The Narrative of a Trip

I’ve been on my PhD program for about half a year now. During that time my research has turned toward a legacy of my upbringing. I grew up in newsrooms, learned the rudiments of good storytelling there. Later, I helped to teach them. Knowing what happened is only the beginning of reporting news. It’s also necessary to eviscerate why an event happened. Who was involved?  How did said event transpire? Over what geographical and temporal scope did an event occur? If you can’t organize these elements according to a crisis-conflict-resolution narrative format, you don’t have a story.

When your life revolves around academic thought it’s easy to forget ‘real life’ experiences that sponsored those insights. A recent family trip to Amsterdam, Antwerp and the D-day beaches of Normandy inspired me to reflect on narrative’s power. My research seeks to explain popular resistance to EU integration as resulting from negative framing of intra-EU migration in issue-narratives of national news medias.  Scholarly investigation can distance the researcher from the object which that person is studying. My trip brought to mind storytelling’s power to influence opinions. Its propensity to intensify interest.  

In Amsterdam, we stayed in an apartment less than a block away from the city’s West Church. The sizable structure was usually surrounded by the line for the attraction next door: The Ann Frank House. My mother informed me that we had pre-reserved appointments for entry to that attraction on the last day we were in Amsterdam. I’ve never read the famous diary. When compared with attractions such as the Rijks Museum, I expected it to be the low point of the Dutch part of our odyssey.

The Rijks Museum was the first attraction we visited. I was intrigued by the exhibitions. Our time in Amsterdam progressed. I noticed that other attractions enticed throngs of interested individuals who lined up en masse in order to gain entry.  One such experience took place at the Van Gogh Museum. My journalist mother solidified the allure of these attractions over others: “The Rijks Museum? That has some famous paintings.” She interpreted. “Van Gogh? That’s someone whose life people want to know more about”. Indeed, the Ann Frank House’s slogan reads “A museum with a story”.

I was impressed by my visit to the Ann Frank House much more than I expected. The exhibit enthralls the visitor in the narrative of a family’s struggle to survive. In so doing, it exemplifies one group of people as representative of a larger, more abstract, tragedy that occurred over seventy years ago. It puts a face to the story – a news format I learned from my mother years ago. In spite of (or perhaps because of) this knowledge the exhibit inspired me to reflect.

Where my ancestors departed Europe -
now a car park  

In Antwerp, I discovered some of my own forgotten history.  I barely remembered that my Slovene progenitors’ point of departure from Europe was the Belgian city's port until my mother reminded me. They left almost exactly a century before I moved to Europe and claimed my Slovenian passport. We spent most of an afternoon at the Red Star Line Museum.  While there, we confirmed the Anzur family’s passage on that line’s routes in the exhibit’s information section. Simultaneously, we fielded questions about our own story from other visitors. My mother (and I) took pride in saying that a century later I had come back to Europe. She’s thinking of writing a book about it – four generations of a Slovenian family.  After 100 years my family’s narrative had begun to resolve into a full circle.

In Normandy, I came face to face with a battle of ideas: a struggle to define the narrative of modern European history. I became interested in the EU while living in Europe. I’d always thought of the EU’s genesis and subsequent expansion eastward after the Cold War as the EU explains it: an initiative by European countries to drive their own future. The American exhibits at many of the D-day sights told a different side of the story. They maintained that European integration would not have been possible if it weren’t for American involvement in World War II. At first, I was somewhat bemused by this contention. Still, as I was subjected to this story frame again and again I began to see a certain appropriateness in it. Reflecting on this now, I should say that reality is probably somewhere in the middle. The US was needed to help win the war, but it was the Europeans who picked up the ball and ran with it afterwards. Telling multiple stories on the same issue can influence one to adopt certain stances on the broader issue to which they relate, or even create. I use this concept in my research. Yet, standing in front of those American exhibits I realized I was still susceptible to the narrative framing of issues.

The specter of war

Many times during my visit to Normandy my father remarked that a conflict on the scale of the Second World War could not occur today. I’m still not sure why he kept saying this. Still, as I watched clips of old news reels from both sides of the conflict, it dawned on me that he might be right. Taking place just before the dawn of mass media, WWII was one of the last conflicts where belligerent governments could almost completely define the story of the war to their own publics. In light of the more pronounced anti-war sentiment during conflicts later in the 20^th century, I find it ironic that the framing of the Second World War persists even today, often regarded as somehow more righteous than subsequent campaigns. To what extent this is true I leave open for contemplation.

The power of narrative permeates our everyday lives. It’s a powerful motivator.  Whether it’s a single story, event or issue, it has the ability to influence us without our even realizing it. The above statement may make it sound insidious. When used for inherently devious ends, narrative can carry that danger. Yet, it’s that same power that imbues it with a primal argumentation – the simple charge of a good story. The need to tell, hear and sometimes believe in stories resides within all of us. Through the ritual of storytelling we seek to define our own journeys - and the ones of those around us - as best we can.

On the Promise of Graduation: Is the Sheepskin a Lie?

My Master's program held its graduation ceremony in Vienna last week. About that time, one of my compatriots who attended posted a Facebook status ostensibly regarding his matriculation: "I'm making a note here. Huge. Success." I got the reference without having to think about it. The post  is an allusion  to the concluding song of  a video game - Portal - the humor of which some of my closest friends introduced me. References to the sarcastic rancor of the game's narration have come to permeate our conversations.
 What struck me about the post's allusion was the song's context within the game. Literally the post extols the triumph of receiving a degree .  But, the sardonic bent of its source signifies the exact opposite of its denotation.  The song is sung by the game's thought to be, but  not-so-dead  electronic antagonist. It focuses on the being's angst  regarding  the player's forcible dismantlement and immolation of it. This is event  which the lyrics deem a 'success'.
I've always hated graduation ceremonies. Since secondary school, I attended them only upon the insistence of my parents. At first, my apathy stemmed from my perception of such events as insignificant. I'd completed  compulsory schooling. So what?  I was bound for higher education...and better things after that!
Immediately  after my high school  ceremony, I sought out the friends that later introduced me to the humor of Portal. One of them compared education to a game separate from reality: "Game over. Play again? Yes/No" she mockingly inquired. We all knew the answer in advance.
I chose USC because of the international bent of its business program. I wanted to live the global life that I'd be introduced to through travels to places including Poland, China and Maldives. I traveled while on the program.  But, I didn't perceive further international opportunities as flowing from graduation. I finished in three years while spending  as much time as possible abroad.  The end of the program loomed. I decided that a dual Global Studies Master's in Poland and Austria was the best path to a brighter future. During graduation, I sat on stage as one of the highest honor students and contemplated the drunken masses below.  I felt I'd accomplished my goal: the choice of my own future.
I had a great time earning my Master's degrees.  Still, I didn't attend the ceremony despite earning perfect grades on the program.  When confronted again with what to do after graduation I chose to play the game of school again on the  next level.  Prospects other than staying in academia seemed less enticing. So, I'm doing a PhD in political science. I enjoy academia; given the choice I'm content with the decision. At the same time, I question whether my own matriculation continues to herald  the promised future I always assumed.We call graduation commencement (at least in the U.S.). Yet, we view the conclusion of a study program as a triumph - as an  emancipation. That's why it's celebrated as a deterministic escape to a better world. But is it really that much of a success?
Recently I attended a conference. During  the desert of the closing lunch my coordinator pointed to a selection on my plate. "That cake is called 'Le Miserable'" he said; explaining that it originated as a delicacy derived from diary product and old bread. Now, he informed,  it was  one of the most expensive confections  in Brussels. I wasn't sure what to make of its bland richness. Reactions of the the other PhD students ranged from pronouncing it either delicious or disgusting .
 After  lunch, some of us  attended the student beer-float parade in one of the most upscale sections of the old town. Think of it as Les Mis and the Rose Parade meet a wild party (at least I assume so. I've never attended the latter two). Student guilds create floats out of flatbed trucks  from which they  barricade streets and dispense beer to the masses of their inebriated brethren via watering cans. The 'parade' originated from 19th century tradition. It began as a means of 'sticking it' to Brussels' bourgeoisie and continues today, though I'm told that many of the current students are of somewhat  bourgeois backgrounds themselves.  We observed from an overpass as the spectacle of debauchery unfolded below.  Especially in the context of the EU's economic situation, these 'Miserables' enjoy themselves until the day when the promise of freedom  through matriculation collides with reality.
Most university students (Scary thought:  a group that I may soon end up teaching) will probably regard their eventual  graduation as something positive. This isn't untrue or wrongheaded. Yet, is future beyond graduation really something  worth celebrating? In the public discourse, a degree should serve to provide right of access to an enhanced future. In practice, it only imposes an indemnity to higher obligation or unemployment. For the students in the street below me, the solution appeared simple: have another watering can of beer.  Don't question what comes the morning after the sheepskin is shoved into your hands and the spigot runs dry.

So much for graduation being a triumph.  I originally undertook higher education to achieve promised freedom  after graduation.  To that end, I have two more degrees as of last week. Now what? I'm still here. Life goes on. And I have research to do. So, believe me. I am making a note here. And this is it.

Brussels, You're Pissing Me Off!

A Costa Rican swimming pool 

My family spent a couple of weeks in Costa Rica last summer at a house overlooking the pacific ocean.  During that time my mother read a book entitled 'Karachi, You're Killing Me!' . Judging by the plot description on the back cover, it sounded like the novel mostly was about a girl whining about her boyfriend problems who just happened to be in Karachi. When my mom initially offered to loan me the book after she'd finished, I declined.

Once she was done, she told me that the book would be enjoyable for anyone who'd been to Pakistan's largest city.  According to her, the more 'personal' sections were easy to skip over. Indeed, the tome turned out to be mostly about journalism and Karachiite life. I have to admit that I enjoyed the author's observations about the city. I even  admired the stream of consciousness through which she conveyed her perspectives on Sindh's capital. I laughed profusely as she described living among the city's fragmented bureaucracy.  Constantly caught among contestant linguistic and ethnic groups, the main character lives a hectic, emboozened  life. Her woes largely revolve around writing stuff which is seldom appreciated and even more rarely gets paid for on time. As the last sentence of the  back cover plot description puts it: "It's a comedy of manners in a city with none".   

Two months later : in Belgium 

That was two months ago. Now I'm in Brussels. The capital of the EU. I've been here for a month and a half on a Doctoral program. I've drafted a 40 page literature review, helped submit a panel proposal and attended a mandatory pedagogy seminar about teaching in English as a foreign language. I still don't have any proof of enrolment, any health insurance, or any payment delivery. This is even after going through hell to get a bank account.

I've had to ask 'mommy' to pay my rent. The funds in my Austrian bank account were depleted a few weeks ago. I'm relegated to paying American travel banking fees just to get cash. These would be minor annoyances if I didn't have to provide proof of enrolment at the university four days from now as part of a complicated registration process in Belgium that I am subject to even as an EU citizen. I received an email today saying that said proof won't arrive for another two weeks.

This is my first time living totally west of the former Iron Curtain. I'm used to countries where the bureaucracy is somewhat particularized . At first, I thought the Belgian delays were due to interpersonal politicking.  They're not. My bank account application documents were misplaced and needed approval by the head office. My enrolment documents were lost twice. The final step of receiving my stipend  has not been completed despite assurances. It's not because those in the administration want me to kiss their behinds.  As one of my coordinators explained: "they're just fulfilling a job description".

Laughing at western culture

Ok. So Brussels isn't exactly a free-for-all of target killings and outright municipal mismanagement.  It's kind of the opposite extreme. Still, like Pakistanis, Belgians are oddly proud of their country's complicated nature.  Belgians will proudly tell you how eleven separate parliaments meet in Brussels alone. Said bodies work out endless complicated compromises between Belgian linguistic groups, civic interests and EU Member State positions.  In this environment, it's easy to get lost in the red tape.  

The hold-ups aren't fun.  I've noticed that since being here I've developed my own mental narrative of western Europe's crazy workings. 'Karachi, You're Killing Me!''s main character often used humor as a means of dealing with adversity that was beyond her control. I'm beginning to think that it may be a common human defense.

 As an example,  I spent most of yesterday's afternoon talking with an Algerian who lived in UK and France.  We both  noted the gently condescending attitudes of Brussels' residents. She laughed in sympathy  when  I told her that that I'd taken to answering airs of superiority from western Europeans in Belgium by lauding the organization of east European administration over their own.  To paraphrase the last sentence of  'Karachi You're Killing me!''s  back cover:  It's a comedy of defunct manners where one can only respond with none.

        

The Shock of Civilzation

I made it to Brussels ready to start a new academic year.  I had a bit of an adjustment phase when I started studying full time in Europe two years ago. But even then it was the Central-East. I'd been,  studied and worked there before.  I'd never been to the West as much more than a tourist. When there, I enjoyed the attractions and then usually left deciding that I'd rather live in the 'unfashionable' East.
Living in the EU's eastern region made cultural impressions on me. I didn't begin to realize their extent until Belgium. In the western world eastern Europe is stereotypically regarded as backward, behind the times, or at best 'catching up' to civilization. This January, during a weekend with Slovak family friends, one of them told me that the East is the new West. I took his meaning. Countries in the eastern regions of the EU tend to have less socialist governmental policies, less de facto complicated regulations and more rules about things like drinking or smoking (say what you will about their enforcement).
After coming to Brussels I  understand that Vienna, what I thought of as being the West at the time of that visit to Slovakia, was really the bridge between two worlds. Sure, it looked a lot more manicured. But, its bureaucratic processes were more familiar to me from time spent in Poland, Hungary and Romania. Now I've formally ventured into the former Western bloc. It's a whole different animal.
One of my Polish friends once told me, that in his country: "There are the rules...and then there are the rules for getting around the rules". They have an abundance of the former in Belgium. But, the latter appears nonexistent. I am an EU citizen. I've never before had to go through a complicated registration system or get a residence permit as a European. In Belgium it's required. Opening a bank account has taken over 3 weeks so far, thanks to all of the forms and approvals necessary. This would not be more than an inconvenience if I were not required to set up standing orders and take out insurances from the bank just to rent an apartment.
Speaking of my building: at first, reminded me of a dystopic sci-fi novel. There's always a person manning the lobby like the minder at the main entrance to the apartment my family rented in Moscow. People enter your apartment while you're gone and open the window like the time I accidentally rented from the mob in Bucharest. And here, there are also the surveillance cameras in the hall. It's like Big Brother really is watching you!
The subject of housing came up during a walking tour of Brussels. I was talking with a Montenegrin and a Dane. I voiced said concerns regarding my accommodations. The Montenegrin agreed with my assessment; saying  "I could never live in a place where my privacy was not respected". The Dane defended the apartment complex. When I told my parents of the hallway cameras  they said they are common in large US cities as they prevent crime.
I've been to many places. But, I've only ever lived 'as an adult' in Central Eastern Europe. Maybe its culture shock. It seems to me that some of the things I grew up hearing about as the ills of the communist world - the impenetrable bureaucracy,  the rigid codes of conduct and the surveillance- are more present in my impressions of the West than they are in the eastern EU. Westerners have a more positive interpretation.
At the end of the walking tour I took the bus home with a Ukrainian who'd also taken part. She remarked on how comfortable she felt around what she called  "East European" culture. At least for the time being, I cannot disagree.

Around the world in 108 Days

I didn’t plan it this way. When I flew from LA to Vienna for the final semester of my Master’s program my Pakistani research visa application was mired in red tape. Media coaching in Hanoi wasn’t even on my radar screen. Some free time was coming up after I finished my thesis. So, I planed a trip through Croatia, Hungary and Poland; personally some of my favorite places. Then both trips to Asia came through. I’d be flying back to LA for summer from Hanoi.  

 Just before leaving for Vietnam, I had a quick turn-around. I needed to leave Wroclaw, catch a bus to Vienna, wrap things up at the university, check out of my apartment and catch a plane to Hanoi via Moscow all in the space of two days. Travel often amounts to a lot of ‘hurry-up-and-wait’. So, while transiting through Slovakia I got board. I started thinking about culture and the importance of keeping an open mind in order to appreciate new international experience.

These thoughts were still fresh in my mind as I boarded my Aeroflot flight to Moscow

. Once the passengers were seated, the flight attendants announced that imbibing booze not offered on the flight was forbidden. Not that I was planning to, but I found the regulation a bit puzzling as this policy seems to be unique (See my post about Pakistan from May 2014 for a comparison).    

Unfortunately, I was only in Moscow’s airport. I haven’t been to Russia in years and would have liked to see it anew. Still, I did notice some signs of difference. Before embarking on my connecting flight to Hanoi, I noticed that more than one group of Russian-speaking people were passing around a bottle of vodka. Indeed, some of the Caucasian-looking people who boarded my flight appeared to be a few sheets to the wind. Well, I guess I understand the in-flight drinking rules now. I’m also not judging.

As part of my trip to Hanoi I was to assist in a TV news presentation training program for the government run television monopoly. Mainly I was to accompany news presenters as they went about making a Western-style news package for the course and advise them as to appropriate practices. As it turned out, I just missed the outing of the first group as I cleared customs and collected my bags. This meant that I had some time off. I filled it by taking in sights such as Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum and Hoa Lo prison, referred to alternatively as the Hanoi Hilton by Americans and the School of Communism by Vietnamese.  I found the exhibits quite interesting. Although not in keeping with my personal political beliefs, they proved to be striking examples of how Vietnam is crafting its national narrative, a process that most-all nation-states undertake in one way or another. I also enjoyed learning about the country’s Buddhist and Confucian traditions and picked up a couple of socialist-realist posters simply because I liked the art.

During my stay, I found that the locals love to introduce Westerners to some of the more exotic aspects of the Vietnamese kitchen, if sometimes for no other reason than to enjoy their reaction. After a visit to a country-side temple, one group of journalists took us to enjoy a sumptuous lunch that included sparrow heads and blood soup. I refused balk, eating both without pause. I found both of those dishes not quite to my taste.  However, I apparently am one of the few Westerners who finds dog with shrimp sauce appealing.  There is always something to appreciate in other viewpoints, traditions and even cuisines.

Back at the training, I was advancing a different viewpoint of my own. I was able to accompany two groups into the field. The first analyzed the methods that the training program and my suggestions were advancing. They included many aspects of them in their report regarding relocating residents from Hanoi’s old quarter. The second insisted on doing business as usual, while reporting on trash in the street when there was very little of it. The first group made the best report of the training. The opposite was true of the second. While some of the technical changes included in the training can’t yet be used on VTV, there is still benefit to considering and testing new methods.

At the end of the training, the training group gave us silk robes to thank us for bringing our foreign perspectives to Vietnam. I felt honored to have gained so much from them as I boarded my flight to Bangkok and then another which took me over the pacific to LA. I’d flown completely around the world in 108 days. At the start of my journey I had no idea that so much would happen or that I would experience so much just on this leg of it. Though I may have been able to do the flying, none of the appreciation or enjoyment would have been possible without keeping an open mind. It is through this mental facet that travel has the power to improve life.

Upon arrival at LAX, the immigration officer seemed puzzled as to why I travel so extensively. In practice, I find many different reasons. Yet, I like to think of her question in another, more existential, sense. Why do certain people enjoy traveling extensively, while others remain confined? Hopefully, this post provides some answer.    

Karachi: In Anticipation of The Unexpected

I got the news that I’ll be going to Hanoi about a week ago. Vietnam will be the ‘big five-oh’. The fiftieth country I’ve visited. It comes less than a month after my last trip from my current abode in Austria. During May, I traveled to Karachi for a few weeks. It was my second trip there.

A different kind of travel

During the two years since my first time in Pakistan I’ve traveled for the first time to many other lands. I enjoyed my most recent Pakistani sojourn more than any others I’ve had a while.  Travel is an addiction. And like any such habit, you develop a tolerance. Once exotic destinations become itinerant homes; where understanding language and culture becomes surplus to transitory requirements. New regional destinations, or even old favorites, become of mild interest. You can’t stop. But, you also get jaded.

The first time I flew to Karachi I was nervous. I knew that the negative media reports through which I’d heard of the city couldn’t be its whole story. Still, I didn’t know what I would find – better or worse. On my second trip, I looked forward to my arrival. I knew I would find the unexpected.  

When going to Karachi, the unexpected can be awesome. I sat next to a group of Karachi’ites who were traveling home. As soon as we’d boarded the plane, one of them asked me for a pen as we filled out immigration forms. His compatriot meanwhile busied himself with opening a large bottle of rum. Pakistan is functionally a dry country. This was their last sure chance for a drop of the true before arrival. As the flight proceeded they badgered the flight attendant for multiple individual-sized bottles of wine. When I asked for a second glass of wine myself they had to go the galley for more. As I waited, one of the Pakistanis shoved a glass into my hand. “Red wine!” he proclaimed. It was public diplomacy at its finest as raised our glasses over the lights of Tehran.

A water truck delivers in Defense

This anticipation of the uncertain penetrates into everyday aspects of life. Pakistan perennially struggles with poor power fuel management and illegal tapping of electric lines. With my host’s generator offline, the power could go out at any time. One must be prepared to go without at all times; you have to use the electricity when you have it. The same goes for water. Most houses in Defense, the upscale neighborhood where I stayed, have a tank which can be filled for use when there is none in the municipal lines. When asking about the cause of such shortages, some of the answers boggled the mind. For example, the water situation is not due to shortage or drought. The trucks which fill tanks in peoples’ homes steal the water from taps on the mains and then re-sell it at inflated prices. The water company seems unable or unwilling to stop this practice. Instead, it uses the theft to justify non-payment of its electric bill. It also accuses the electric company of shutting off power to the water pumps and making the entire problem worse. The electric company justifies the outages by saying that the water company doesn’t deserve the electricity if it is going to allow a large amount of the water to be stolen. The water company uses the continued power interruptions as further justification for not paying its bill. End result: There’s just no water.

Politicians promised to fix these issues while I was in Pakistan two years ago. Today, the same promises continue. But, the issues seem to have gotten worse. Such utilities service interruption didn’t occur in Defence two years ago. 

At the library

   Those born in the Western world often come to expect other regions to adopt trappings of Western culture. The past 30 years have been turbulent for Pakistan. It is perhaps due to this that the cultural influences of globalization seem to have permeated to a lesser extent in Karachi. I came to Pakistan to participate in academic research at University of Karachi’s All India Muslim League archives. Despite KU being a breeding of ethnic extremism, I felt welcomed there. Those who worked in the university’s main library were interested in helping me with my research. They were also insistent about my learning their languages and cultures. In one instance, as soon as one person told me the word for sugar in Urdu, others proudly informed me of the equivalents in Punjabi and Pashto. By the time they were done, I was too confused to remember any of the three. Still, I welcomed the exercise.  

KU's main entrance - always closed

Especially outside of Defense, I was expected to adapt my own habits to a greater extent than is necessary in many other countries. For example, Businessmen from many countries usually choose to dress in suits and eschew their national dress. However, I was told at the university to wear shalwar kameez on Fridays. Still, my identity as a foreigner worked to my advantage. Once, on arrival at the university, I was told to beware of all the “political parties” that were active there. Fortunately, l was neutral as an outsider. Despite the anti-American slogans on the main library’s entrance ramp, the student body seemed more interested in internal politics than they were in me. Sometimes, my neutrality allowed me to get a plurality of perspectives.

In the West, and especially the US, racial tensions remain obfuscated under a veneer of ‘political correctness’. Pakistanis wear ethnic identity on their sleeves. I was often told outright by members of one ethnic group why they felt oppressed, or held other groups in lower esteem. When speaking with a class of US history students, I was asked about race relations in America. I attempted to give as balanced a perspective as possible. Still, it felt odd to frankly discuss the taboo topic in public. Afterword, some Baloch students freely bemoaned what they viewed as national oppression of their province by Punjabis and Mohajirs. Their comments served to begin a civil debate. It was refreshing to be around such directness of opinion.

en route to KU - MQM flags on poles

But, signs of more violent disagreement are everywhere. Karachi is a mega-city of 20 million people. Landmarks become few and far between once you leave the older section of the city. I found the best way of marking the route from Defense to KU was via the flags of its ethnicity-based political gangs:  Start by taking the first highway with MQM flags on the light poles. Turn left onto Airport Road after the over-pass where flags of a Pashtun party dominate. Continue straight until a left at the cloverleaf that green black and red tri-colors mark as PPP turf. After the second MQM overpass you’re almost there. This ‘political visibility’ is not evidence of a vibrant civil society.  My host’s accountant, a proud Mohajir, told me that once one formally joins any of these parties, his days of life are numbered.

Karachi’ites seem used to the violence. At times, they seemed to expect it. They even admire it in a weird way. The city can effectively shut down due to violent political conflicts. When I asked one journalist about the possibility of a shutdown due to planed PTI protests during my stay, she seemed amused. Basically, informed me that said party is largely made of educated classes; apparently, they don’t really know how to protest.

My host told me about his bad habit of ignoring bomb threats when driving through the city. There are so many, he reasoned, that you sometimes just have to ignore them. He seemed to think of it the way that many in large American cities think of muggings: The threat is always there, but it will never happen to you. In Karachi, armed muggings do happen all the time; especially on public transport. Many told me that they are constantly prepared. For them, it isn’t a question of ‘if’. It is a matter of ‘when’.

Reason for my return

Upon arrival in Pakistan I was greeted by the chaos of Karachi and the hospitality of its people. From our 4:00 greeting at the airport, to my host’s welcome dinner at Karachi Boat Club, I felt honored to have arrived. As my time In Karachi drew to a close, many felt honored that I’d made the trip. In tourist destinations, visitors are sometimes automatically disregarded as little more than annoyances with deep pockets. In Pakistan, I got the feeling that I’d already been remembered as a guest. On my last day, I recounted with colleagues at the university how I’d come to know of the archives on my first trip to Pakistan along with a journalist family-friend. One of them got excited. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “The mass-communication student and a foreigner! That was you!”

Grounds of Frere Hall

Later that day, I met with that “mass-communication student”, now a journalist with one of Karachi’s main English language newspapers. We went to Frere Hall, a large colonial era exhibition gallery. On the ground floor, we ran across sizable collection of newspaper archives.

Karachi’s surprises can shock. But, they can also amaze; lead to new opportunities, prospects and perspectives. They’ve already lead to one return trip. Maybe the next time I need to get jolted out of my jadedness I’ll be able return again. After all, its Karachi. You never know.       

Owning Uncertanty

This post has been a while in coming. I first drafted it almost two months ago while still on break in LA. At the time, it only felt like a half-baked idea. Now I think I’m ready to complete it:

Sometimes I could swear I lead two lives. One is European. The other remains in the U.S.  When I’m a part of one, the other seems as if it’s only a dream. Or, sometimes a nightmare.   

I first became interested in living abroad after a summer working as a broadcast media trainer in Maldives. That was almost 7 years ago. It all seemed so simple. You travel. You make your home in unheard of locales. You make your life your own.

But, in reality your life remains tied down to various obligations.  Culture, language and family are factors that divide. Yet, they pervade the planet.  It’s not so simple as I thought on the plane back from Male. Because of said complexity, this post will be an amalgam of many things. So, bear with me.  

I’ve already mentioned that I spent part of my February-March break at my family’s home in Los Angeles.  For part of that time the Sochi Olympic Games were televised.  Much of the coverage focused on so-called ‘extreme’ sports. Usually Americans dominate them in the Olympics.  I’ve always thought them too subjective to be included in international competition. The scoring is often about the ‘coolness’ of a performance. Contestants gain points for tricks of their own invention. 

One such trick was named the 'Yolo' Flip. Its inventor had to change citizenships from Russia to that of a country in the West in order to create it.  My father joked that he didn’t understand the necessity of leaving one’s country whenever it was brought to light that an athlete had sought another nationality in order to move forward. To him, national loyalty was a singular commitment defined by one’s birthright.  For me, that view betrays other possibilities of success. Ideological  assuredness regarding one’s current situation prevents one from aspiring further.  

Most my age learned the first part of the Yolo flip’s name as a matter of popular discourse.  It wasn’t until college that a friend defined to me it as ‘the teenage Carpe Diem’.  Except, Carpe Diem wasn’t originally meant to signify it’s usually accepted modern meaning.  During graduate school, I was informed that the Latin term was not coined as an excuse for unmitigated risk taking. Instead it’s an exhortation to do what we can today.  Tomorrow cannot be dictated; your day may never come. Yet, you must plan for it.

Thus, the concepts of ‘Yolo’ and Carpe Diem are opposed. The first implies a false positive causality between present rash action and future success. The second focuses on the now. But, it denies a possible promise of what may come through rational action.  Between these two options, it is easy to adopt a siege mentality.  To protect and preserve in personal mythology what one perceives as past achievements amid dubious promises of the future.

 Transmuting the above philosophical conflict to a national level, it seems almost fitting that Ukraine and Russia came into conflict over Crimea and Ukraine’s Eastern regions after the Olympics. Ukraine moves toward its own future. Regardless of prohibitive losses to practical consequences, it lives in the moment.  Russia protects regional interests. Reasserting influence it conceives as its own, it works methodically toward a future that may not be as bright as past glories.

I traveled to the disputed areas in the above mentioned region a bit over a year ago. Many there are of a dual heritage.  Each lives one life.  Paradoxically, it seems that they must now choose between two opposing, yet related sides. Neither philosophical attitude towards the future provides a mutual solution.

There’s a third version of understanding the Yolo/ Carpe Diem concept. I heard it from from a Star Trek Voyager episode: ‘Own the Day’.  A battle cry, it carries baggage from past consequences but no expectations for what is to come. It allows for the possibility of re-defining conceptualizations. For making two identities one, wherever they may end up. Semantically, it does so by striking a balance between throwing caution to the wind and internalizing future pitfalls despite best efforts. ‘Own the Day’ acknowledges that one only does what one can, given certain goals and circumstances.      

One cannot control the future, nor deny its existence. One can only own the day.