Dressed up for our last night at the palace:
Monday, January 13, 2014
Saying Goodbye
Its our last day here and Ila just left for work. She hugged everyone goodbye and then got to
me. I saw tears in her eyes and felt her
silent sob as we hugged. We group hugged
and then Jayshree walked with her as she left for work. Its hard to explain how our relationship
formed with them. It happened slowly
over the course of the first week. At
first they were our translators and nothing more. With every interview we grew to trust each
other more, and eventually I realized we were really collaborators; partners in
this crazy three week journey where they shared with us village by village,
interview by interview, what they deal with here. They shared their clients, their hopes, their
dreams, and their amazing personalities.
Last night they shared their saris with us, and we danced in a circle
together. We stumbled over the Garba
dance moves, while they moved gracefully with smiles on their faces.
These two women became our friends. When I thought about what I expected to
happen in India, that was certainly not in the plan. It happened slowly through nicknames, the
inside jokes, the giggling over boys, the tears, the hand holding, and hand squeezing
when things got rough, the complex communication methods that combined hand
gestures, the gracious translating of Pramiti, and our attempts at simplifying
our English so it was understandable, and gifts exchanged.
And now we are all going to go home together, leaving them
here with just each other. It will be back to their normal lives, but I still
feel a little strange about our departure. We really came crashing into their
lives and shook things up. We have had
several conversations about making sure that we don’t actually leave their
lives just as suddenly. We have
exchanged emails, numbers, and we have a lot of ideas for how we can stay in
touch and continue to impact their work here. With our research. I am so grateful for the way they embraced
us, and welcomed us even into their own homes and their lives. I’m excited to continue to work to help their
NGO when we get back to the States, and worried that we won’t be able to do
enough.
We have done a lot of conversing and thinking about Global
Health and our impact here. I have learned
so much from being here. There were so
many things that never occurred to me before. Like how harmful it may be to roll into a
community with sunglasses and cameras and laptops out. Like how harmful it can be to roll into a
community and ask what we can do to help them.
Things I never thought of before.
It’s possible that this will be my only experience with
research outside of the US, and Jayshree and Ila were responsible for most of
my positive experiences. I am so grateful
to Dr. Greaves for bringing us here, and grateful for the hospitality we received
at the Palace. But most of all I am
grateful for the people we were privileged to interact with. I am leaving with so much. I only hope I have left something
behind. It may take a long time to fully
process this experience, but luckily I have four six women to do it
with.
Day 14 - Halvad and Sightseeing
Today we headed back to Halvad where we had visited the
private school with the florescent light destroyers. We were all excited for our appointment with
one of the moms we had met during our focus groups who had bravely come forward
during our focus group to tell her own story as an example of how domestic
violence is a problem even for wealthy educated families. She had agreed to be interviewed for our research
and her house was conveniently located near some sightseeing we wanted to do
later in the day. Our ride was uneventful except for a cow
standing in the middle of the highway as if trucks and cars weren’t zooming by
at 100 kilometers per hour.
Our survivor welcomed us to her parent’s home. She was so happy to have us, and we were so
happy to see her. It was our first time
conducting an interview in English, and our first time being able to connect
verbally with one of our primary respondents. She took all of our contact
information, and we hers, and we promised to send her a copy of our report when
it’s done. She also got to connect with Jayshree. An educated financially independent woman
like this survivor could be an amazing asset to Jayshree and Ila’s NGO. We were excited to have helped them make the
connection.
Sightseeing consisted of several Jala family hotspots. First we went to their old palace. It was built in the 1400s but was abandoned because
it was indefensible. Much of it fell
down after an earthquake, but what remains is more than enough to give an idea
of the grand splendor that the Jala family enjoyed a few centuries ago. The current palace is amazing, but the old
palace was something else. Surrounded by
a moat on one side and done in the Islamic style, the palace is decorated with
intricate wood and stone carvings. A
tall tower in the Islamic style stands in the middle of a sunken garden in the
middle of the palace, and one can imagine saris sweeping the ground as women
walked along the walkways taking in the sun and air.
We were able to take questionably stable stairs up to the
roof where you could look over the moat.
The railing was made of carved concrete couches and chairs. I imagined them covered in cushions and
blankets, although now they are enjoyed only by cats and pigeons. We also checked out the women’s garden where
men were forbidden. There were living
quarters for the wives and concubines of the King and his children. Some women spent their whole lives confined
to the garden. If a man was caught
entering the garden the penalty was death.
Just like at the current palace, there was a procreation room where women
would meet with the King when he desired.
It was obvious that the garden had been beautiful, but it was a poignant
reminder of a woman’s place in India over the centuries, no matter how gilded
the cage.
Next we headed to the Jala burial ground. Hindus believe in cremation, so the burial ground
consisted of tall monuments to the dead.
Dr. Greaves pointed out how people put gold leaf on the monuments when
they come to pay their respects. He also
pointed out the tall skinny monuments with an arm raised over some Hindi
writing. They were everywhere. Those, he told me, are the moments to the
wives who committed Sati, the ancient practice where a wife throws herself on
her husband’s funeral pyre. The Jalas
outlawed the practice a long time ago, but the raised arms were
everywhere. Some were a part of their
husband’s monument. Some were on the
side of it as if added as an afterthought.
Some wives even had their own monuments, and some men had more than one
Sati monument, meaning more than one wife that had committed Sati.
The sun was setting so we snapped a few more photos before piling
back into the van. For dinner we headed
to our yoga teacher’s house where we helped his family make Puri (a fried flat
bread) and then sat on the floor of the kitchen as is customary while eating
dinner. We arrived back at the palace
late and exhausted. We hung out with
Jayshree and Ila for a little girl time and then it fell asleep immediately despite
the loud music and drumming nearby.
Day 13 - Ahmedebab & Ela Bhatt
Today was our much
anticipated trip to Ahmedabad to meet with the famous Ela Bhatt.
Wikipedia her if you haven’t already. She is probably the most
amazing person that I will ever meet and have the privilege to talk to. She
started an NGO in India that unionized women who worked for themselves. The
previously undocumented workers could now call themselves self-employed and had
a union that provided them with benefits and loans. She worked with
Nelson Mandela, and is all about Gandhi (whom she respectfully and lovingly
refers to as Gandhi-gee). She is an inspirational woman who is
highly decorated with awards and honors. We were all looking forward
to it.
The day started with a
bump in the road because Jayshree couldn’t make the trip with us, but we
decided to try and make the most of it. Our yoga guru Mehul was our
guide for the day, and showed us around a man-made lake surrounded by various
attractions. We walked around the whole thing and got to see a very
different side of Indian culture. Ahmedabad is a much larger and
more modern city that our little Dhrangadhra. Young couples
canoodled next to the lake, and teen agers roamed in packs wearing t-shirts and
shirts with signatures on them. Families took in the sunshine and
couples strolled. As usual people stopped and stared at us, but the
highlight was when a gaggle of giggling girls stopped us and asked us to sign
their shirts and arms. It was as usual very strange but we
obliged. They also wanted to take photographs with us on the cell
phones. We again thought this strange but of course obliged. It
was actually sort of nice since it made me feel better about how many photos I
have taken of Indian people since I got here.
Ahmedabad was also
different in that there were more people begging for money, and whole families
who would try to surround us if we didn’t pay attention while taking a photo of
something. We also ate in a restaurant for the first time, and
somewhat enjoyed the terrifying thrill of traffic intersections where they do
not seem to be any patterns, rhyme, or reason to how one should cross. I
was sure we would die every time. At least they seemed to keep the
cows out of the way…most of the time.
It took us a long time
to find Ela Bhatt’s house. She lives in a sort of gated community,
and had a lovely front garden/porch area. We removed our shoes and
she greeted us at the front door. She is quite old but not frail or
fragile looking. She wore a white sari with sunflower yellow gingam
and color blocks on parts of it. She wore her gray hair in a knot at
the nape of her neck. As is customary in all Indian homes, she was
barefoot.
She welcomed us with tea
and sweet sesame crackers, and told us of her life. She was in
college when Gandhi freed India from the British. She is a lawyer by
training, but also was involved with government as well as her NGO. She
told us of how she at first wanted to work with the poor undocumented workers,
and how this evolved to working with just women, and eventually women’s
health. She casually dropped Hillary Clinton’s name while giving us
an example of how women have evolved in India. She told us of how
Hillary asked the women at a conference what they are afraid of, and how they
told her they weren’t afraid of men anymore.
She was wise and
thoughtful and probably changed all of our lives forever. I know
that sounds ridiculous, especially coming from a person who is known to
exaggerate. But this woman is seriously amazing. When
asked by Dr. Greaves what we could do to help the women of India, she thought
for a moment before bluntly responding that we really couldn’t. They
must help themselves. And then she shared the three necessary things
a girl needs to be empowered.
1) A girl must know about her body. If
she knows about her body, she must not let anyone abuse it, or abuse it
herself. She should do with it as she wants before or during marriage.
2) A girl should be educated about the democratic
system and her rights. She should also participate in that
democratic system.
3) A girl should know her skills and be
educated. A girl must be aware of and understand her place in the
world, but does not need to accept it.
And then she shared the
most amazing simile. She gracefully pointed her finger at her plain
white tea cup and explained, a girl must have a tea cup, or no matter how much
tea you pour it will go everywhere. She motioned her hand as if to
show the tea washing away, uncollected by the cup. For the umpteenth
time I wished we were recording her so I could listen to her over and over
again until I had memorized everything she said.
We were there for quite
some time. She shared stories and antidotes from her experiences of
working with women. When I asked for her advice for us and our
Gujarati translators and our work with women, she added that women need to
organize. She offered the example of the female half of the
generation in the Darfur Region who have grown up in refugee camps. She
told us of how they had to do sexual favors every time they wanted to leave the
camp until the organized and forced the system to change. She also
told us about a town where the men were drinking too much and beating their
wives. The woman organized and decided they would lock their front
doors at midnight. If the men tried to come home late after a night
of drinking, they were forced to sleep outside. Because all of the
women stuck to the plan, the men were forced to come home early.
I could go on and on,
but I think I have relayed how amazing it was. We thanked her as we
left her quiet house. The moment we stepped foot in the car, I
whipped out my computer and we wrote down everything we could remember about
what she had said. I feel so privileged to have met her.
We met up with a friend
of Pramiti’s for a quick coffee, but I ended up going on an earring binge at
the store next door. There were so many affordable beautiful
earrings!!!!! And they took credit cards! As Sara put it…it got a
little crazy town in there. As we drove out of Ahmedabad, the
adrenalin from my shopping frenzy left my body. It had been an
exhausting day. We stopped at a hotel to eat dinner and then headed
back to the palace to relieve the palace staff.
Although the palace is
beautiful and amazing and I love the staff, having a staff has gone from being
strange to frustrating. Everything we do impacts so many
people. On this night, no one could go home until we got back, which
was quite late. Also, the staff doesn’t eat until we finish. We
sometimes forget and stay at the table with our dishes in front of us still
talking about the research, or our lives. Finally one of us will
remember Jaydeep and Kaldeep sitting behind the serving table and we will
gather our plates and put them in the bin so they can clear dinner. Although
I know that the staff is well paid and that this is a great position for them,
it is something that I will not be able to get used to.
We all were exhausted
but needed to talk about the day. After some time we all needed to
go to bed, and even my night owl roomie Pramiti went to bed with me!
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Day 12 - Tailor Day
Today was tailor day, and we thought nothing could go
wrong. Tailor day was the day we were
supposed to go back to the tailor and pick up our finished garments. “Tailor Day! Tailor Day!” we chanted on the
way to our first interview of the day.
Our driver slowly navigated the narrow dirt roads, and even
did some crazy off roading in order to go under a bridge that a train would
soon cross, blocking our way. We went to
one woman’s house, and then our survivor came and brought us to her house. Her family gathered on rugs on the floor and
we sat on cots. Her story was sad as all
the others, but had its own interesting intricacies that highlighted issues we
hadn’t hear of yet. Its very complicated
to get away from violence here. This
survivor was lucky because her aunt was a paralegal. This helped her to leave her husband earlier
than she may have. Her divorce had been
going on for years. When asked what she
hopes for, she told us that she just wants to be divorced quickly so that she
can get married again. Unlike many of the other woman, she hadn’t lost faith in
the institution of marriage. She clearly
felt that she had been cheated not only out of a good marriage, but out of her
role as an Indian wife. We thanked her
profusely and left her house only to find that Bilal, our driver, was changing
a flat tire.
We added a little brevity to the day when we told our driver
Bilal what his shirt said in English . It
was two hands holding up a sign that read: will work for sex. When we found out that he didn’t know what it
meant, we couldn’t wait until our interpreters were willing to explain it. When we arrived back at the palace they told
him. His face broke into an embarrassed smile,
and he quickly headed home to change it before we headed out to the public
schools.
.JPG) |
| Bilal's Shirt |
In the afternoon we had two more schools to visit where Dr.
Greaves would present his research and then we would meet with women to ask
them about domestic violence. It was our
first time visiting a government, or public school. They were both very different from the
private school we visited. There were no
uniforms and the buildings was simple.
There were no books with photos of dancing and smashing fluorescents,
but there was a group of concerned parents who had come to listen to Dr.
Greaves’ findings.
The first school was in Dhrangadhra and he told the parents
that he had found that many of their children were too small and didn’t weigh
enough. They didn’t have much of a
response, so Dr. Greaves left and we started an ill-fated focus group. It was too many women, and Jayshree had to
spend a long time explaining the concepts of domestic violence. We learned a lot about what not to do in a
focus group.
The second school was in a village, and we sat on the floor
while the principal took advantage of this rare gathering of parents. He spoke and he spoke, and he spoke some more.
Eventually Dr. Greaves presented the same findings, and then the principal
again delivered a long sling of public service announcements about the need to
educate girls, available scholarships, etc.
Jayshree eventually lost it and had to cover her face in her scarf to
hid her giggles. Eventually the men were
asked to leave, and we gathered the women in a circle on the floor. It may have gone a bit better than the last,
but it still ended on a negative note.
One woman at the end angry explained, “People keep coming and asking us
what we need, and then nothing ever changes.” There was a lot of discussion
later about responsible global health and the way we should be conducting
research. As usual we went into the
situation with very little understanding of what was going on and felt
frustrated by our lack of control.
.JPG)
water and plate storage
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| Woman's leg at school |
driving around
Dhrangadrha
We were a bit deflated by the time we headed to the
tailor. When we got there we checked out
my dress and did not like the way he had done the pleating. Way too 80’s.
There was much fuss over tyring to explain the cor1rect way to do
it. There is still hope! But we shall
have to wait until Sunday at 4 to find out what happens!
Day 11 - safe haven
A few days ago, we asked Jayshree and Illa for more
information about resources that already exist for women. They told us of a women’s shelter that has
room for 10 women to stay as long as they would like. They had never been there and didn’t have a
connection to it but they thought they knew where it was. We were like….ummm…we
need to go there! Today we got to do just that.
We piled into the van and eventually left the paved road. After we
stopped to ask for directions several times we found a temple that was attached
to the shelter. The chala (food to be eaten
after being blessed) was a sesame ball.
I waited until Dr. Greaves bit into his (W.W.G.E – what would Greaves
eat? Is a survival technique I almost always use here except when it comes to
dairy) and then chowed down. The black
hard ball was surprisingly tasty!
We put our shoes back on and headed to the shelter. All we knew about the place was that it was
owned by a woman who inherited the land from her father. We wandered through the gate, hoping we had
the right place. The car trip had been noisy, and it took me a moment to allow
my senses to drink in the peaceful quiet sounds of wind blowing through the
trees. As we walked towards the house we
were greeted by a woman with grey hair who brought us over to greet a very old
looking woman. Jayshree sat down next to
her and held her hands, and told us that she was 100 years old. Her face was amazing and looked like it had
seen 100 Indian years. She seemed to
start crying when she saw us, but from happiness. She wanted us to come in and have some lunch.
She stood up with a little help, but then marched her 100 year old body to the
house with no help at all. It was amazing.
When we got to the house we were greeted by
the owner. She had her hair cut short,
wore what would be considered men’s clothing in India. She was very different than any other Indian
woman I have met so far. Besides the
fact that she dresses differently, she also carried herself differently, and
enjoys the rare privilege of being a woman with property and no husband. We had arrived unannounced for fear that she
would turn down our visit. But she was
happy to show us around the house, and to tell us about its history. It seems that informal is working way better
than formal for us in India.
 |
| 100 years old and counting |
The house currently houses six women. Rooms hold two women each. The house was
lovey and decorated with posters about equality, Om symbols painted on the
walls and other lovely decorations. It
was lovely and safe feeling. We asked
the owner about why she had started the shelter. She told us that ever since she was nine she
had wanted to help people. She had
started by giving away clothes and other small things. When she inherited the property from her
father, she knew she wanted to make a place for women who had nowhere to
go. She houses women who are survivors
of domestic violence, old women who have no one to support them, and others who
for whatever reason have nowhere to live.
She told us that the women do
what work they can to support the house, and they also get donations from her family
and other people. They would like to
expand to take in orphans in the future.
 |
| Decorations in the House |
 |
| Front Gate of the House |
 |
| The House from the front courtyard |
We walked out to the barn to see the cows, and then sat on cots and some benches to talk. There were two survivors there, and both agreed to be interviewed. We felt that the first one was too mentally ill to record. The second woman shared her story with us, why she sought help, and what resources she would like for the future. The owner went and swung on a swing behind us while she talked.
It was a strange place, and seemed to be out of a dream.
We left with spirits lifted. Next stop was a small village that specialized in special shawls and scarves. We went crazy in there. Everything was beautiful and very cheap by our standards. We spent a long time there waiting for the owner of the shop to add up everything we were buying. Even so, he got some of the addition wrong, and undercharged a few of us. I’m guessing he’s not used to adding up such large numbers, and that he made enough money to go on vacation for a while.
On the way back to Dhrangadhra, Carlie had the brilliant idea to stop at a big hospital in Surindhranagar where a doctor at the hospital in Dhrangadhra refers patients who have experienced domestic violence and need more help than he can give. He most often deals with women whose hemoglobin has fallen to low because they are being starved by their families. This is a common problem here because women traditionally eat last, after the men. If there is no food left for them, they are out of luck – and hemoglobin eventually. But when their mental health or their medical problems are too complicated for him, he refers them to a psychiatrist or doctor at this hospital.
Jayshree charmed her way all the way to the psychiatrist and got an impromptu meeting with him. I stayed outside with the car, but it proved to be a really effective meeting. They actually screen all women who come to the hospital for domestic violence and he told us that around 1 in 6 patients of his experiences it. The experience was a victory!
We headed home to the palace feeling somewhat successful for once.
.JPG) |
| scarf drying at a person's home |
.JPG) |
| Entering A Village |
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| Mad Balance |
Friday, January 10, 2014
Day 10 - Exodus
It took about an hour to get the two vans packed up and
ready to go. We locked up the palace and
packed ourselves into the vans and headed out with our translators, and several
staff members including Baila (Jaybapa’s cousin/the man who is managing the
palace for Bapa in his absence), Jaydeep (the gangly awkward but lovable 17
year old who serves us food and taught us to fly kites), and Jaydeep’s silent
sidekick Kuldeep. We raced towards the dessert, leaving behind paved roads and
eventually leaving behind roads altogether.
In the dessert the road is marked by white flags or a pile
of stones. Tire marks go in different
directions, and sometimes signs suggest a set to take towards your desired
destination. We road, racing the other van. One van falling behind, and then overtaking
the other again; trading who had to ride into cloud of penetrating dust. With the windows closed it was hot and stuffy
in the back of the van. The sun streamed
in through the windows making it hotter, and we had to keep our heads wrapped
it our scarves to keep out the dust; making it hotter. We had been talking about ice fishing
earlier, and Carlie pointed out that the dessert looked very similar to the
lake near her house. Little huts dotting
the landscape which would be filled by ice fishermen passing the time. Only here the little huts are homes.
We arrived at our destination and spilled out of the car. Unwrapping ourselves and breathing in the dry
dessert air. Our first destination was
the dwelling of a family who spends six months of the year living in the
dessert harvesting salt. During the
rainy season the ground below the dessert floods with salty water. After the rain stops, the families move to
the dessert, set up a hut made of straw and wood, and set up their
operation. They create salt pans by
making a low wall of dirt in large squares.
They pump water from under the ground into the salt pans, and begin the
process of turning it into salt. Part of
this process is dragging heavy rakes through the pans to turn over what has
settled on the bottom. They showed us
the pump with the salty water, the pans, and the rake. Carlie tried on their rain boots, and soon
had a posse of young men devoted to her.
We drank milkless chai from saucers, soaked up some sun, and even took
some silly pictures.
Me and the salt pans:
Taking the salt- notice no protective foot wear:
Rain boots for walking through the pans:
The top of the house- also used for storage since it never rains:
I had watched a documentary about this place before we left. I didn’t need the documentary to tell me that
these families live a very difficult existence.
Their work is grueling and dangerous.
Working in the salt pans gives them skin diseases and blinds
people. They live in a little two room
hut, which like all other homes we’ve been in is kept very neat and tidy. From the documentary I also know that this
disenfranchised group is not getting the medical care promised by the government,
and works for very poor pay even though they produce most of India’s salt. This is the place that Gandi started his
revolution by organizing the salt workers to go on strike. Perhaps things improved for the salt workers,
but its seems that they may have been forgotten since then.
As we headed back to the car, one woman took Sara’s hands in
hers. She spoke to us in Gujarati, but
her hands did enough talking. She lay
her calloused hands on Sara’s, and then motioned to cut off Sara’s hands and
switch them with her own. Sara exclaimed, “No! your hands are beautiful!” I
chimed in, “Cupscaros!” (how I phonetically spell the word I am probably mispronouncing
that means beautiful). Another frustrating and confusing encounter where we can’t
communicate at all with the people we have supposedly come here to help.
Next we headed to a temple that lies over an oasis with
sweet water. This was a no pictures kind
of place and seemed very important to our Hindu staff. The chala (food given to
us to eat after we were blessed) was coconut.
I was very confused about what to do with the rind. I think that the chala
is considered holy, and I didn’t want to just throw it on the ground. Eventually Jayshree took it for me and put it
in her purse. I am always so confused
here.
We sat around for a minute and then headed to the back of
the temple where our crew set up a picnic.
We sat in the cool shade of a tree and ate our packed lunch. There were tomato and cucumber sandwiches
paired with butter and jelly sandwiches.
There was also an interesting grain salad, oranges and apples. Cows, a dog and a persistent puppy kept
trying to get some water from our bucket or steal a bight of food.
We began the arduous journey back over the cracked earth,
our driver constantly turning around to make sure the other van didn’t fall too
far behind our dust cloud. I kept
thinking…just look forward!!!! It reminded me of Bolivia and speeding across the
salt flats. I kept telling myself nothing bad could happen to us, but didn’t
100% believe it.
We were exhausted when we got back. We brought our chai outside and lay on the
cots and finally became facebook friends with Jayshree. We talked late into the evening about our project
and how we can maximize the impact we make with our research.
Sword stand?
Extreme tree protection is necessary in the desert:
Cows drinking the sweet water the flows naturally from the ground:
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Day 9 - Taking Care of Business
We’ve reached the point in the trip where I can really feel
how fast it is going, and how little time we have left. The day started with
the snake charmer I already posted about. Then I spent the morning doing work
while some of the ladies interviewed two survivors. They were upper class and higher castes. The first one was being hidden by her family
to prevent the embarrassment of the community, so she was reluctant to even use
her name. Video and audio recording was
out of the question. It reinforced the
idea that intimate partner violence is a problem for women from all castes, all
classes, and all shapes and sizes. The
interviews were long and seemed emotionally draining for all involved. The second survivor joined us for lunch and
our translators seemed to find relief in some time spent with her in a lighter
setting.
I felt refreshed after a morning without doing research, and
even got to talk to Josh, Dan and Danya while they snuggled with George in
freezing cold Philadelphia. While I
loved talking to them, and missed them, I was not upset to be missing that
weather.
My attempt at a turban:
The bracelet work by shepards in the area:
Carlie's attempt at a turban:
The afternoon was one of the most incredible experiences we
have had on this trip. All of us ladies
packed in the van, and we rode out to a village to interview the head of a
Punch and a prominent Social Worker. The
Punch is a local form of informal government in many of the villages that takes
care of problems without going through formal avenues like the court. As we arrived, we caused the usual stir as
children started following our van, trying to get a glimpse of the strange
looking foreigners. Women and children
followed us into the house of the Social worker, and everyone settled in the
entranceway as we settled on the “cots” that function as couches and beds. An elderly woman came in, and Sara offered
her a seat on the couch. She shook her
head and folded with the agility of an 18 year old into a crouch on the floor,
and settled in with the other women to enjoy the spectacle.
The man we interviewed was tall and stately. He wore a fantastic embroidered vest made of
white cloth and burgundy thread. His
black embroidered scarf stood out against it as it wrapped around his high
collar. He sat with his long skinny legs on the floor and talked for half an
hour with our translators. His hands
made wide gestures and his face was incredibly expressive. At times women
chimed in, but for the most part he sat and described the role of the
Punch. We found out later that he
claimed that issues of domestic violence are rare, dealt with fairly, and for a
low cost. This was in contrast to some
stories our translators had heard, but leading question after leading question
led to nothing helpful.
Next we interviewed the Social Worker whose house we were
in. She had an incredible presence.
Children lined the roof of the shed at the front of the house that protected hay
as we started the interview. In a booming voice she quieted the crowd. Later she grabbed a stick and chased the kids
off the roof. They scattered as she turned her back on them and re-entered the
meeting. Her blue sari blouse stood out against her black and green sari. Her white straight teeth stood out against
her beautiful dark skin. Her eyes flashed
as she sized us all up quickly and unabashedly. She moved to the floor for her
interview, her deep voice rang out as her hands darted to tap on the ground,
pointed in the air and waved around. She filled the room.
Afterwards, Jayshree showed us her Social Work certificate
that she received after a training with an NGO.
Jayshree pointed to me and told the woman that I was also a social
worker. She looked me up and down three
times and then nodded, perhaps in approval.
Then, there was a commotion, and we were heading towards the door. It was goat milking time! The courtyard to the house was filled with
people, and as we made our way towards the door, the children and teen girls
got bold. Everyone wanted their picture
taken. Everyone wanted to touch our
hair. They were all impressed that I
could count to five in Gujarati, and began to talk quickly to me. I shook my head and held my hands up.
We were pulled outside to witness the goat milling. A man squatted behind a goat with a bucket,
filling it with frothy white liquid. The
Social Worker then grabbed another goat by the hind leg and swung it into
position. She squatted down and began to
work the liquid into her bucket. She
made it look so easy. Next thing I knew
I was obviously asking if I could try. I
squatted down, and looked up at her as she showed me the motion to make with my
hands. I swung my scarf out of the way,
and grabbed ahold.
Sarah being mobbed:
Social worker milking a goat:
Me milking a goat:
Sarah spraying goats milk everywhere but the bucket:
The utter were soft and rubbery feeling; wet and warm to the
touch. As I pulled downward and pressed
my thumb downward and into the $$$ a thin stream of liquid came squirting. I had to be careful not to miss the
bucket. It was hard work! After a minute
I gave my goat up again. It tried to get
away, and the Social Worker grabbed it by the leg and anchored it into
place. She got back into the rhythm, and
I could see how measly my milk stream had been! With her strong hands, the milk
gushed into the bucket, created a thick froth on top. Sarah and Carlie got in on
the goat milking action as well, and by the time we left we had taken a picture
of at least every child in the village, and perhaps two of every goat. The village boys chased our car as we drove
into the sunset shouting “Abagio (perhaps spelled wrong but pronounced avjo – I
think)” meaning goodbye in Gujarati. It
was fun, and ridiculous, and at least it had made Jayshree smile after a touch
day.
We stopped at the tailor on the way back, and discussed the
things we are having made. This was also
an amazing experience, and not the first time that I had thought about Memee on
this trip. I’m sure she experienced
something similar in Eygpt, but she would have loved how the tailor made a mini
version of the dress in green scrap to make sure he understood what I
wanted. She would have been impressed by
how he deftly cut some white material and held it up to my chest to make sure
that he had the right size v-neck. The v
is pretty scandalous by Indian standards, and he did not look too happy about
it, but he got it right. Memee also
would have been impressed by the price: 400 rupees. I’ve been told not to get
excited about my $10 handmade dress until I see it. I’m having a hard time with that.
Mini dress and Jayshree's hands:
Being measured:
We made it back to the palace for dinner full of smiles and
stories for Dr. Greaves. He was mildly
impressed by our goat milking having come from a long line of dairy farmers
himself. Dinner was amazing as usual.
Afterwards I enjoyed the company of the lovely ladies with whom I share
this adventure. Indian Public Health
Summer Camp is halfway over and I am loving every moment of our late night
discourse. When else in my life will I
be living with a group of smart women for two + weeks where we have hour long
discussions about research and theory? Gaining access to the homes of community
members and survivors is incredible and invaluable. And with every day we grow closer and closer
to our translators, and become more and more motivated to do something
important with our research so that we can help them in their mission to help
their fellow Gujarati women. What began
as an overwhelming project has taken form and direction. We leave in eight days. There is much to be done.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Day 8 - I'm in India, I get it...
Today I stopped pinching myself. I believe it.
I’m in India. And I was
grumpy. Anyone who has spent a night
with my family will probably get the reference that I kept thinking, “Don’t
talk-a-me, I’m in baaaaaad mood.” For those of you who don’t, that epitomizes
my little sis when she was grumpy as a child.
And I was grumpy as a child yesterday.
I couldn’t get on the internet, I was tired of the routine, mad at India
for its inconveniences, and feeling lost about our research here. Yoga had not
been helpful. We headed out in our
little van. Four people packed into the
back seat facing forwards, and three on the bench behind the driver and
passenger seat facing back. I was lucky
to be in the back seat facing forward, and hummed one of Jacob Rolf’s songs as
we drove around cows on the highway, and passed fields where people tended to
precious crops. “I hear my mother
crying….” Not sure why it had popped into my head, but it seemed the perfect
tune for my mood and the situation.
All thoughts about my own personal feelings vanished when we
arrived at a school where Dr. Greaves had done research over the summer about
malnutrition. The children lined up and
gawked at us, giggling and laughing when we waved and said “Kem Cho!?” In
Gujariti this is like saying, “How are you?”
We were a big hit. They shouted
back, “Majama!!!” which means “good!” We
hung out in the principal’s office where Dr. Greaves told him about his
research. We were constantly being offered
water, Sprite or Chai. I drank Sprite
for the first time in who knows how long.
Its sweetness coated my teeth and I struggled to finish it quickly
enough so that I could put my thin plastic cup back on the tray that a man kept
bringing around. We looked at the
picture books that the principal handed us.
They were filled with beautiful photos of the students performing dance
and plays. We had to control our alarmed
giggles when we got to a page where a teacher was breaking florescent light
bulbs over a child’s head (which was covered by a towel), or holding the long
tube steady so that a student could punch it like a block of wood. The photo
captured the moment where the child’s fist connected with the bulb. Tiny shards blow outward from his fist as his
face scrunches up, hopefully not breathing in. I whispered, “That must be a
public health violation.” Dr. Greaves
whispered back, “Oh yes, those contain Mercury,” in his Australian twang.
We were toted from classroom to classroom where children were
given the opportunity to show off their English. Dr. Greaves cooed at little kids and we waved
and repeated “Kem cho!” to every classroom to the delight of the little kids.”
We finally trailed upstairs to a parent meeting where Dr.
Greaves presented his data to parents.
He also explained a little bit about what we were doing here now. Then we had a focus group with a group of
women who stayed behind. It was a disaster as far as groups go. There were no group norms, and it was a
rushed hectic affair. However, in the
grand scheme of things for women in India, it was revolutionary. Towards the end I asked if this was the first
time these women had all met in a group to discuss domestic violence. It was.
I asked how it felt. They all
said it felt great.
I’ve really started to think about the mental health
implications of the research we are doing here.
The stress on our translators is obvious. The existing resources have limited
training. There is no concept of group
therapy or group support. If our
translators got the training center they wanted, there would be no resources
for training or implementing support groups there. Therapeutic interventions
aren’t even on anyone’s radar here.
According to our
translators, Indians culturally have a hard time being happy. There is always pressure to look towards the
next thing and to never be happy with what you have. I see this in the survivors we talk to. They never say, I just want to be happy. They don’t even want to be single. They would even be OK with living as a second
class citizen in their families because this is normal. [The Gujarati word for mental abuse is
torture. I am gathering a list of words
that don’t exist in Gujarati, like this one.
I hear them during interviews. It
will be like, “blahblahblahblahtortureblahblahblah.” Or, “blahblahblahblahdomesticviolenceblahblahblah.”
I’ve been documenting them all. How can
you create a DV intervention when your own language doesn’t even have words for
the concepts?] These strong Indian women can stand the torture because it’s
better than the shame of leaving their husband and what life will be like
afterwards. Its only when they are
abused so badly that they are hospitalized, or that their children become
threatened that some finally leave. We’ve heard from several women that there
wasn’t any sexual violence because their husbands beat them so badly that there
was nothing left to have sex with. Some never leave and end up losing their
lives. Our translators told us that a
week before we got here a woman was found dead in a field. All evidence points to her husband. Nothing is being done. From the little we
have gathered so far, women feel isolated, scared and powerless. It was amazing to watch some of them embrace
the group concept, and to share their story for the first time. There was even talk about setting something
similar up in the future.
Group therapy really revs my engine, but red flags went off
in my head about how dangerous that could be.
Starting a group about a dangerous topic with an untrained or no
facilitator is a terrible idea. I’ve
been thinking that perhaps, if nothing else, we can do something to impact the
knowledge gap for those who are leading the charge against DV.
Our wheels are constantly turning about where this data can
be used and how. When we got back we had several long talks about it. I am loving this unique opportunity to sit
and brain storm with a smart group of women about academics, culture, research
and empowerment. I call it Public Health
Summer Camp. Sometimes I feel like I
never want it to end. Until I get too sleepy and then I dive into my bed.
After our group session we headed back for lunch. In the afternoon, Carlie, the translators and
I went to interview a survivor in her parent’s village. I won’t share her story because it’s pretty
specific, and I don’t want to violate her consent, but it was horrific. Both she and her mother cried which is
supposedly unheard of in Indian culture.
The survivor’s emotions were still raw even though she has been home
with her family for 15 years. She was
beautiful and exhausted looking. She
just wanted peace after the most insane ordeal. She talked loudly, making big gestures. Her
mother looked up at me from the floor and stared into my eyes as she spoke to
me as if I could understand. I could
feel the agony and pleading in her voice for someone to understand and to help.
All I could do was record and nod.
Beautiful water station in someone's home:
Every time I try to look more Indian I just look more like a colonizer:
Wash me:
Our translators Jayshree and Illa on the right. Illa, aka the most bad ass social worker ever, on the left:
The patiyallas I wore today:
Day 7 - I'm not lucky I'm blessed
Market at night:
There is nothing like starting your day with yoga, a good
breakfast, and a trip to the Jala Temple for a blessing. I left feeling only a little confused, with a
Tika on my forehead for protection, a palm full of golden raisins and nuts for
my mouth and a rose petal to keep in my purse.
I’d like to go back and experience it without focusing on documenting
the experience, but since I did here is what I took for your viewing pleasure:
We had another full day back in the villages. We got in interviews with a paralegal, a
survivor and a midwife. The houses
people live in are fascinating to me.
The animals live in a walled in front yard which is attached to an open
room which I would think of as a porch structurally, but which functions as a
living room/bedroom. Seeing as this is
the coldest time of the year and the weather is amazing (and it rarely rains)
it makes sense that the houses would be so open. I’m not sure what they do around 6 pm when
swarms of mosquitos come out to torture humans.
Other than that it makes sense.
We also played soccer with the guards, ate delicious food as
usual, and went to the market for fabric and other impulse purchases that cost
no more than a few dollars. I’m going to test how easy it is to have a Western
style dress made by a tailor. If it doesn’t work out, it will be no great loss. The fabric cost $3.
I would write more but I am exhausted. No rest for the weary here and I traded my
siesta for soccer so I am extra sleepy.
Hope everyone is well at home.
In Which A Snake Charmer Does Some Magic Tricks
Slight of hand:
Palace staff looks on:
In my ever increasing cataloging if Indian customs, I learned that today's performance could never have occurred had a member of the royal family been present. Dr. Greaves said that the snake charmer is probably in the lowest caste that we will come into contact with here, and it would have been unthinkable for Jaybapa to receive him here. Lucky for us, we are not royalty and had our magic show delivered to us at home.
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