My Brother and the Wisdom of Mother Jones

Friday, 17 December

When I was 18, my friend Kristi gave me a bookmark inscribed with the following, "Some people come into our lives, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never the same". As the years have passed, I have held on to this sacred memento of a friendship that has weathered time, tragedy and tears. Almost 25 years have come and gone, and admittedly, at times, I have laughed to myself at such a simple platitude--especially during my haughty years of studying philosophy. With age, however, one seems to appreciate the simple truths more than the complicated, and cherish the people most, who write their names indelibly across our souls.


As I left for India, I was already feeling lucky. I was getting to travel with two friends I adore (yes, Jeremy and David, that means you), and I was working for a company whose mission I cherished. Each day visiting children, schools, activists and educators, I thought my heart would explode. Then came the day after my night like the Buddha (see previous post), when it almost did.


Traversing bumpy and gravel roads, I tried to keep my eyes closed. My stomach was in no mood for chaos, let alone movement. We were slated to visit a child labor rehabilitation center outside Hyderabad, in the rural area of Palamoor, about 2 hours by car. I had never craved Gatorade so badly, nor questioned the soundness of my judgement so sourly. Then came Veeru.


When presented with my itinerary, Kiran explained that I would have fellow activists/journalists/social workers joining at various points along the way. He failed to mention, however, that I would be gaining a brother. From the moment he entered the car, I was enveloped in kindness. Five of minutes of conversation, and the passion he felt for his work was palpable. We'd read the same books, followed the same social issues and political movements. I was the social worker, he was the roving ethnographer and human rights advocate, studying folklore and traditional practices. In short, he was the male, Indian version of me! Wonder Twin Powers, activate!


With a roadside stop for Oral Rehydration Salts, both my body and mood were returning to normal. By the time we reached the rehabilitation center, I felt like I had read an encyclopedia on traditional practices in Western Andhra Pradesh. As kilometers passed, Veeru held our attention with fascinating details that were counter-intuitive to what he had assumed of traditional Indian culture at the outset. Yep. Turns out we were wrong.


During our trip, we learned that the area to which we were travelling had a rich history, heavily gilded in superstition. Villages were founded and run on female-based deities, with women then playing prominent roles in their societies. Lineages of women were appointed by priests, who were then designated to become sacred prostitutes, in holy offering to the entire village. This profession was not age-based, meaning that the lineage could be made up of a range of ages/women from the same family, i.e., from great-grandma on down. Mirroring the sacred in the every day, pre-pubescent girls were considered sacred, and were invited at planting and harvest time to crush and scatter the cotton seeds, ensuring a blessed and increased season.


Though some of these practices have died out, scholars and researchers (such as Veeru) are finding additional resources to further shed light on these traditions, as the government of India recently passed its own version of the US Freedom of Information Act. For example, similar to China's policy, yet opposite in gender, unwanted pregnancies in these societies were managed via ultrasounds, with girls being kept and boys being aborted. If the pregnancy were to go full-term with a boy-child, the mother would be summarily sent away from her village. Within this culture, STD's are not managed/tested for, so long as the girl/woman remains outwardly healthy.


In the extreme Western provinces of AP, drinking problems have further exacerbated any of these remaining practices. As in Sardinia, the local "wine" is used in the realm of daily life, for everything from celebrations to eating to just coming home. As migration to the urban centers has become more prevalent, poverty levels in the rural districts have continued to plummet.


It is said the economy of this region now runs on "cell phones and real estate". Cell phones are purchased by one or two individuals, who in turn, charge a fee to each person wishing to use it. Plots of family real estate once rich with cultivation, are parceled off and sold to the highest bidder, often an urban absentee landlord, waiting for Hyderabad's development to spread westward. Under these conditions, depression and social issues soar, in turn, leading to increased alcohol consumption. Girls, once jewels of their family, are forced to drop from school and begin working, in order to ensure the family's survival, further greasing the wheel of the child labor machine. Damned if you, damned if you don't.


My notebook was filling up fast. I was reminded of that Far Side cartoon, the one with the student raising his hand and asking the teacher to be excused, simply stating, "My brain is full". I was at a loss. In a few moments time, I would be transported to a new set of children, exposed to a new set of problems, scribbling notes again furiously. How do you make sense of such screaming inequities, knowing in your heart, that neither you, nor they asked to be born into your respective stations? For a moment, I closed my eyes. No answers came, only the wisdom of Mother Jones: "Pray for the dead, fight like hell for the living".



I opened my eyes, and stepped from the car. I was going into battle, but I was armed with my brother.

Is my lipstick ok? A Visit to the Ministry of Education

Thursday, 16 December

Jeremy arrived in Hyderabad at 5:30 this morning. The bad news is, he arrived without his luggage--just in time for our scheduled visit to the Ministry of Education. But this is Hi-Tech City, and thanks to the InOrbit shopping mall adjacent to our office, he is ready to go in no time. Kiran, Shridhar and I are still riding our high from the day before, me feeling sassy in one of my new Salwar Kameez. Off we go!

Now hurry up and wait. Field time in East Africa and lobbying time with the US Congress had fully prepared me for the ritualized waiting ascribed by most elected officials. We passed the time chatting, and were rewarded with a delightful coffee service when we reached the right assistant at the right time. This was hours later, though we had finally made it to the inner waiting area of the ministers whose audience we sought. Jeremy's stomach began gurgling and mine had begun twisting into some sort of cruel Pilates move all on its own. We asked for more coffee, in hope that being wide awake would somehow mitigate the intestinal distress we were both now feeling. A different kind of urgency now permeated our waiting.

Adrenalin took over as we entered our first meeting. Both of the ministers with whom we met, were equally joyful/perplexed, that we had not come to launch a complaint, but rather ask how LaVya might be of service in their quest to serve the educational needs of Andhra Pradesh (AP). With another round of coffee, the ministers shared the following:

*The government has not been having success with education interventions in the "Scheduled Tribes Areas". Due to a checkered past, the government is seen as adversarial. In a nutshell, the "Scheduled Tribes" are very much akin to the Native Americans, with "Scheduled Tribes Areas" bearing striking resemblance to reservations. Once this was explained, I began to view the term "adversarial" as too kind.

*Exisiting schools in these areas are riddled with broken infrastructures, such as sanitation, clean water, etc. (Was this becoming a theme?)

*At present, there is no concrete way of collecting/disseminating feedback to the government from these areas.

*Primary school enrollment is dropping anually in Scheduled Tribes, though schools, students and teachers are there. Problem is implementation.

*Reiteration of day before's assertions, that metrics for measuring teacher performance are not in place, teachers becoming "merely collectors of salary".

*English teachers are needed.

*The government has collected approximately 30,oooINR (about $667USD) per school, designated for toilets. Again, the problem has been implemenation and oversight.

At the conclusion of our meeting, we were offered a proposition: Identify 100 schools in need within the Scheduled Tribes Areas, and the ministers would pledge to match our investment of 1.5Lakh(150,000INR/$3337USD), in order to address basic needs such as toilets, libraries and kitchen facilities. From there, if successful, we would be invited for Round 2, which was to match our intervention(s) for providing computer education.

We emerged both happy and a little shell-shocked! Had we heard right??? WOW. Riding the elevator down, Jeremy leaned over and whispered, "If I don't eat soon, I'm going to reach through my soul and kill myself". Stiffling a laugh, I replied I needed something fizzy. Fast.

Driving back along the river, we gazed out at the giant Buddha, now an icon for Hyderabad. As Kiran began to regale us with history, we passed a roadside corn stand. "Stop!", he instructed. Chargrilled, roasted corn. Who knew the three of us shared such joy in this small, simple delicacy?

Returning to our Buddha conversation, Kiran relayed that the Gautam Buddha statue was erected atop the Gibraltar Rock in the Hussain Sagar Lake in 1992. It was carved from a single piece of granite and is the largest singly-carved Buddha in the world today. What most travel guides won't tell you, however, is that the Buddha had some infrastructure issues of its own back in 1988. Kiran went on. Before landing gracefully, the Buddha's hoist was broken, leveling him in a tributary of sewage for nearly four years. That's right, the Buddha was in deep shit. Today, jutting majestically above it all, one would never guess its history, save for the wafting aroma of the neighboring waste water treatment plant.

Giggling like 14 year-old boys, we took our corn and returned to the car. Weaving through rush hour traffic, Jeremy remarked that he couldn't wait for dinner. Why did he have to say that? My stomach lurched at the mention of food. "Hold this", I said, handing him my ear of corn. I leaned my head on the back of the seat. All of a sudden, I began to sweat. Cold sweat. "Keep it together, keep it together", I kept telling myself. Traffic came to a stop. "Oh, hell no...." I began to get that metallic taste, that could only mean one thing. My pride had to be broken. "Veema, can you pull over", I asked meekly? "What's wrong", inquired Kiran? "I think I need to throw up".

And there she blew. In all my glory, reliving the former party days with Jeremy, Veema our driver, and Kiran my boss looking on. Not once, mind you, but three times. Enough to gather a small crowd of spectators. "Done", asked Veema, as he handed me some water?Horrified, I pulled my body and fractured ego into the car. Managing a strain of vanity, I splayed across the back seat looking at Jeremy. "Is my lipstick ok"?

I spent the rest of the night anchored to my bathroom. Morning would come soon enough, another field day calling. Wrapped in every piece of clothing I had, I fought the chills. David and Jeremy took turns looking in, bearing gifts of Immodium and Coke. Finally, sleep came.

At 6:30, I pulled myself up. I wandered toward the guesthouse kitchen, in search of more Coke. "How the hell are you up", asked Jeremy? "Field work is my superpower", I replied. "Well, you just a spent a night like the Buddha spent four years", he shot back. I smiled. If wallowing the night before meant I could rise and look into the future of India, I would do it all over again. Only this time with better lipstick.

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Photo Credit: Google Images

The State of Rural Education: Take 2

Wednesday, 15 December: Part II

It's been said that necessity is the mother of invention. Nowhere have I seen this more clearly manifested, than in the rural areas of Africa and India. In fact, aid workers employ the slang term "afro-engineering", in order to describe making so much from so little.

Poverty and lack of resources push innovation to new levels, much further beyond "making lemonade from lemons". The results are often more akin to making citrus Absolut and opening a whole new bar or distillery from lemons, and then using the rinds to make naturally composting fertilizer. To employ another cliche, it's "using all the parts of the buffalo".

Last year, this concept was beautifully chronicled in William Kamkwamba's story, The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind. Using everything from discarded PVC pipe to ball point pens to bicycle tires, Kamkwamba fashioned a windmill to bring electricity to his rural Malawian village. This was done after teaching himself engineering concepts from scouring books at his school and village library. While some might regard his genius as nothing short of miraculous, Kamkwamba in fact embodies the tenacity and power of unleashing a mind through education and inspiration. All he needed was a chance. That chance changed not only his life, but his world.

As we left the VF training program and wandered to the neighboring primary and secondary schools, we were met by an onslaught of laughing children, rushing from their classrooms--some of which were under a tree, to meet us. Who among them, I wondered, would be the next Kamkwamba, if only given the chance? Pulling at our sleeves and asking for pictures, we posed with the children. "Remember", said Kiran, "this is who you're fighting for". "Damn it, Kiran", I said. "You know you can't say those things without Kleenex!"

Walking onward, we were joined by teachers. Touring the grounds, I was immediatley struck by their level of committment and optimism. Yes, they were short-staffed (insert gvt. teachers not showing up), yes they lacked classrooms, but look at the children who came and whose parents were willing to have them learn. "Sure, we would like a computer lab and library, but we will have to build up, as our space is small", said the headmasters. Small? They had crammed 192 students into 5 classrooms roughly the size of my laundry room/breakfast nook. My shame at my own ingratitude and their gleeful hope was growing expotentially. Did I mention the five classooms lacked benches, let alone desks?

Kiran and Shridhar began a round of practical questions: What kind of infrastructure was the school lacking? What were the areas of expertise of each instructor? Were there toilets? Water? Yes, there was a bore well for water. However, without a water tank, the water could not be properly treated, and therefore was not potable for drinking. The spiggots served mainly as a washing station. Toilets? Yes, there were two. Two toilets for 192 students. (Do the math) And by toilets, this is what we mean:

"Of course, it could be worse", chimed in the science teacher. "Come see my classroom." Approaching his side of the building, our gaze was met with murals embuing the spirit of Rivera. No textbooks? No problem. He had simply transcribed the basics of botany and biology on to the walls.

Our minds downshifted immediately into American problem solving mode, aptly described by Adam (my husband) as "throw-money-at-it-and-make-it-go-away". Sure, for a few thousand dollars, these issues could be resolved--and to be clear, that's exactly what we want to have happen. But beyond that, at the core, the real problem lies with centuries of colonial domination, societal oppression and development induced dependency. These are the roots that allow abject poverty and broken infrastructures to continue. A hefty order, with no easy answers. Except one: Every Child Deserves a Chance.

Sister Sari and the State of Rural Education: Take 1

Wednesday, 15 December

The thing about life in rural India, is that what normally takes a week to transpire, can be crammed into the events of a single day. I'm not referring to expedient bureaucracy, rather I am speaking to a phenomenon which only travel seems to induce.

Since 7 a.m., I've been watching the scenery. With each new bend of the road, I wish for a satellite camera behind my eyes, to telecast the wonders I'm taking in: rock outcroppings, stone forts carved into the mountainside, dry riverbeds, palm trees, troops of monkeys, women drying rice in the road, cotton fields. Our car stops at bridge. A crane is lifting a bus that has crashed out of the river. A little further on, we are stopped again. This time, to be blessed by religious pilgrims on foot, celebrating their way from temple to temple.


Around noon, we reach our destination, a training conference in the Thorrur region of Andra Pradesh, facilitated by the Vandemataram Foundation. We are received by Mr. Sri Ravinder, a tireless child rights and education advocate, who has devoted his life to empowering students and changing the education system across India.

The workshop we are visiting, is focused on mentorship training, and was birthed from a series of studies by the Vandemataram Foundation (VF) and other child rights/education groups, which found the following:


*The average teacher to student ratio in Andrha Pradesh is 1 to 55.


*Parents who can afford to do so, are sending their children to private schools, where both education standard for students and pay scale for instructors are far higher. The results are two- fold: 1.) Children left behind suffer not just from lack of resources/opportunities afforded by higher social strata and family income, but 2.) teachers left in rural government school zones are paid less and have little motivation, as there is no standardized catchment system for testing or job performance ratings in place.


*It is estimated that 43,000 of 360,000 teachers in Andrha Pradesh are simply not showing up for work.

*A staggering outcome of the aforementioned, is that 65% of students leaving rural government schools can't read or write.


In response, the dedicated team at Vandmataram Foundation (VF) devised a grassroots model of tutoring, based upon the principles of mentoring. It works like this:


Primary schools in India run from grades 1 through 5. Secondary education, or High School, is considered grades 6-10. From grade 10 forward, students are theoretically free to choose going to work, or continuing on to grades +1 and +2, the equivalent of US grades 11 and 12. These two years are dedicated to college prep, whereby students must decide on a vocation/course of study, i.e., engineering, law enforcement, pre-med, etc. The reality is that many students are forced to stop pursuing education after grade 10, either due to lack of funds or early marriage. It is the goal of the Vandemataram Foundation (VF) to facilitate each child in finishing and pursuing the higher learning of their choosing.

To that end, volunteers are selected from grades +1 and +2, to receive a week-long mentorship/tutor training. (Amazingly, the training camp we visited was filled with all girl students!) These volunteers are paid a stipend, tuition and travel expenses, and in turn, will spend two hours per day working with troubled students in one of the rural schools adopted by VF. In addition to providing general studies tutoring, the volunteers provide mini-workshops, which focus on social responsibility, civic engagement and giving back to their respective communities.


The initial results in the 150 schools in which this program runs, have been very promising. Parental participation has sky-rocketed, without which, children are often relegated into forced labor. VF dreams of providing mentorship for each of the 1400 villages and their schools in the Warangal District, and LaVya dreams of bolstering their capacity to do so.


After lunch and tea at the VF training center, we wandered to a neighboring primary school (more on this in Take 2). When we returned, dusk was settling, and we were invited in to the main hall. Removing our shoes (learning institutions are considered sacred), we were ushered forward, to take part in the evening assembly. Kiran, Shridhar and I had settled into a groove of improvised speeches throughout the day, and we assumed this would be no different. At the outset, however, we knew our hearts were in deep, and our heads would be vying to catch up.

First, we were given the honored task of lighting the candles before prayer. Taking turns speaking to the students with Ravinder and the other VF instructors, I felt goosebumps as I turned to read the inscription on a blackboard, "When your commitment is deeper than the sea, And your ambition is taller than the sky, Then your future will be brighter than the sun."

As I turned my attention back to
the room, I realized Ravinder was addressing me directly, "It is tradition, that when a new sister comes to the house, she is received with gifts and blessed with new sari." It still hadn't sunk in. He was talking about me! The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by "little sisters", pinning flowers in hair, decorating my arms with bangles and offering me a platter of fruit and saffron.

I choked back tears and surprise, as I was led down the aisle, where I spent the next 20 minutes giddy as a new bride. I was wrapped in a lustrous gold sari, blessed and bhindi'd, then led back into the lecture hall to applause. In my absence, Kiran and Shridhar had been blessed as brothers and presented with scarves. Scrambling for words, we took to the microphone. It was surreal. An essence of floating in mirth.


When the assembly ended, I was rushed by new sisters. "Sister! A hug, please! Sister! Kiss my cheek!" I felt like a rock star, as paper and pen were thrust my way, waiting for an autograph.

Seriously?

Driving home in euphoric tiredness, I could only think that all I had done was show up. All we had done was care. Yet, it felt like we had eaten the sun.

The Sleeper Bus

I'm on a sleeper bus rumbling across India. Six berths of four bunks. A six hour trip that ends up pushing beyond eleven.

It's been a long night.

There's a man snoring before I even get to my upper bunk of the sleeping compartment. Some eight hours later he continues. A calliope of unimaginable noise issuing as if a bagpipe or a bellows has been combined with the snuffling sounds of wild beasts and complex wheezes resembling the cries of dying avians.

Exhausted from a lack of sleep. Fighting fatigue I nudge aside the curtain with my toe. Verdant beauty streams by my sliver of window interspersed with signs of humanity which only seem as bright when those who mark it out themselves are visibly evident for the moments I see them, there by the thoroughfare.

The starkness of the clearings contrasting with the blues and reds of their garb. The grays of the concrete with the gold of their jewelry. Stop motion frames of briefly glimpsed images resonate in my mind.

The hazy multihued globe that will shortly resolve itself into the ball of fire which fuels our planet is hiding in the mist shrouded in pinks, blues, and oranges.A fresh new sky is slowly brightening with the opportunities that are today.I can't help but feel in this moment of reflection and introspection (something which I must confess, I rarely indulge in when I'm at home to this degree) an awareness that destiny yet lingers. Like the brightening sun it waits for me to turn -- to let down the defenses and guards that the daily life of survival so easily becomes -- it awaits my turning to face the vivid brightness.

Looking out my portal to the world, I wonder, What limits my vista and my reach?

I remember yet again. I am a man of destiny. And in it's fulness it yet still awaits me.

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Filed by David, Tuesday, 14 December 2010

Houston, We Have Liftoff!

In my opinion, few things are sweeter than victory shared amongst friends. When our vision for LaVya began to gel, we knew we'd have to act quickly--we just didn't know we'd need the Millennium Falcon. Thanks to a few gracious people who expedited things along the way, we are now packing, doing laundry and breathing a huge sigh of relief. Our only crisis remains who will get the aisle seat on the flight to London. Sure, we're laughing now, but for a time last week, we weren't sure if our travels to India and Nepal would be taking place via reruns of Globe Trekker:

*Turns out the Consulate of India remains backed up for at least three weeks for visa processing. We, of course, found this out two days before Thanksgiving, when David, Jer and I were all in NY/NJ with family, and the NY office told us, good luck, but no, you live in Atlanta, and must therefore process your request via Houston. Oh, and best of luck, in fact, because you'll never get it in time. Always up for a challenge, we refused to take no for an answer, and found that we could, in fact, get our visas in time, it would just require travel to Houston and applying in person. This, we found, would entail an on-line application process and request for appointment with their visa outsourcing center. Check.

*Once the on-line requests were made, we began reading the fine print. Yikes! Long form birth certificates, which included the full names and nationalities of both parents would be required for processing. We wanted to cry, and now it was the day before Thanksgiving! After frantic calls to our mothers, we resolved again to take matters into our own hands. The clock was ticking and we dialed vital statistics offices from Napa to Fairbanks with one hand, booked tickets to Houston on Travelocity with the other. A fax, a notary and a Fed Ex later, I held in my hand a long form the next day. David, however, was not so lucky. Turns out overnights aren't so common from vital statistics bureaus in Alaska. He'd have to have his sent to our hotel in Houston!

We'd come to far to not keep looking up.

*Back to Atlanta, packing for Houston. David can't find his passport. No worries, I tell him. We have three hours before departure.... Good news: Found. Bad News: Expired. Again, just another hoop. The State Department had a passport office located in Houston, just ten minutes from the visa center. At this point, we laughed. Bleary-eyed, we arrived in Houston. The next morning, the dawn came. Good omens were everywhere. It wasn't enough that we passed a Kiehl's on the way to the visa office, like a shining beacon in the SAME parking lot we were greeted by this:

It was a sign. Kiran was there in spirit! Feeling bolstered, we proceeded with our paperwork. It was almost too easy--after all the emotional build-up, we walked in to the visa and passport offices respectively, handed over our documents and were handed receipts for pick-up. SAME DAY pick-up! Now, to kill time in Houston....

Should you find yourself in a similar predicament, we HIGHLY recommend lunch at Taquerias El Alteno. Homemade tortillas, chargrilled, crema fresca just mixed, buttery avocados, spiced, roasted and shredded chicken--need we say more?

Rounding the corner from lunch, another sign:

Yes, tis the season of Epiphany. We stopped for a moment on the side of this little church, settling into the realization that our journey and our vision for the children of India and Nepal were far greater than ourselves, far greater than the bureaucracy which had frustrated us all the way to Houston. It was humbling. It is in this spirit and with these words that we move forward:

We should not go the people and say,"Here we are. We come to give the charity of our presence, to teach you our science, to show you your errors, your lack of culture, your ignorance of elementary things." We should go instead with an inquiring mind and a humble spirit to learn at that great source of wisdom that is the people.

---Dr.Che Guevara

Now where are my keys?