All I could think about was the wall.
Sitting in the back of a taxi from the Berlin Tegel airport to our hotel in Gendarmenmarkt, my mind was racing with thoughts. Did the wall run through this part of the city? Where are the remains of the wall now? How high was it? Will we pass it? Are we in the east now or still the west?
My thoughts turned to questions for the taxi driver, who with a weary smile I imagined he gave to every wide-eyed tourist that he picked up, scantily explained the history of the wall, the city it divided and the inhabitants it isolated for so many years.
I wanted to know all about the wall, I wanted to see it, touch it, stand where it stood, close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to live on one side and not the other. To live in a place where a wall stood between you and loved ones, between you and a different life, between you and freedom.
At the end of World War II, Berlin was divided by the allied powers into four sectors, and in 1961 the Berlin wall was built by the German Democratic Republic (East Germans) in collaboration with the Soviet Union. Why? Mainly to prevent large waves of East Germans from leaving the Soviet controlled sector of Berlin for the three other sectors, namely French, American and British. Since then, the wall was to become a fortified prison and a symbol of the strength of Communism.
Then in 1987, Ronald Reagan in a speech during the anniversary of the wall, challenged Mikhail Gorbachev to "tear down this wall." From that moment onward the people of Berlin took to the streets in mass protest until finally the wall came down on 09 November 1989.
It was a sunny morning when we set off on our first encounter with the Berlin wall. We walked from Checkpoint Charlie, the American crossing point between east and west Berlin during the Cold War, to the largest remaining piece of the wall. As we stood in its shadow, we went through all the giddy emotions that tourists go through when faced with a historical relic. We took pictures, ate our ice creams in front of it and even tried climbing it.
Still...the wall stood there.
A colossal reminder of what was and what should never be again. The wall embodied the fears of all who lived on either side of it. And like a monster, it towered over me, spitting down shame, guilt and repugnance for being human.
Near this piece of the wall is the Jewish Museum, housing stories from the tragic history of the Jewish people of Europe. Passing through the museum, I realised that like the wall, the museum was a reminder of Man's propensity to hate, to inflict pain and to mete our harsh punishment.
The narrow passages and dark walls of the museum spoke to me of Man's wickedness. The many faded and stained pictures of Jewish families in happier times called from the abyss, weaving a tapestry of lives that once were. My breath stopped at the sight of an empty wicker suitcase, next to it a button-eyed stuffed doll that a little girl had tried to save. I felt the cold of the walls seep into my bones and I shivered with thoughts of the loss of the Jewish people of Europe.
But even in that moment, the irony was not lost on me.
The irony that today, Israel, the "homeland" for the remembrance of the very people who endured the harsh brutalities depicted on the walls of the Museum, deigned to build a wall just like the Berlin wall, in Palestine. A wall that stifles the freedom of the Palestinian people. Its concrete slabs, adorned with barbed wire, taunting Palestinians, degrading their humanity and violating their human rights.
The wall in Palestine, which runs through most of the West Bank and the Israeli occupied territories, was first constructed by Israel in 1994 (during the Oslo peace negotiations, another irony) and ever since, sections have been continuously added to it in a brazen manner. The International Court of Justice in 2004 declared the construction of the wall contrary to international law and the international community called for its immediate breaking down.
But in violation of all that is good and humane, that wall still stands today as a symbol of Israeli occupation. It serves to imprison the Palestinian people. Like a herd of cattle, their movements are restricted and their lives dependent on the so- called "land-owner".
Not long ago on Monday, 09 November 2009, we celebrated the 20th anniversary of the Berlin wall coming down. I watched on TV as German Chancellor Merkel and the former Soviet Union leader Gorbachev stood where the Berlin wall once stood, together, shoulder to shoulder. I too embraced the celebrations transmitted into my living room from Berlin and the rest of Germany, throughout Eastern Europe and indeed many parts of the world. I listened as President Obama and former President Clinton talked of the tragedy that was, of the sacrifices made and of the freedom gained.
And I hoped that as we remembered the falling of one wall that we take a moment or two to think of another wall, a wall in a different land, a wall that must come down for there to be freedom for all who live in Palestine.
The time has come for another American President (Obama) to throw out a challenge to "tear down this wall."
 The month of October has seen pumpkins show-cased on every Manhattan street corner and Public Square. Indeed every eatery and coffee joint in Manhattan paid homage to the pumpkin in the form of spiced pumpkin lattes, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin soups, pumpkin flavoured tea, pumpkin caramelised candy apples and my favorite, the pumpkin filled cream puff. All of which, culminated in the celebration of Halloween with pumpkins being carved into scary faces and displayed outside homes, in store windows, in lobbies of hotels and halls of restaurants.
As I marveled at the costumes of the little kids parading down my street, plastic pumpkins in hand, trick or treating, I could not help but wonder, how did the pumpkin become so synonymous with the Halloween festivities? In South Africa, we don't celebrate Halloween so pumpkins are used for cooking and eating only, it is never carved into scary faces.
The celebration of Halloween is an annual American festival held on 31 October, which traces its origins to the Celtic/Irish celebration of "All Hallows' Eve." And on All Hallows Eve, in Ireland and Scotland, the people would make "Jack o' Lanterns," and place these outside doors and in windows of homes and taverns. The reason for this was to frighten away a ghastly spirit they called Stingy Jack, as well as all other wondering spirits. The legend says that Jack was an unsavory character who had dealings with the devil during his lifetime. As a result of these dealings, when Jack died God wouldn't take him into heaven, and the devil couldn't take him into hell. So, just to be a nice guy, the devil sent Jack into the dark of night with only a burning coal to light his way, and that is how he has been roaming the earth ever since.
 Now, the only difference between the American pumpkin Jack o' lanterns and the Irish/Celtic Jack o' lanterns, is that in Ireland, they were carved out of turnips and potatoes because there they had no pumpkins.
So where does the pumpkin fit into all of this?
Well, although the exact origin of the pumpkin is not known, it is widely believed to be native to the Americas. It is also believed that when the Settlers arrived on this land they found the Native Americans harvesting the pumpkin. And one of the earliest ways that the Settlers prepared the pumpkin was to pull out the seeds, fill the pumpkin with milk and spices and bury it over hot coals and ashes to cook for hours. Hmmmm delicious!
It should therefore be no surprise that this vegetable, a staple of the American people, would form part of their celebrations on holidays such as Halloween and Thanksgiving.
In fact in the USA, pumpkins are synonymous with the Fall/Autumn season. It is the time when pumpkin festivals and pumpkin competitions are held all over the country. The festivals and competitions range from, who has grown the largest pumpkin, to who can chuck a pumpkin the farthest, to the best pumpkin pie, to the biggest pumpkin eater.
So, in lieu of practicing for biggest pumpkin eater competition, I am off to my local diner for some pumpkin pancakes smothered with pumpkin syrup.
Bon Appetite!
A few years ago whilst on a vacation in Greece, I stayed with a good friend and her family in Thessaloniki. Being the sleepy-head that I am, I woke up late one morning and all the members of the family had gone out on errands save my friend's father. He did not speak a word of English, only Greek and German. (The German he had learned when he was in the Greek army during World War II.) And I did not speak a word of Greek, only English and Afrikaans, a language indigenous to South Africa, a distant version of Flemish, Dutch and German.
Still, he made some Greek coffee and invited me to sit out on the balcony with him. We started talking. There was some gesturing, lots of smiling but mostly just plain old talking. I don't know when I noticed that he was speaking German and I was speaking Afrikaans but there we were, chatting in the morning sun for a good two hours. We found a way of listening to each other, of sharing something of each other's lives and getting to know each other. In this way we found an understanding and an appreciation of the other, a way that was uniquely ours.
When my friend got home she was surprised to hear about my morning with her father, especially as he was not much of a conversationalist, not even with his own children. But she was even more surprised to learn that I knew about how her parents met and fell in-love. I knew about the time her dad spent in Germany when he was a soldier. I knew about the nosy neighbour responsible for the local gossip and about the roses that her father planted every year. I even knew about his thoughts on her latest boyfriend and on her latest career move.
All this from speaking two different languages.
So if it can happen to me then why can it not happen at the annual United Nations High Level Meeting?
The United Nations is an institution where there are only six official languages (English, French, Russian, Arabic, Spanish and Chinese) and if diplomats happen to fumble or fuss over a word or a phrase, they have clear, concise, instantaneous interpretation, directly in their ears.
So, understanding one another should be as easy as ABC, right?
Yes, most of the time but definitely not for one week out of fifty-two weeks.
This past week, the eyes of the world were focused on the High Level Meeting of the 64th Session of the General Assembly, attended by Heads of State and Government from almost all nations, where statements centered on important issues such as climate change, nuclear disarmament, peace in the Middle East, economic development and poverty eradication.
And what happened?
Well, there they were, talking at each other, rather than to each other or with each other. Some of them lectured from lofty positions, others handed out a tongue-lashing and still others played the game of ping-pong with words. I wonder how many of them really listened with the intention of appreciating what the other had to say. Did some attend with the aim of merely throwing their national interest at others? Did innovative and creative ideas fall on deaf ears? Were others brushed aside and labeled without being given a fair hearing?
The annual High Level Meeting of the General Assembly is a platform, which provides an opportunity for world leaders to come together in the hope of creating a more just and peaceful world, with an equitable international order. And all too often the opportunity is squandered and the platform is violated because they don't really hear one another long enough to understand each other.
As a matter of fact, during the High Level Meeting, the United Nations turns into a modern day Tower of Babel. You know, the biblical story about an enormous tower built in the city of Babylon. It was supposed to be a tower that signified the unity of the people. Instead it was used by some to expound their own greatness, a place of pride, of pomp and ceremony. Enraged, God made it so that the people spoke 72 different languages, which made communication impossible and then, God scattered the people around the world.
Perhaps the United Nations needs to get rid of the interpretation during the High Level Meeting of the General Assembly and put all the Heads of State out on a balcony in Greece for one week. Then they would have no choice but to really listen to what the other is saying.
The Americans don't only spell Labour Day (Labor Day) differently, they also celebrate it differently.
In most of the world, Labour Day is the public holiday synonymous with celebrating the economic and social achievements of workers, but this past weekend saw the streets of New York filled with tourists, rather than massive street rallies by workers, labour movements and trade unions. There were no festive street parades for the workers and their families, nor were there any political speeches espousing solidarity between workers of all nationalities.
Instead, celebrated on the first Monday in September, Labour Day marks the end of summer with picnics and barbecues. It is often viewed as the last weekend for parties and the last chance for summer travel. In the sports world, it marks the beginning of the college football season and in the fashion world, it is the last chance to wear the colour white, especially white shoes and pants. It is a day of rest, spent with family and friends.
In other countries, Labour Day is usually celebrated on May 1st and is known as May Day or International Workers' Day. It is significant as an international celebration of working class culture and politics.
This is especially true in Communist countries like China where Workers' Day is a week-long celebration, which includes mile-long military parades. In Cuba, it looks like carnival season in the streets of Havana with the outpour of people commemorating the rights of workers. Cuban flags are flying, drums are beating and music permeates the air as thousands gather at the Plaza of the Revolution to listen to the President give his annual May Day speech.
The history of Workers' Day is steeped in the writings of Karl Marx and Frederick Engels and in the establishment of the Eight-Hour Day Movement, which calls for eight hours of work, eight hours of recreation and eight hours of rest.
But even in non-Communist countries, Workers' Day is a remembrance of the history and traditions of the working class.
This is evident in France where the "fete du travail" is a sacrosanct part of the working culture. It often sets the stage for major union activities and propagation of socialist policies. On this day, the working class displays its strength and unity with demonstrations and strikes. Others use the day to campaign for human rights in general or highlight current social issues such as racism.
Similarly, in Italy, the working class and labour unions display their camaraderie with the annual organisation of a free music concert in Rome called the Concerto Del Primo Maggio (1st May's concert.) What began in the early 90's as a celebration of the workers' achievements for improved socio-economic conditions, has seen the Piazza's of Rome swell with hundreds of thousands of people, calling for the rights of workers, whilst grooving along to popular musicians and famous performers like Bono of the rock group U2.
 In a country like South Africa, where the struggle of the "worker" was tied to the struggle for freedom against Apartheid and oppression, Workers' Day is a big day on our political calendar. We take to the streets to mark the achievements of the workers, clearly espoused in the words of Nelson Mandela who said, "no bread without freedom; no freedom without bread." We also hold peaceful protests against any unfair labour practices or standards. As South Africans, it is an important part of our psyche to acknowledge and appreciate the struggle of our workers and the sacrifices they have made so that we can live in freedom today.
So why does the American version of Labour Day disassociate itself from labour activism?
Well, an obvious reason is because historically Labour Day is associated with socialism, and we all know America's stance on that. (Just think of Obama and the opposition he is currently facing, even from his own party, over creating national health coverage.)
The American version becomes harder to explain in light of the fact that it all began right here in the USA. International Worker's Day is often seen as a commemoration of the Haymarket Massacre, which took place in Chicago in 1886, when police killed demonstrators on a general strike calling for an eight hour working day. In addition, the international celebration of Labour Day, which often traces its origin to the Eight-Hour Day Movement, saw some of the earliest and most significant demonstrations of the Movement in almost every State and city, from Detroit to Baltimore, from New Jersey to Texas and beyond.
Still, this Labour Day, living in America, I couldn't help but wonder if the American version doesn't have some advantages. I found myself luxuriating in the end of summer on my terrace--dressed in white, with friends, meat sizzling on the grill, talking football.
Not a bad way to spend a day off.
The alarm went off at 5am the other morning. It was an unlikely hour for me to wake up, but then that morning was unlike the rest of the year. It was the start of Ramadaan, the Islamic holy month of fasting when, from sunrise to sunset for thirty days, Muslims immerse themselves in abstinence and prayer.
As I gulped down my oatmeal with eyes half closed, my mind drifted from my New York apartment to my family home, far across the Atlantic, and to what they would be doing at the beginning of Ramadaan. The night before Ramadaan starts, my sister usually sets the table for the "before sunrise" meal, so that porridge bowls, coffee cups, and grilled cheese platters greet us in the morning, in unison with my mom's voice, trailing through the house, waking us up to eat. There we would sit, pyjama clad, smiling through yawns, as we anticipated a day without eating, drinking, smoking (a big deal for my dad) and all things that give earthly pleasure.
Whilst I stood in my New York kitchen, spoon in hand, enveloped by the darkness of the city and only silence for company, I realised that what I miss most here about Ramadaan is the communal spirit.
Although hard to define, the communal spirit of Ramadaan is easy to experience if one lives in an Islamic country or an Islamic community, as opposed to a multicultural one.
In some parts of Egypt, when its time to break the fast, appointed members of the community go through the streets, either on foot or astride donkeys, ringing bells. This is the traditional way of announcing the end of the fasting day. Shops are then closed, children stop playing, families and friends gather around huge dinner tables, and the wafts of food fill the air.
In Istanbul, the calls to prayer from the many mosques not only announce the end of the fast, they also announce the time for sharing, for being charitable and for feeding the next person. Vendors set up their carts in the large squares of the city and traditional food is shared with Muslim and non- Muslim alike. As a matter of fact, I am told it's the best time of day in Istanbul for the tourist.
This is the common thread that runs through Islamic societies during Ramadaan, from Bangladesh to Uganda and beyond.
And even in the street where I grew up in South Africa, I always knew when it was time to break the fast. It was when children walked from home to home, laden with platters of sweets and savouries, in an exchange of foods prepared by their mothers for all the neighbours. And in our own home, Ramadaan was not Ramadaan until my dad brought home a lonely wayfarer to partake in our meals (often someone from Cape Town or Durban who left his or her family behind and came to Johannesburg to work or study). Where he found the wayfarer was not important; what was important was the welcome the wayfarer received.
The idea of fasting is a noble one. The act should bring us closer to God. This is done through increased prayer, being charitable, humbling oneself, pondering the frailty of human life, identifying with the hungry and the poor. It should help us become better, more giving and caring persons. To measure how close Muslims get to these ideals is a private matter between the individual and God. But to see Muslims exert themselves in an effort to do so, is to truly experience the spirit of Ramadaan.
In a multicultural society like New York, where I am the lonely wayfarer amongst many other lonely wayfarers, the spirit of Ramadaan, is not easily recognisable.
Here the call to prayer does not ring through the streets, sweet smells of food don't pervade the air at sunset and Muslims pass each other on the street, ignorant of each other's shared beliefs. Often dinner tables welcome just the immediate family, mosques are filled with only a handful of the faithful who share a bunch of dates and some sweet milk, and friends gather not in large town squares but in upscale Manhattan restaurants, where you would not know by looking at them that they were Muslim and that they had fasted the entire day.
Nevertheless, the spirit of Ramadaan can be found here in New York. It's not in your face but it's there to experience if you wish to do so.
Like coming home from work the other night, I got into a cab five minutes before sunset. Striking up a conversation with the cab driver, we quickly realised that we were both Muslim and were both fasting. So when the time came to break the fast, I unwrapped some candy to share with the driver. He thanked me and broke his fast. And when the cab stopped, he opened up a little brown bag containing some traditional Pakistani treats and he handed me one. There we were, two Muslims in the middle of Manhattan breaking our fast and sharing our little feast. We did so because we knew that Ramadaan is about the communal spirit of sharing, giving and identifying with the other.
I am in a New York state of Ramadaan and I am well.
Where were you that memorable Sunday in June when the USA soccer team almost beat the Brazilian football team for the Confederations Cup, an international competition en route to the FIFA World Cup, to be held in South Africa in 2010?
If you are a football fan like me, then you were glued to the big screen, with your eyes wide in wonder. And if you are an American, than you were most likely outdoors enjoying the balmy summer, oblivious to the fact that we were teetering on the brink of football history that Sunday.
If this were the football team of any other country, the nation would have come to a standstill, literally. But not in the USA. And the reason for the passive response from the American public is because soccer is just not football in the USA. Don't get me wrong, the Americans love their football, just not the football that the rest of the world understands to be football. Soccer, although played at schools, colleges and even professionally, is not big money in the USA. There are no million dollar contracts to be signed, advertisements to be made or products to be endorsed and soccer stars are definitely not celebrities, on par with Michael Jordan, Alex Rodriguez or Tom Brady.
Yet, throughout the world and over the centuries, soccer/football has been the great cultural unifier. In 1915, during World War I soldiers from England and Germany put down their weapons and took up the football, and for a brief moment, forgot that they were enemies. In the dusty streets of Soweto in Johannesburg, little kids play the game by dribbling a coke can or a ball made of string, and in the slums of Brazil, kids practice the game daily with the hope of being the next Pele. And who can forget the emotional support and welcome home that the Iraqi people gave their football team after the World Cup 2006, despite the violence and conflict raging in their country, or the same unifying emotions and camaraderie displayed week in and week out by fans supporting their local leagues or national teams.
When we watch football, we live the game to the point that we create a new culture, the culture of football. In this culture, the game is all that matters.
So, if David Beckham's move to Hollywood could not rally Americans around the culture of football, then what's it going to take? The answer is simple. Americans love to win and the first time that the USA soccer team hoists a World Cup trophy in jubilation, then soccer will become the new football.
I say this because when the USA was leading Brazil 2-0, those few Americans who were watching the game reacted in the same manner as football fans do, from England to Spain and onwards. My American boyfriend jumped for joy and cheered his team on as if he was watching the Super Bowl. The American commentators on ESPN were talking in excited tones, filled with pride and anticipation. And even the host of one of the popular American late night shows, Steven Colbert of the Colbert Report, dedicated a segment of his show to discussing the performance of the USA team.
Seemingly, sports fans are sport fans everywhere in the world, and there are no bigger sport fans than the Americans, so it's just a matter of time before the world of football ignites the Americans.
Go USA for the 2010 World Cup. Bets, anyone?
The halls of the United Nations are alive with the sound of ancient rhythms and awash with the hues of the rainbow. As far as the eye can see, there is a kaleidoscope of color. Peoples of different lands, adorned in tribal costumes of deep ochre, splendid greens and lively blues, stride the halls.
It is the time when the indigenous peoples from around the world descend on the United Nations, to remind us of our origins, our customs and traditions, and hopefully our humanity. In other words, it is the time when the indigenous peoples attend a meeting called the Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues. This is a forum, which was established by the UN in July 2000 to discuss indigenous issues relating to economic and social development, culture, the environment, education, health and human rights.
As the old world clashes with the new, the atmosphere is filled excitement and anticipation. This is a welcomed aversion from the hushed norm at the United Nations, home to the diplomat, a mysterious creature, always clad in a dark suit, briefcase in hand, exuding an air of importance.
Making my way through the UN's Vienna Cafe, I relished the annual frenzy of Chippewa chiefs from Canada exchanging information on knowledge systems with the Sami people of Finland; the Bora tribes of Peru sharing life experiences with the Vedda people of Sri-Lanka; the Yugakhir people of Siberia telling tales of their medicine men to the Masai of Kenya.
In all this activity, I was seeking out the indigenous peoples of Southern Africa. They are the San or Bushmen, a hunter-gatherer people thought to be the first people from whom all the rest of us came. Most people may know of them from the movie The Gods must be crazy. It tells the story of what happens when a coke bottle falls from the sky and lands in the midst of a San tribe living out in the Kalahari, an arid desert area bordering the countries of South Africa, Botswana and Namibia.
Although it was a widely acclaimed movie, it depicted the life of the San in a farcical manner and from a stereotypical view. I wanted to know some of the truths of their lives. I was curious as to how these communities function in the modern world. Have they embraced the opportunities presented by a globalised world or have their traditions been tarnished and challenged?
Over a lingering lunch with two lively representatives of the Khomani and Kwattu tribes of the San people from the Kalahari, I was given a glimpse into their lives and an inkling of the vast wisdom of their traditions. This was accompanied with a dose of reality regarding the social ills that their communities face.
The stories they told were fascinating, such as the time when a visit by Dutch tourists turned into a medical frenzy. One of the tourists insisted on climbing a gigantic tree found in the Kalahari called the Shepard tree (white bark, small dark green leaves, special beauty and luxurious shade) and of course the tourist fell and broke his leg. Being miles away from civilisation and modern medical facilities, the ancient tradition of medicine kicked in. The elders of the tribe dug a hole in the ground, the length and width of his leg and placed his leg in the hole. They covered it with heaps of sand so that the leg could not move. In this way the earth itself became the natural leg cast. This protected the leg from infection and kept the broken bones intact. By the time the ambulance arrived, which was almost three hours later, the dutch tourist was comfortable and the healing process had begun.
Another interesting cure from the Kalahari is when you are stung by a deadly scorpion called the Parabuthus radus (about 16mm long, found on logs, shrubs and rocks,) you will most certainly die, save for one antidote. The very scorpion must be hunted down, splayed open and placed on the sting so that its blood sucks out the poisonous venom. And what if you don't find the scorpion? The answer given was, "No scorpion has got away so far."
There were many more stories, like the one where the World Bank official kept everyone awake all night, prancing around with sticks of fire to ward off the Kalahari lions (something he saw done in a movie.)
But the stories that drew me in were the ones of poverty, alcoholism, discrimination, and violence against women. These social ills had become all too common.
Issues such as gender imbalance never existed in the traditional hunter- gatherer communities such as the San. Women played a significant role in educating the children about the balance of nature, medicinal plants, as well as values and customs. But with colonialism, dispossession of their natural resources and globalisation, everything changed. The rapid decline of natural resources also forced the San men to seek work on farmlands and in mines, thus gradually leading to the erosion of their societies and family structures.
For these and many other reasons, there is a need to work towards an improvement in the lives of indigenous communities around the world.
The holding of the annual UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues and the implementation of its outcomes, serve to remind us of our responsibility towards the indigenous peoples and towards ourselves because, after all, what are we if not a kaleidoscope?
Ever wonder why in some cultures (mostly Western), when a woman gets older, her hair gets shorter, meaning a cut? And in others (mostly Eastern), when a woman gets older, her hair gets longer, meaning unchecked growth?
As an "Eastern woman," who has mostly lived in Western countries (England, Switzerland, USA), I can't help but notice what I call the "hair to age ratio" amongst Western women of 50 years and older, compared to their counterparts in the Eastern world.
So, on a hot Manhattan afternoon, I set out to find some answers to the puzzle. And who better to ask than a hair consultant, and where better to find one than at Bumble and Bumble, located in New York's glitzy meat-packing district. It is no ordinary hair salon. It is a self-sufficient, self-intact, hair emporium. There are 8 floors and each floor specializes in something or other related to hair, from product development and public relations to classes on hair technique and hair care. There are coffee shops and even preps for fashion shows. It's like walking into a haven for hair.
Sitting on the 7th floor, sipping my San Pellegrino, I entered into a little chit-chat with my well- moussed hairdresser, who calls himself a "queen without country." According to him, the simple answer is: Western women of 50 years and older tend to keep shorter hair because it's easier to manage. With shorter hair, less effort is required and the arms, neck and shoulders feel no strain because there is no pulling, curling or tonging. But, the "real" answer is, and this is the ringer, shorter hair on an older woman is like an instant facelift. You look younger and slimmer because the focus is above your shoulders.
Could the answer really be as simple as age old vanity? And is vanity the motivation behind the long hair of the older Eastern women?
I had to do a little bit more probing before I came to the realization that in the Eastern world, hair is a women's crowning glory, especially if it is long, thick and lustrous. An older woman from an Eastern culture would therefore be very reluctant to loose her locks. But even with long hair, just like her Western sister, she too knows the secret behind an instant facelift. And it's not the scissors. It's hairpins. Yes, the elegant chignon, bun or hair twist, commonly worn amongst Asian moms and grandmas, has the same slimming effect on the body and the same youthful rejuvenation to the face as a short cut.
But what of those cultures where women don't reveal their hair, such as in the Arab or African cultures. For these women, covering the hair is often a sign of modesty and respect, especially amongst the older generation. So, does the covering of the hair ever prevent these women from expressing their femininity? Nope, because these women know how to accessorise to the hilt. African women are often adorned with elaborate, colourful headdresses and scarves, again drawing the eyes to the face and above. And with Arab women, even if not a single strand of hair is revealed, these women are often bedecked with sparkling jewels and glamorous makeup, keeping the eye above the neck.
Regardless of the trend or the hairdos around the world, the motivation is always the same.
Vanity thy name is woman!
I may not be America's next Iron Chef, but I have been known to throw together a smoking lamb curry (according to my boyfriend's Texan family), the best pizza in the world (according to my brother's football buddies), a deliciously cheesy pasta (according to my mom on a break from another diet) and a briyani fit for a Rajah (according to hungry friends).
So, while I may not be too shabby with Indian and Italian cooking, its pretty much hit and miss with the rest of the world's cuisines. To fill in the gaps, I have taken up cooking classes.
The Miette Culinary Studio is the perfect place to learn about the cuisines of the world. Chef Paul, the owner of the Studio specializes in French cuisine. But in addition to teaching you how to make the perfect souffle, he also teaches you how to cook everyday American dishes and some Italian classics too. He uses a number of teachers (chefs) from different geographical backgrounds to teach about the authentic flavors of their regions such as in the Chinese and Indian cooking classes. There are also classes related to special occasions or special diets and these range from preparing dim sum brunches to vegetarian meals, and even some outdoorsy cooking such as barbecue.
In Miette, you get a little bit of everything and lately I noticed that even the everything has become a mishmash of something. Or has the evolution of cooking always been a little bit of this and a little bit of that? Dare I say that the world's different cuisines are more alike than we care to acknowledge.
In a recent cooking class, we did a French take on the famous Indian samoosa.
The samoosa is a triangular shaped pastry made of flour, salt, water and loads of ghee (clarified butter), stuffed with a savory filling of meat or veggies. Our French version was a kinda lopsided phyllo pastry stuffed with the same spicy, curried filling. This "slight" variation begged the question, is a samoosa, a samoosa because of its shape? And would it still be a samoosa if it were not a perfect triangle?
The answer is yes.
Our lopsided pastry tasted just like a samoosa although it looked more like a Moroccan pastilla. Now a Moroccan pastilla is a meat pie (traditionally with a pigeon filling, yup the bird) made of phyllo pastry, with a sprinkle of confectionery sugar on the top. It has a subtle combination of savory spices and sweet flavors and it tastes and looks similar to the Greek pies called bourekia, save the sugar. And it is no surprise that the Greek bourekia is a replica of Turkish borek. You guessed it, the Greeks acquired the term bourekia from the Turkish, as they did many of their other culinary delights. Now a borek or bourekia is a "meaty-bread" and if we translate that to mean meat pies, then we really cannot leave the English out of the equation. After all, the English meat pie, from steak and kidney to Cornish hen, is one of England's better contributions to the world's cuisines.
 See what I mean? We began our samoosa journey in India, crossed the Mediterranean twice, took a detour into Turkey and ended up in England, and all the while using the same basic ingredients.
But the journey of the Indian samoosa is not a unique one. If you dust off the flour, remove the peels and clear away some of the dish pans, you will see similarities in the foods of different cultures, regions and even countries.
A case in point is my favorite desert, baklava, which tickled my taste buds from the first taste in a tiny bakery off the beaten path in Sultanhamet, Istanbul. The Greeks claim this delectable delight as theirs, the Turks claim the same, the Armenians have a stake, but I have been told that its origin is Middle Eastern, dating back to the Assyrians of the 8th century BC (today around the Syria, Iraq, Lebanon area). For a traditional baklava, some of these cultures use walnuts, others pistachio nuts. Some drench the pastry in honey, others prefer a sugary syrup, but whatever is used, baklava is baklava is baklava; a sweet nutty pastry.
So, what's in a name then?
My everyday household salad consists of finely chopped cucumbers, red onions and tomatoes, dressed with olive oil and sprinkled with lots of coriander (cilantro). In my home this salad is called an Indian salad. But when I prepared it for an American Jewish family, I was informed that the very salad is typically called an Israeli salad. And according to my Israeli friend, in the kibbutz where she grew up, the same salad is called an Arab salad.
For food lovers, it's not the name of the dish that is important, it's the unexpected burst of flavors in every mouthful. It's the satisfaction of knowing that you have eaten well and its the anticipation of the next course.
Similarly, for an aspiring "good enough to eat" cook like myself, where a recipe originates from, does not interest me as much as the exciting fusion of the many ingredients. All I need is to create something delicious, and thanks to Miette I can now do so with a full appreciation of what I am cooking, albeit a mishmash of deliciousness!
So there I was at my first "Gamelan" performance. I had no idea what it was or what I got myself into when I agreed to traipse along to the Indonesian Consulate to watch my boyfriend's mate get his "culture on."
I anticipated the worst (monotones, falling asleep, slitting my wrists). And what did I get? I got the best and much more. The New York based Balinese music/dance group Gamelan Dharma Swara did not disappoint. The performance was like a breath of fresh air blowing through the halls of the Consulate on a humid night.
The music is a melodic interlocking of gongs, bamboo flutes and tuned keys played on handcrafted instruments. If you close your eyes, it kinda sounds psychedelic, like trance dance music. But believe me, there is no need to reach for the aspirin bottle.
My favorite was the Topang (traditional mask) dance. The mask, a white canvas with a finely painted mustache, exaggerated makeup and elaborate headdress seemed alive. But it was the delicate movements and stances of the dancer that captivated. What was obviously physically demanding seemed completely effortless.
The thing that really blew my top though, was the number of white faces amidst the Indonesian faces that made up this traditional orchestra of about 20 players. And it was not just the faces, it was the expressions of belonging that they wore and the relish with which they played the instruments. This was the true delight of the evening.
Gamelan, with its roots mainly on the Islands of Bali and Java, is traditional Indonesian music accompanied by shadow theatre and dance. The theatre and dance draw inspiration from Hindu-Buddhist cultural influences and are often enactments of Hindu historical epics and mythology. It began to be studied in North America during the late 1950s and today there are approximately 200 ensembles in both Canada and the USA. So by now, its cross cultural nature should not be surprising. But, surprising it is and unusual too.
While it is common in modern dance and in contemporary music (pop, jazz and rock bands) to have different races jamming together, the same cannot be said for traditional or indigenous music such as Gamelan, where the music and dance is indigenous to a particular land, ethnic group or tribe. When last have you seen a pale face performing the Native American rain dance or an African singing the folk songs of the traditional reindeer herding Sami people or what about a Chinese person performing the Myan Yucatan dance? And even if you have, you cannot tell me that you were not taken aback, albeit for a second.
In this way, I was reminded of South Africa's very own "White Zulu" as he is affectionately called. Johnny Clegg was 16yrs old when he began a "tribal journey" immersing himself in the language, music and dance of the Zulu nation; a people, native to the Kwazulu Natal Province of South Africa and recognized by history as proud and mighty warriors. By dancing the dance of the great Zulu warriors, Johnny Clegg became a music activist, breaking through the barriers of racial segregation in his own country. The laws of the land back then did not allow for the formation or performance of racially mixed bands. So Clegg and his Zulu band Juluka (meaning sweat in Zulu) were often threatened and censored by the State. As a result, Juluka mostly performed at universities, church halls, migrant labour hostels and community centres. His stage became a platform for anti-apartheid activism as he sang and danced his way into the hearts of all freedom loving South Africans, regardless of color or creed. He embraced the Zulu culture, cow-tails and all, and its people embraced him right back.
Sitting at the Indonesian Consulate that night, looking at the Gamelan ensemble, I realized that it's quite something to see faces who don't obviously belong........belong.
Mother's Day always turned into some kind of "Women's Day” in my family out there on the Highveld in South Africa. You know the sort of event where the women (aunts, daughters, cousins, nieces) gather at grandma's, weighted down with gifts and food showing off their culinary skills. No males allowed. We celebrate ourselves and each other as mothers and future mothers. This is where secrets are shared, ties are strengthened and the kinks of life get passed on from generation to generation.
Now, I have always thought this unique of my own family until a little chit-chat in the United Nations Vienna Cafe set me straight. Bent over cups of bitter coffee and hazy pockets of cigarette smoke, my friends revealed their own particular branding of Mother's Day.
It seems that in some Moroccan homes, two in this case, the celebration of mother’s day is very much a "ladies only" affair. Celebrated on the last Sunday of May, the females gather, bearing gifts and platters of couscous, save one difference. The difference is that these women celebrate motherhood with traditional dance and music. Each female gets a turn to bust a rhyme and show off her moves. This is followed by the traditional Berber calling, which is a rapid succession of the clapping of the tip of the tongue against the roof of the palate creating a sound akin to a shrill of some sort. Believe it or not, this is the sound that Berbers most identify with celebration and joy.
Even where males are welcomed, there still remains some traditions only shared amongst the females. Such is the case in one particular French family where on Mother’s Day the women buy each other small bouquets of stylized Lilies. The Lily is the French national flower and on the last Sunday of May it symbolizes the purity of the female and the gentle strength of the mother.
Now mothers have sons too and if you from an "Indian Family" like mine, sons tend to be kings in the eyes of the Indian mother. So what does the King do to please his mom on her special day? My brother plants a kiss on her cheek and enquires what she has prepared for lunch. Still the King of his Kraal.
But according to my friend from Hyderabad, Mother's Day is the day when Kings literally become servants in India. Although the concept of Mother's Day is new to India and has mainly taken off in the big cities, the mother, always a goddess in India is honored with flowers, gifts, and prayers too. There the "walahs" get the day off and the Kings wait on their mothers and wives, hand to foot. In his family, this particular King cooks his mom a somewhat traditional Indian breakfast of Gobhi Parathas (stuffed cauliflower bread) and Paneer sandwiches (its like grilled cheese but with an accompaniment of green chilies and a toss of red chili powder). This is washed down with masala chai (a milky tea jazzed up with aromatic spices of cardamom, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg).
Indeed, there is nothing typical to celebrating Mother’s Day. It is celebrated around the world by the different cultures in various different ways and on many different days. The most common day being the second Sunday in May and the most common way being to treat mom with breakfast in bed and shower her with cards and gifts. Sometimes special lunches are cooked for her, spa days are booked or her daily chores are performed by the more conscientious of kids.
The Jordanians, like most Middle Eastern Countries, celebrate Mother’s Day on March 21st and like my Jordanian friend says' "It don’t matter how or when you celebrate it, it just matters that you do."
So how do you?
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