA By Shannon Murphy Photography by Jessi Havens
31 Spring 2017
32 Spring 2017
CENTRAL & SOUTH AMERICA
Photography by Jessi Havens
STUDENT FEATURE By Shannon Murphy
C
arolina Silva is a senior studying stra- one thing I love the most about one of the cultegic communication and international tures that is so ingrained in me. Speaking generstudies at UW-Madison. Silva (23) was ically though, I love the unique skyscraper-filled born in Brazil, the fifth largest country in the cityscapes of the United States and the incrediworld. Brazil is home to many refugees and im- ble fast food...Culver’s.” migrants seeking new homes, creating an amalWhen reflecting on Brazil, gamation of Portuguese, Silva says she misses “the German, Italian, Japanese, warmth, both literally and Jewish and Arab popula“I also love the warmth of metaphorically. Especially tions. This country is also home to five World Cup the Brazilian culture which during some Wisconsin wintrophies, which is the most embraces deep connections ters, I miss the Rio de Janeiany team has won in the and fun. Brazilians radiate ro sunshine, but I also love the warmth of the Brazilian history of the competition. warmth, and it makes culture which embraces people feel so welcomed deep connections and fun. Silva moved to the U.S. in Brazilians radiate warmth, 2000 when she was just and comforted.” and it makes people feel so six years old, after her parwelcomed and comforted.” ents made many trips to the States. When asked what she loves most about living in the U.S., she Food plays a large role in feeling comfort and warmth, and Silva commented on the delicious mulled it over. Brazilian barbecue. “Like most Brazilians, I love a “This is tough to answer because I was born in good Churrasco with black beans, rice and faroBrazil and grew up surrounded by both the Bra- fa. It is extra special when enjoyed with friends zilian and American cultures; I really am Brazil- and family over long Sunday lunch filled with ian-American,” she explains. “It’s difficult to pick jokes and good music.”
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Photography by Julia Skorb
36 Spring 2017
CRUISING OVER A CUP OF COFFEE
By Shannon Murphy Photography by Helen Lewis
M
y first experience with coffee was flying over it. Not in a plane, but strapped to a wire and dangling hundreds of feet overhead. With a surrounding view of coffee beans in the lulls of the mountains, I passed by them and hoped my senses would encounter them again soon. My first moment with coffee was magical, and I’ve been addicted ever since. I visited Antigua, Guatemala with no knowledge of the place, the culture or what I would be doing there. I could only rely on my small amount of Spanish skills and a large amount of uncertainty. I wanted to have my first international expedition somewhat alone, and I was ready to take on what may come. And that included zip-lining. I found myself on a shaky wooden platform nailed haphazardly into a tree, eight people waiting patiently behind me. A man rattled off
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safety instructions in Spanish while he strapped me to the wire with two carabiners and a thumbs-up. I nervously returned the gesture, my pseudo-fist hiding the sweat percolating from my palms. With tiny steps, I scooted towards the edge of the platform. Stretching over 3,000 feet, the zip-line crossed over a valley filled with Guatemalan coffee, and I told myself there could be a worse place to die. And with that, I flew. I glided along the wire, first with fear and eyes shut tight. The wind in my ears gave a comforting “shhhh,” and it eventually whispered enough confidence in me. I opened my eyes, and it was magic. The smell of coffee beans and earth hit me as I looked down hundreds of feet to the plantations. My eyes rose to the mountains surrounding the little bowl of Antigua, encompassing me in the perfect coffee sensation. I felt at peace. Just me, the wind and my coffee beans.
AN OPEN LETTER to the girls of Barrio Guiñazú, Córdoba, Argentina:
D
uring the summer of 2016, I walked your dirt roads, greeted by barking stray dogs with matted fur and exposed rib cages. I walked down roads lined with piles of garbage, leaves and abandoned toys. Men, women and children with tired faces and dirty clothing watched me with kind smiles or weary glances as I walked, my blonde hair tucked into my hat, my green eyes standing out against a fair complexion that declared “I do not belong here.” Girls with beautiful, thick, dark hair, tanned skin and deep, dark eyes: you watch me walk, and I see you contemplating me, my American shoes and my expensive windbreaker. I walked past your homes: one-room, one-level homes made of bricks and scrap metal, protected by rusting gates and skinny mutts chained to plywood dog houses. I see you, a 19-year-old girl like me, with a baby on your hip: a baby with your eyes, with the nose of a father who is off working two jobs or who simply isn’t around at all. I was raised in a blue, three-story home in a safe neighborhood. I attended elementary school, middle school and high school. In two years, I
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will graduate from university with a degree and job prospects. My mother was an engineer. My father treats me as an equal to my brother and respects us both the same. My younger sister has a bright, stable future that includes a high school graduation, a college degree and a career in whatever field she may choose. My future is stable and predictable. I have not known the struggle that you have known. You attended an elementary school a bus-ride away from the barrio, wearing a hand-me-down backpack, perhaps filled with some notebooks and pencils. In middle school, you became disinterested in your classes. You spent more energy on your part-time job at that fast food restaurant than your math homework because you were taught to believe an education would not serve you well. They told you that an education just wasn’t meant for girls from the barrio, especially a girl from one of the most impoverished barrios in Córdoba. Maybe you will make it to high school. If you do, the chances of graduating are slim. In a country with one of the highest dropout rates in the world, where only 27 percent of students manage to graduate from college (if they even make it there at all), your story is not unusual.
Your story is the norm. The likely narrative is that you drop out of high school. Your part-time job at that fast food restaurant turns into two or three part-time jobs at a couple fast food restaurants, retail stores or the kiosko your father runs out of your home. You don’t have access to birth control or a proper sex education, so you get pregnant, young. You live with your parents. You marry a boy with a high school diploma and an income – although meager – so that he can help provide for your family and the baby in your tummy. Thus, the cycle of poverty continues: perpetual, infinite, a self-fulfilling prophecy, of sorts. Only a few lucky children ever make it out of the barrio. You didn’t. During my time in Guiñazú, working as a teacher at a tiny community center in the heart of the barrio, I got to know your sisters, your daughters, your mothers and your friends. I played with little girls wearing dirty pink tennis shoes and braids in their hair. I played with a three-year-old girl who had close to nothing but never cried. Her mother sold socks on the street for a living. I tutored a girl who had scratches covering her hands and face. When asked about it, she claimed it was her cat and changed the subject. I wanted to believe she was telling the truth. I befriended the mothers of the children, most of them only a couple years older than me. They invited me to their homes and even invited me to go dancing. I helped a young girl with her schoolwork. I asked her to spell “mamá,” and she looked at me with a blank expression. She sheepishly told me she didn’t know the difference between the
letter “m” and the letter “n” at an age where she should have been able to read chapter books. On my way to work one morning, I ran into the mother of one of the children. She insisted on driving me to the community center so I wouldn’t have to walk in the cold. She kissed me on the cheek before dropping me off at the center’s front gate with her son Joaquin. I worked with women who had never gone to university, who never had the chance to earn a college degree or follow their dreams. Their work as a daycare teacher was the only career they had ever known, but they loved those children with all of their hearts. The women treated the children as their own, and I never witnessed anything but compassion or patience within the walls of that community center. You, girl, woman, sister, daughter, mother, resident of the barrio: You have been told over and over again that you are not worthy, and you have begun to believe it. You, girl, woman, sister, daughter, mother, resident of the barrio: I know you. I talked with you, I laughed with you, and I cared for your children as you worked to provide for them. You offered me hot tea, warm food and your open arms. You invited me to your home, you welcomed me into your community and you made me feel like family. You, the women I met while working in the barrio, are arguably the most considerate, kind and hardworking women I have ever met. You are strong. You care for your neighbors. You are proud, despite an environment that strives to beat you down. I wish I could give you the life you deserve. I wish I could give your daughters and sisters the future they deserve.
By Ruth Brandt Photography by Helen Lewis
ASIA & OCEANIA
40 Spring 2017
Photography by Meredith Johnson
STUDENT FEATURE By Shannon Murphy
L
een Bnyat is a 22-year-old senior studying gender and women’s studies with certificates in both global health and African studies. Having been her friend since kindergarten, I have the honor to showcase just how beautiful she and her place within our world are. She was born in Damascus, Syria, the capital of this desert country, which is said to be the world’s oldest continuously inhabited settlement.
Rights officials have criticized the international community for their lack of involvement following three years of horrendous war crimes leading to the death of over 191,000 individuals during the 2011 Syrian Civil War. When asked about life in the U.S. with Syrian ties, Bnyat was drawn to the cultural pull.
“Undoubtedly there are things I like about living in the United States, but there are also a lot of things “I left Damascus, Syria for the United States when I’ve come to really dislike and those seem to be at the forefront of my mind I was about six months old,” at the moment. Although it is she says. “Prior to that, my “Diversity can’t truly exist somewhat of a disadvantage mother had completed her bachelor’s at UW-Madison,but here when segregation and at times, I like the gravitationreturned to Syria where she oppression are rampant.” al pull the U.S. has on people around the world. Everyone would later marry my father. wants to visit the U.S., and our My mother’s family members are refugees who fled Palestine when my grand- pop culture is rampant across continents. It’s very mother was very young. My father was born in cool to be able to travel to a foreign country and Aleppo, but his family later moved to Damascus find countless individuals who also love Beyoncé where he was to meet my mother in high school and can carry on a conversation about US politics. as his academic tutor.” Had you asked me [what I like about the U.S.] two years ago, I probably would have said the diversity The Middle East, especially in our 21st century of individuals residing in this country. But diversiU.S. setting, has been a subject both of fear, ag- ty can’t truly exist here when segregation and opgression and ignorance. United Nations Human pression are rampant.”
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Photography by Genevieve Anderegg
Photography by Genevieve Anderegg & Lauren Swain
A JORDANIAN WELCOME By Mary Larson Photography by Meredith Johnson
“What I experienced in Jordan was not what you see on the news. I found extraordinary humans, eager to welcome me, to show off their beautiful country and culture and to feed me more mensef than I thought I was capable of consuming.”
46 Spring 2017
A
hlan wa sahlan, ahlan wa sahlan, the middle-aged woman kept repeating, smiling and welcoming me inside. Ahlan, I responded, smiling back. She didn’t speak any English, and the minimal Jordanian dialect that I knew was lodged too far back in my throat to use. Tafadali. Come in. The living room was spacious with oriental rugs covering the floor and cushions lining the perimeter of the room in traditional Arab style. Ahlan wa sahlan. The family members swarmed me, warmly welcoming me into their home and introducing themselves. Guiltily, I thought that it may take the entirety of my month-long stay to learn the names of the family’s 11 children. I still could not believe it. I was finally in Jordan, eager to come as close as possible to living the life of a local for the next month. The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. Despite the late hour, my host mother presented mensef, the staple dish of Jordan, on a giant platter and placed it on the floor. Then, she piled heaps of rice and chicken onto my plate. Kuli. Eat. I took the plate graciously. Yet just when I thought I could not manage another bite, it was time for dessert. My hosts brought out sweet, strong Arabic coffee and knaffeh, another Jordanian staple of sweet cheese and fried dough topped with pistachios. I felt certain I would not need to eat for days.
47 Spring 2017
This generous, over-the-top welcome I received in Jordan wouldn’t mirror the “welcome” that my host family would likely receive if they visited America. Landing in Jordan, I breezed through customs and was soon on my way to my new home near the northern city of Irbid. Not only was my host family excessively hospitable, but everyone I met – their relatives and friends, shopkeepers, waiters, you name it – were equally invested in ensuring that I was having the time of my life. It is disheartening and embarrassing to imagine the ordeal that the people who welcomed me so warmly to their country would have to endure just to get through American customs, let alone how some fellow Americans would treat them. Almost equally disconcerting were the questions and “warnings” I received from friends, relatives and acquaintances both before and after my trip. “Why go there?!” I can provide a billion reasons. What I experienced in Jordan was not what you see on the news. I found extraordinary humans, eager to welcome me, to show off their beautiful country and culture and to feed me more mensef than I thought I was capable of consuming.
48 Spring 2017