Sans Passport

Voices of Afghan Women

2011-03-01T23:54:00.007-06:00

Recently I did a reading. Not the fortune telling type or the spiritual type. The type that writers do.

In the writing world, a reading is an event where a writer promotes his or her work at, say, a book launch party or at bookstores. I, however, was not reading from my own work, but from the work of someone else. I was nervous, not because I would read in public but because I was asked to lend my voice to the work of a woman who doesn't have a voice, not because she can't speak, but because she is an Afghan woman.

The Afghanistan Women's Writing Project (AWWP) is an organization that has enabled women living in Afghanistan to share stories about their everyday lives, their trials and triumphs, their dreams and disappointments, and to provide the outside world with a peek into the often-harsh conditions they endure.

How does this work in a country where it is dangerous to be a woman, let alone a woman writer? AWWP is an online project, founded by writer and journalist Masha Hamilton. It connects Afghan women with writing mentors in the USA who provide them with guidance on writing skills, grammar and sentence construction, and then AWWP posts the women’s writing on their website. The results are some of the most powerful and haunting personal essays and poetry available on the web today.

The essay I chose to read for the occasion—an AWWP fundraiser held in the living room of a New York apartment—was called “Museum of Memories.” It was written by a woman called Roya who was born in Kabul and remained in Afghanistan during the Taliban period. She is one of the foremost contributors of stories on the AWWP website, with more than 75 submissions, and she hopes to continue her education and obtain a Masters degree. She has been quoted as saying, “The AWWP gave me a voice to tell my life stories, gave me the power to feel that I am a woman, and gave me a title, the title of writer, Afghan woman writer.”

Read her personal essay below. If you wish to see more of her writings, and support the voices of the Afghan women, visit the AWWP website: http://www.awwproject.org because the more we lend our voices to their works, the more they will begin to reclaim their own voices.

Museum of Memories

By Roya

I am full of memories. I keep special gifts in my small room, from different friends, my family, and different times of my life. I named my room Museum of Memories.

It starts from my childhood clothes: funny pants—dirty, dusty, some parts torn. They have the smell of my childhood, when I played in the dust with my friends and built mud houses and spent hot days of summer in the sun. When I see my childhood clothes I remember my sunburned face and the pain of my nose when I washed it with warm water after.

I am in a different world with different feelings when I look at the postcards in my album. I remember my teenage times, the days I went to school. I remember Fahima, my school friend who gave me a Bollywood postcard and told me that she was in love with the picture and would marry the superstar after she graduates from school. She was a simple girl with super dreams and I was too—I believed she would marry the superstar!

When I look at other items in the corner of my room, I see the jumper I took from Laila by force; she became angry at first, then when I helped her carry a bag full of potatoes one snowy winter day, she gave me the jumper for my birthday. I see the green chadar (veil), I pick it up and look at it, it was Karima’s favorite color and with that I remember the happy spring memories I shared with her.

The Taj Mahal sculpture on my dressing table is a memory of my very close friend Sela. It reminds me of the romance and the love she shared with her boyfriend. She couldn’t keep the sculpture herself so she gave it to me.

I also have a collection of songs, which relate to different memories, and when I play them I want to cry for those moments past. I sometimes play the song called “Last Night” more than ten times over.

Everything in my museum has a special cost. They are unique and dear to me, as dear as my friends. The two most precious things have to do with my dad. There is my watch, which my Dad had sent for me from a trip, and the other is what I see in the mirror, my lovely shiny hair. Dad told me never cut it. He said, I love girls with long hair. Now, every day when I comb my long brown shiny hair, I remember him.

I have lost only one thing, which I still can’t forget the pain of. I lost my love letters, which I hid in my grandfather’s winter coat 15 years ago. Last Sunday my husband gave the coat to a poor man!

The objects I have kept are all reminders of golden times, happy moments and long sorrows. They are like alarms waking me up, reminding me that no matter how bad things are in Afghanistan, that I should be happy, and understand the value of friendship and learn the lessons of ever-constant love.

In Solidarity with Palestine

2010-11-29T20:59:00.006-06:00

On this day, the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People, I am reminded of the tragic family story of a friend from Palestine. It is one story and one tragedy lost in a sea of similar stories and uncountable tragedies, that is Palestine.

Hers was the story of her parents. Two people who decided to give their two daughters a better life by protecting them from Israeli guns and aggression in the only way they knew how, to leave their home in Nablus and become refugees in a neighboring Arab country. On the day of their exodus, her father could not emotionally accept leaving the land of his ancestors to make room for European, Russian or American Jews who, with every new step that they took on a land that was not theirs, trampled over the many lives that once lived there, lives forever lost under the dust and dirt of foreign shoes.

So he decided to stay. He made no promises to follow his family and they did not stand at gates or stare through windows awaiting his arrival. After all, they were Palestinians, they understood that with the creation of the State of Israel, things, especially families, fall apart. My friend often said that as brave as her mother was to leave, her father was too, brave to stay. So whilst a single Palestinian mother, in another Arab land that was not hers, worked tirelessly to educate and raise her two daughters, a Palestinian father made the ultimate sacrifice, his family.

My friend’s parents were never united again, though they remained married for forty-three years, until the death of her father. Her mother has still not returned to Palestine, but my friend has. With a new passport in hand, she travelled to Palestine, to her old family home to collect a few of her father’s possessions and to pay her respects to a man she never knew.

It is not only because of these kinds of stories and struggles that we stand up in solidarity with the Palestinian people, but also because the international community has never fulfilled its obligations to the Palestinian people.

On this day, 29 November in 1947, the United Nations (UN) adopted a resolution, which came to be known as the partition resolution and provided for the establishment in Palestine of a “Jewish State” and an “Arab State” with Jerusalem as an international city.

I prefer to call that famous UN resolution 181, the resolution of dispossession because we all know what has happened since. Only one state, Israel, has come into being, and it has come into being through the systematic dispossession, oppression and occupation of the Palestinian people.

The Palestinian people are yet to exercise their inalienable right to self-determination, their right to independence and sovereignty, their right to return to their homes and their lands from which they have been dispossessed and their right to statehood.

Recognizing the legitimate struggle of the Palestinian people, the UN in 1977, thirty years later, adopted a further resolution to observe, 29 November as the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian people and called on the international community, governments and civil society to do likewise.

In observance of this day- amongst the many messages of support, the many political rallies and human rights demonstrations that will be held, the many cultural events and exhibitions that will be attended, and even the twitter feeds and facebook updates - I have decided to inspire my readers with the following:

Quote

I know they‘re strong and can invade and can kill anyone, but they can’t occupy my words - Mahmoud Darwish

Must Read

The Politics of Dispossession: The Palestinian Struggle for Self-Determination - A non-fiction book by Edward Said, a leading academic and advocate for Palestinian self-determination until his death in 2003.

The Punishment of Gaza - A non-fiction book on the current situation in the occupied Gaza by Gideon Levy, an Israeli journalist and author who has accepted the title of the most hated man in Israel for speaking out against the Israeli occupation.

Must See

Heart of Jenin - A documentary film by Leon Geller and Marcus Vetter based on a true story of a Palestinian father’s humanity in a time of grief and conflict. A12-year-old boy was playing with a plastic gun in the Jenin refugee camp on the West Bank when an Israeli soldier mistook the toy for a weapon and killed the boy. Despite this, the boy’s father, Ahmed donated his son’s organs to several Israeli children in an act of humanity.

White Ribbons

2010-11-28T14:02:00.004-06:00

For most people White Ribbon Day is the name of a song, which was released in 1997 by a rock band called Delirious. For others, White Ribbon Day has come to signify hope and a symbol for the elimination of violence against women.

On 17 December 1999, more than ten years ago, the United Nations designated 25^th November as the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women. A day set aside for communities to carry out activities to raise awareness of violence against women and to campaign for its elimination.

And White Ribbon Day is such a campaign. On this day men and women are called upon to wear a white ribbon or a white wristband as a visual symbol of a commitment to prevent violence against women. Also, men and boys are encouraged to take an oath swearing never to commit, make an excuse or remain silent about violence against women. This is an important first step because after all in relation to men, we women are their mothers, wives, girlfriends, daughters, colleagues and friends and we should be treated with respect, dignity and consideration.

So in support of White Ribbon Day and the elimination of violence against women, I have decided to not only wear my white ribbon faithfully but to also inspire my readers with a quote, a “must read” and a “must see” on the elimination of violence against women.

Quote:

It is a violation of human rights when women and girls are sold into the slavery of prostitution. It is a violation of human rights when women are doused with gasoline, set on fire and burned to death because their marriage dowries are deemed too small. It is a violation of human rights when individual women are raped in their own communities and when thousands of women are subjected to rape as a tactic or prize of war. It is a violation of human rights when a leading cause of death worldwide among women ages 14 to 44 is the violence they are subjected to in their own homes. It is a violation of human rights when young girls are brutalized by the painful and degrading practice of genital mutilation. It is a violation of human rights when women are denied the right to plan their own families - violence against women is a violation of human rights and human rights are women's rights, and women's rights are human rights –Hillary Clinton

Must Read:

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - This is a mystery novel by Stieg Larsson. Though it’s an entertaining bestseller, it also highlights trafficking in and violence against women.

Must See:

Taken - This is a 2008 French film, a thriller directed by Pierre Morel on sex trafficking of women.

Marry for Love

2010-11-17T01:03:00.005-06:00

My mother always said that I would marry for love, and it wouldn’t matter to me if he were the gardener or the street sweeper. She was right. A little less than a year ago, I got married (not a gardener or street sweeper) and I married for love.

Most of us marry for love, or at least for some other reason of our choosing, perhaps money or status. All of that is acceptable as long as the marriage contract is mutually agreed upon by the two people forming a union. But not everyone in the world is allowed this kind of choice.

The unlucky are the ones like the 15-year-old UK citizen that went to Bangladesh at the beginning of the summer holidays for a family wedding but when she got there she was stripped of her passport and forced into marriage by the threat that her father would kill her mother if she did not. Or the 12-year-old Afghan girl forced to marry a 65-year-old man because he had money and status and if she refused she would bring shame on her family and be killed--just another honor killing statistic. And what about the woman in Kazakhstan that was kidnapped and forced into marriage, raped by her husband and kept as a slave by his family? Also the 16-year-old girl from Ethiopia who fled to the UK with nothing but the clothes on her back because her father forced her to marry his brother's eldest son when all she wanted to do was be a teacher. And let's not forget the girl that set herself on fire in Turkey rather than enter into a forced marriage.

The examples are numerous throughout the world.

So what is this murky world of forced marriages and where do these practices take place and why in the 21st century are we still reading about these tragedies in our newspapers and hearing about them on our televisions?

Well, let me tell you about it.

Forced marriage is a marriage that takes place in which one or both of the persons is married without his/her free consent or against his/her will. It is a problem that occurs mainly among young women and girls, although there are cases of young men and boys being forced to marry.

It is a practice that, whilst less common among the wealthiest in the world, is most prevalent in South Asia, Africa and the Middle East. Due to immigration patterns, it is also practiced amongst these immigrant communities living in the USA, Canada, UK, and in EU countries. The practice also persists in the independent countries of the former Soviet Union such as Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan.

Forced marriage is recognized as a violation of human rights because it dehumanizes people by denying them their right to choose. It leads to discrimination and violence against women and girls, and often endangers their health and well-being.

Closely related to forced marriage is the practice of early marriage or child marriage, whereby a minor is deemed incapable of giving informed consent and so consent is given by an adult, sometimes under traditional and cultural duress and sometimes because of tradition and culture.

So now that we know what it is, the next question on your mind should be: What has been done about it?

Well, let me tell you more.

Numerous international legal instruments as well as regional and national instruments condemn the practice of forced and early marriage and uphold the requirement for the free and informed consent of both parties to a marriage.

The Protocol to the African Charter on Human and Peoples Rights on the Rights of Women in Africa calls on African countries to enact legislative measures guaranteeing that no marriage shall takes place without free and full consent. The Protocol also stipulates that the minimum age of marriage for women shall be 18 years.

Similarly, the Council of Europe defines early marriage as the union of two persons, at least one of whom is under 18 years of age and recommends that 18 years be the minimum age for marriage, and that the Council consider criminalizing acts of forced marriage.

Also the United Nations Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) mandates free will and consent of both parties, the specification of a legal minimum age for marriage and that the marriage of a child has no legal effect.

In addition to laws, all the major world religions condemn forced and early marriage. The Catholic Church deems forced marriage as grounds for an annulment of the marriage, and according to Islamic doctrines, forced marriage violates the basic tenet of an Islamic marriage, which is the free and full consent of both parties to the marriage.

Despite these laws and the existing religious opposition, the practice of early and forced marriage continues.

Crazy but true. So why does this practice continue?

The main reason is because of tradition and culture. And because tradition and culture has not evolved in terms of international human rights standards and norms, and are often inconsistent with the principles set forth in the Charter of the United Nations and in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

Another reason is lack of education. These harmful practices, wherever they occur, in all settings, within or outside the family, continue in communities that are historically patriarchal and where the empowerment and education of women and girls are not a priority.

So, how can we change this harmful practice of forced marriage?

We must stop invoking custom, tradition, or cultural considerations to avoid our human obligations with respect to the elimination of discrimination and we must refrain from using tradition and culture to justify violence or even to stand silent in the face of violence being committed.

We must educate and empower women and girls and we must use our voices to speak up for those that can’t – the voiceless victims of forced marriage.

Because at the end of the day, shouldn’t every parent want that which my mother wanted for me –to marry for love?

A Minaret in the New York Skyline!

2010-09-11T07:42:00.014-05:00

Today, I took a walk downtown, towards the site of the World Trade Centre, to 45-51 Park Place to be exact, the purported site of the Ground Zero Mosque.

I wanted to see the site for myself. And I wanted to see what the fuss was all about.

As I rounded the corner, there was no mistaking which building was 45-51 Park Place. The police presence was seen up and down the street and two policemen were permanently stationed outside the doors of the building. There was also a huge stakeout by the media and journalists from around the world, randomly interviewing passersby to see on which side of the divide they fell.

The building, which is to house the new Islamic cultural centre, looked desolate and run-down. Not only in need of a good paint job, it was in need of an overhaul and complete renovation. The doors were open but not for the general public to enter. From where I stood I could see that plastic sheets were hanging from the interior walls, a sign that construction work would take place. A few African American men dressed like the men of the Nation of Islam (the Farrakhan garb) greeted the policemen and went in.

I lingered around 45-51 Park Place and listened to the comments from passersby. My ears perked up at words such as: mosque, terrorists, Muslims, freedom, religion, Islamic centre, Cordoba House, moderate Islam.

It was apparent that not everyone had the same idea of what it was that we were all looking at, because after all, in the land of the blind, the one-eyed Jack is King.

So what are the facts related to 45-51 Park Place?

We know that it is not going to be a mosque but rather an Islamic cultural centre, modeled on the Jewish and Christian community centers. The plans include a prayer and interfaith room, an auditorium, a fitness centre, swimming pool, childcare facilities, bookstore, adult classes, a food court catering for halaal food and an art studio.

It is not in or at Ground Zero. As a matter of fact the two sites are not even across the road from each other; you can’t see the one when you are at the other. They are two blocks away from each other, a walk of several minutes. At least, 300 steps, and I counted.

The name, (unlike the Jewish and Christian centers) will not have any kind of Islamic connotation. It is to be called Park 51, referencing the street address. And the name Cordoba House - an inference to the 8^th -11^th century Cordoba in Spain, the Islamic period of peaceful co-existence between Muslims, Christians and Jews - will refer only to the interfaith and religious area within Park 51.

Finally, unbeknownst to many, this site is already being used by Muslims for prayers and reading of the Quran. The building, which was damaged during the 11 September 2001 attacks, was abandoned until it was purchased in 2009. And since September 2009 the building was used as an overflow prayer space for Muslims, who were not able to fit in at the smaller TriBeca mosque nearby.

So, if there are no plans to build a mosque, if the location is not in ground zero, if the name does not speak of Islam and if Muslims have already been using the building for prayers - then just what is the fuss all about?

There are some (not all) families of the victims of the 11 September 2001 attacks who say that it is offensive to the memory of the victims and the family of the victims to build a “mosque” so close to Ground Zero. There argument is an emotional one. Whilst this can be understood, it is nevertheless based on the idea that Islam, rather than Islamic radicals were responsible for the attack.

There is the right wing (mainly Republicans), who are the catalysts that sparked the protests and caused all the controversy. Why? Because to these people it does not matter whether you are Muslim or Mexican, it just matters that you are not white and your origins cannot be traced back to the first wave of immigrants that founded this land. These so called “tea-baggers” want to see an America for Americans only. But no such an America exists because today Americans are of all races, all nationalities, all religions, and all cultures and from every geographical area on the planet. The problem is these people don’t like it so they taint it with their hate mongering and closed minds.

There are the politicians such as President Obama and Mayor Bloomberg who support the building of the Islamic cultural centre. They support it because they assert a belief in the freedom of religion and in the diversity, equality and rights of all Americans. Whilst this may be true, they are also interested in the political leverage of lending their support to moderate Islam, and in a complex world such as ours, this is key.

Then, there are those freethinking Americans who truly believe in the American constitutional values and the rights contained therein. They see the building of the Islamic cultural centre as an opportunity to put these values into practice so as to protect the rights of all Americans.

So, is the fuss about the relationship between the USA and Islam? Is it about the confusion that many Americans have felt about Islam since 11 September 2001, when, for many, Islam first came onto their radar? Or is it about the partisan politics of the USA, the Democrats vs. Republicans, the right wing vs. the liberals? Is it about racism? Or religious intolerance? Or is it just ignorance?

The answer is not simple because the answer is: all of the above.

I left 45-51 Park Place and decided to walk to the site of the Word Trade Centre. It was the eve of the 9^th anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Centre (and the next day had been deemed by some so-called Pastor and religious ignoramus in Florida as Burn a Quran Day). The area was choked with people; some had come to pay their respects and others, to marvel at what once was, and what is now. There were a few Americans flying the American flag in the downtown breeze, in a display of loyalty and patriotism, to what and to whom becomes blurred in a country so divided by its national politics. Then there was also a group of Americans holding a small demonstration and voicing their opinion with placards that read, “Real Americans don’t burn the Quran” and “Muslims are welcome here."

As I stopped off at a halaal vendor, one of many located directly opposite Ground Zero, to buy a falafel sandwich, I looked up at the number of construction cranes overhead where the World Trade Center used to stand. And then it dawned on me:

The reason there is such a fuss is because currently Ground Zero is the only symbol of the relationship between the USA and Islam. It is a symbol of violence, of death, aggression and hostility. What is needed is a new symbol, something that signifies a new beginning and a new understanding. A symbol of tolerance and acceptance.

And short of a minaret in the New York skyline, the Islamic cultural center should be that symbol.

Happy Birthday Madiba!

2010-07-18T12:11:00.037-05:00

At the time of Nelson Mandela’s birthday, I wish to pay tribute to him by sharing three personal memories:

11 February 1990

Most people remember where they were the day Nelson Mandela was released from prison and I am no exception.

It was a parched Sunday afternoon on the Highveld in South Africa and like most Sundays in February, a perfect day for a wedding. My family and I were at a traditional Indian wedding, at the final segment, (these are long affairs), when the bride goes home to bid a teary-eyed farewell to her relatives.

On this day, however, the Bollywood melodrama was upstaged by the events on the television, around which everyone was gathered. You could feel the excitement vibrate off the samoosa platters being passed around and the expectations running high with every cup of tea being gulped down.

And then someone shouted, “Look, look, there he is …come see, there is Mandela.”

I looked and the first thing I saw was the ghost, the apparition that the millions of oppressed black South Africans believed in, the man that we knew was out there somewhere but that we could not see, touch, or speak with. Then, at a second glance I saw a smiling face with dancing eyes. And finally, a gray haired man, with a slow gait, fists of glory raised in the air. He was surrounded by a number of security personnel and being led by Winnie Mandela past a throng of clicking cameras and a mob of hopeful South Africans of all colors’.

There he was, no longer a ghost; a free man, walking out of our TV sets, into our lives and our hearts.

From that moment on Nelson Mandela has come to embody many different things to me and to millions of other people around the world.

For some, a defiant, young lion who showed the oppressed people of South Africa that their spirit and dignity could not be contained in a cage. For others, a President who through his extraordinary actions and personality led his country to peace and democracy. A hero in the history books, a moral compass to be looked up to, a true son of the African soil, an international icon for human rights, a world humanitarian champion, a symbol of hope for the oppressed and marginalized around the world and the list goes on...

12 June 1998

Nelson Mandela became the most famous football fan when he made a brief appearance at the final match of the FIFA World Cup 2010 in Johannesburg. This brought to mind a memory I have of him during the 1998 World Cup.

Then, he made a minor appearance, far from the games, but I was there.

I was a student in London and invited by the South African High Commissioner to a Mandela Children’s Fund event where he would be present. It was a small gathering of people made up mainly of the staff of the South African High Commission, donors, and a few South African expatriates. I walked into the hall and made my way to the front so that I could be as close to him as possible. Soon the lights were dimmed and an announcement was made not to use flash photography (his eyes damaged by years of working at the prison quarry on Robben Island.)

He walked in and with slow steps he made his way up to the podium. From the back he looked frail, fragile even. But then he turned around, stood tall and with that familiar smile he said, “I can’t believe you are all here. All of you have come to see me, an old man, on the same day that Bafana Bafana (the South African national team) is playing France in the World Cup. You should be at your TVs rather than here with an old man.”

11 November 2009

That moment, the first and only time that I met Nelson Mandela, was prominent in my mind on the cold November day when the United Nations (UN) in New York, unanimously adopted the resolution proclaiming 18th July, the birthday of Nelson Mandela, as “Nelson Mandela International Day.”

I was privileged to have been in the hall of the General Assembly on that very day and to be seated with the South Africa Ambassador, behind the South African flag, when the gavel dropped on such a historical moment.

And I felt especially privileged to have played a role in the realisation of the event.

You see, at that time, I was the Political Counsellor for Human Rights at the South African Mission to the UN, the lucky official that was asked to draft and negotiate on behalf of South Africa, the very UN resolution that proclaimed 18th July, “Nelson Mandela International Day.”

I remember drowning my nerves with one Diet Coke after the other as I walked into the negotiating room. My main aim was to convince the European Union, the USA and other countries that the UN should set aside a day to honor the achievements of an individual. I remember thinking that this was going to be especially difficult because the UN has never in its history honored an individual. How would I sell the idea? How would I get around the fact that when the UN does celebrate international days, the day is related to an international theme, and not a person?

After I introduced the resolution, I yielded the floor, expecting to be bombarded with all kinds of questions and comments about UN procedures, and about financial implications and setting of precedents etc.

Immediately, every single hand went up.

Every Member State present in the room that day pledged their support and/or co-sponsorship to the resolution that would give recognition to the achievements and stature of Nelson Mandela. No questions were asked. I did not need to sell anything. There was no need to convince anyone of the merits of this resolution.

What was to become one of the proudest accomplishments of my diplomatic career was by far my easiest negotiation. And it was made easy for me by Nelson Mandela himself. His life’s work and actions speak for themselves.

18th July until forever

Happy birthday Tata Madiba!

Pie in the Sky!

2010-07-02T12:55:00.039-05:00

When I was growing up and we kids did not want to eat our vegetables, my mom, like many moms around the world, would say, "There are children in Ethiopia who have never even seen a vegetable." And when we didn't want to eat the last morsels on our plates, she would rebuke us with, "A Palestinian child would give so much to have just those few bites."

Unlike many people, however, my mother didn't just feed us spoonfuls of guilt and leave it there.

No, on the days when we kids resisted and the leftovers were plenty, she would pack up the extra food in containers and walk to the end of the street, share a nicety or two with the security guard and hand him the containers. Often extra food, especially cookies and cakes, was wrapped up for the gardener, who had a sweet tooth, or for the housekeeper, to take to the tiny church bazaar that she ran on Sundays. And then there were times when my mom would bundle us kids into the back of the car and drive us to the nearby orphanage, where the food would be shared with the kids who lived there.

As a result, my mom's plea for the hungry of the world was never pie in the sky; it was pie to be shared with all who needed feeding around her.

I was reminded of these memories because recently I started taking a cooking class- "Essentials of Fine Cooking," where I learned how to make mayonnaise from scratch, a bouillabaisse that my husband relished, and a scrumptious ratatouille (the dish served by the rat in the Pixar movie).

But while creating all these fancy dishes, I could not help but notice the amount of food that was being wasted. Heaps of vegetables, meat, fish and poultry, cooked and uncooked, were being tossed into rubbish bins. To their credit the chefs at the school do utilize all parts of animals and vegetables- often in stocks, compounds and sauces- but the sheer volume of the food often exceeds the consumption.

This is a problem that affects many cooking schools, restaurants, and the larger food industry. Just the other day, a friend and I were having a late night coffee at a popular French bakery in my neighbourhood. At closing time, we watched in horror as loaves of breads and pastries not sold for the day were swept away into big black rubbish bins, along with the dust and dirt.

What happened to the sharing of leftovers or handing it over to people who have need for it?

Surely these establishments can make arrangements to ensure their leftovers feed some of the hungry in New York. There are many soup kitchens all over the city, which would welcome their contributions. As would the many organizations established for the sole purpose of collecting and redistributing food to the hungry of New York.

One such organization is City Harvest, whose mission is to rescue food for New York's hungry. In addition to dining establishments, the organization rescues food from farmers and other food producers who find their supply outweighing their demand. The excess is collected and packaged by volunteers from the community and redistributed to those in need.

The wastage of food in New York started me thinking about the hungry across the world- their right to food and how they can be fed in a sustainable manner?

The "right to food" is a human right objective, agreed to by all Heads of State during the World Food Summit in 1996, where they asserted that, "It is the right of everyone to have access to safe and nutritious food, and a right of everyone to be free from hunger."

To ensure that this happens, there are numerous United Nations programmes and agencies- such as the Food and Agricultural Organization (FAO) and the World Food Programme (WFP)- that work towards eradicating hunger and malnutrition and to ending the need for food aid itself. They do this by developing programmes that help with environmental and economic stability and agricultural production.

There are also ongoing discussions between academics, diplomats and governments, which offer up all kinds of solutions to world hunger. The solutions range from how to best assist continents like Africa with financial and technical support, to the elimination of agricultural subsidies, and the implementation of a rules-based international trading system for food and agricultural commodities.

All of these efforts are an indispensable part of a long-term solution to world hunger.

But what can be done at the individual level? Why should world hunger be pie in the sky for most of us, a subject to be discussed at dinner parties? A problem that "others" will work to eradicate?

There is much that can be done. We can give financial contributions to the various organizations that work towards curbing hunger and even volunteer our time, all of which is commendable.

But there is also something else that each of us can do- something that is not hard, time consuming or inconvenient.

We can become more conscious of the amount of food that we waste, and we can try to redistribute our leftover food to the less fortunate people, or to organizations and community groups established for this purpose.

In this manner, the pie in the sky comes down to earth....on someone's dinner table.

A Crack in the Wall

2009-11-10T06:57:00.091-06:00

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, and 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 and aggression. 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."

Pumpkin Eaters!

2009-11-01T06:24:00.041-06:00

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!

Tower of Babble!

2009-09-26T16:06:00.074-05:00

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.

A Holiday for the "Working Man"

2009-09-08T15:56:00.107-05:00

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.

A New York state of Ramadaan!

2009-08-27T21:02:00.073-05:00

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 and identifying with the other.

I am in a New York state of Ramadaan and I am well.

Is soccer the new football?

2009-07-06T23:32:00.044-05:00

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?

A Kaleidoscope!

2009-05-30T09:49:00.089-05:00

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?

No two curls are the same

2009-05-22T00:07:00.055-05:00

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!

A samoosa by any other name

2009-05-11T10:55:00.164-05:00

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!

White men can gong!

2009-05-10T23:52:00.095-05:00

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: A Ladies Only Affair

2009-05-10T18:37:00.036-05:00

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.

Berber women

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?