Culture, Time, and Democracy

A few months ago, my family thought about taking our annual vacation in Tunisia. Then some idiot posted a video on Youtube.  Those plans went out the window.

 My honors thesis dealt with how communist dictatorial policy influences economic transition in central-eastern Europe. While writing the paper, Tunisia and Egypt revolted - the beginning of the so called ‘Arab spring’. It occurred to me that the policies of dictators in those countries could influence the future in a similar manner.

I mentioned this in the paper. Accounting for the differences in religious organizations and social media the situation might not be so different.

But, those two changes make all the difference.  In Poland, the Catholic Church fomented the Solidarność movement during martial law.  All religion was outlawed in Albania. The economy continues to flounder there. The absence of social media made opposition harder to form.  Instead people rallied around figureheads. They could lead a country through the beginnings of transition.

One of the students in my program is from Tunisia. We had the opportunity to discuss the current situation in her country. She told me that since the revolution the Islamist party gained power in Parliament. They were the only party with any vision after Tunisia’s Arab Spring.  In Egypt, Islamic factions also figure prominently in elections.

A Democracy is ruled by the will of its electorate. Religious institutions played a positive role in giving the people a voice during some post-communist transitions. In northern Africa, the opposite seems to be the case.  

My Tunisian colleague described the current atmosphere in her country as uncertain.  With the increasing power of fundamentalists, many are looking abroad.

“The revolution left us with hope. But they have done nothing” she said.

 Both regions successfully overthrew brutal regimes . In Eastern Europe, religion allowed some nations come together and rise up.

In North Africa, the internet organized the rebellion. Religious fundamentalists are all that remains to offer a way forward. I worked in Maldives during its first democratic election. The opposition won.  Since then, I’ve heard the same to be true.

I’m not saying that the Muslim world can’t achieve democracy.  Many Americans are quick to criticize the Arab World for its politics. They forget that it took the United States over a century, two constitutions and a civil war to create a stable republic.

In Poland, democratic policy making arguably existed since the middle ages. It may have allowed them to throw off three centuries of partitioning, war, and communism so quickly.

Just because a country has moved toward democracy does not mean it will become a utopia. It's  a process. One that takes hundreds of years.

I hope that those in all parts of the world will keep this in mind. Especially me. 

Somewhere

“Everyone’s from somewhere”. Most speakers of English know this expression. I do not doubt this cliché’s intuitive veracity. However, I wonder where that somewhere is.

I spent last Tuesday in Wrocław’s main square, talking with a young woman. She was born of the first emigration from Poland to Germany, shortly after the fall of the Iron Curtain. She told me that she feels more a part of her heritage in Germany than she does in Poland. While proud, she said that she practically dreads mentioning her Polish heritage in Germany. Afraid she will become an object of ridicule. In Poland it’s a different story.

We both went to the same summer immersion program in Kraków.  There, she befriended one of the program’s leaders.  One evening he told her that, as far as he was concerned, she was German.  “I felt hurt when he said that” she told me.

Even as the third generation descendant of Poles who emigrated to America I could empathize with this sentiment. I grew up in a majority Chinese community. To my friends, I was always the Polish one.  They or their parents were from China, or Taiwan. Everyone had to be from somewhere.  Myself included.

In Poland, the same is true. Everyone is from somewhere. But, the perceptions are different.  In California, I might as well be from Poland. In Poland, I am ‘the American’.

After class, the professor, a couple of my first-generation friends and I got into a discussion. They told the teacher of their own dual life. Then she jokingly asked me:  “Of course, you feel as an American.”

My parents raised me to be international. I never really learned to play American football. Yet, from ten years old the highlights of my life were trips abroad. Though I come from a country where relatively few have a passport, I made a life abroad my goal. I settled on Poland as the place where I’d like to build that life.  

In graduate school, I was the only student  to place at the highest level of the Polish course who did not speak  the language at home. I’d be hard pressed to say that I’m a main stream American. I’d never say that I’m completely a Pole either.  

I tried to explain it. Telling my professor where I’d grown up. Telling her that everyone is from somewhere there. Generations removed; I didn’t know where I belonged.  

“But you feel as an American, True?”

 A couple of years ago my parents told me the story of the lupe garue.  The pet of a  man who decided  his dog was too bad for heaven and too good for hell. It was doomed to walk the night as a ghost.

“We’ve raised a lupe garue” my father told me one morning.

I didn’t know how to answer my professor. Even though I knew what she wanted to hear. Everyone is from somewhere.  But that somewhere is differs according to every person we ask.

I could chalk it up to a matter of perspective. I could let it all go as a matter of national pride. All of that seems in adequate.

 A birth certificate might make one have nationality. But from where does that person truly come?

 For my own part it's still a question I struggle to answer.   

City on a Hill

My friends say I live in a cat house. This isn’t because it’s in a slum. Cats like to be up high; its the two story living room you can look down on the activity.

Fog shrouds the valley

My family moved to the Walnut-South Hills area 5 ½ years ago. I spent many of my teenage years and early adulthood in this Asian suburb of Los Angeles. I’ve written about cultural experiences around the world. It seems only fair that I reflect on my own community.  

Every morning, from high school onwards, the first thing I’d do was open the shutters on one of my bedroom windows. Los Angeles expanded before me.  From the hills on which our house sat, it stretched through flats of tract housing towards distant freeways. The Sierra Nevada rose from the field below.

In many ways, the place I lived wasn’t anything like LA. It’s a mix of bareness and bounty. Paying an extra dollar for a premium blend at a pricy tea shop is a big decision. Many of my friends and I have traveled internationally, but never have been to Beverly Hills. This dichotomy of wealth and frugality can be shocking. It’s not uncommon to see a local washing his Mercedes in the driveway while gardeners mow a front lawn. We eat in crowded strip shopping center Korean restaurants for the best deals. We could easily go further afield.

And eventually we have to. The verity seen in more urban parts of LA isn’t available here. For culture, western food, and even education one must descend from the hills.  I got my undergraduate degree from USC in down town LA. Upon arrival, the culture I saw was different. Completely concerned with popular whims, it lacked the detachment I’d come to appreciate in my hilltop community.  I elected to remain in South Hills while studying at USC. 

One morning, I awoke, opened my shutters and looked down. Sunlight reflected off the cap of fog that settled over the LA basin.  Only the hills and mountains remained. I felt pride in having chosen to remain.

But my generation can’t remain forever.  A suburb isn’t the best place to launch a career.  Almost everyone in my closest group of friends is moving this month. One is possibly going to Britain, one to Germany, and one to that ‘other country’ called UCLA.

The field in Psie Pole

 I recently got on a plane, headed for Poland and graduate school. My route took me through Germany, the first European country I visited.   I boarded my trans-Atlantic flight in the first class cabin. One of its passengers was a 10-year old boy. He was likely on his first trip to Europe. I trudged into economy as he  played excitedly with his seat controls. That boy used to be me.  

The name of my Wroclaw neighborhood translates as Dog Field. It is also on the outskirts of the city. It’s flat as the name suggests. But, I’m still up high.  I stand on the balcony of my 4^th floor apartment as the sun sets. A field still expands before me. Light reflects on its trees, stretching toward distant houses.  A blok rises from the meadow below.

 I’d like to think that these similarities are encouraging.  A sign that the life we’ve known still exists. That we will always carry it with us. No matter where we are.

Barriers to Entry

I’d heard of the upscale Karachi neighborhood where I would be staying. So, I was a bit surprised when my host pulled up at the airport in a small red Daihatsu. Next morning, one of my host’s relatives took me to a tailor shop. She lived only a few blocks away. Like my host family, she had a private driver. I found it incongruous to see her seated in the back of a Toyota Corolla as if chauffeured around in a limousine.

But in Karachi her car is a limo. Cars that American high school students commonly drive are often high end in Pakistan. Luxury models are few and far between.

I heard two explanations for this. Both involve a 200% tax on automobiles. Some told me the proceeds go to corrupt politicians. My host took a different view of the tax. It’s not just unwise to flaunt your wealth in Pakistan. In Islamic culture it can also be considered gauche. Conspicuous consumption can be a sign that a person is exploiting others instead of observing pious charity. The tax serves to reinforce charitable behavior in his opinion. Still, I wonder what brand of car Zardari chooses for transportation.

Whatever its end purpose, the tax reveals the prevailing force that barriers to entry play in Pakistani society. Buildings and opportunities lay behind walls of concrete and trust. Passage never comes easily. Entrance rarely proceeds without effort.

 Perhaps this aspect of Pakistan is best symbolized by its doors. Americans scarcely notice when transparent door panels slide open, automatically allowing them into a local supermarket. In Pakistan, the difficulty in crossing any threshold is normal, but significant to all involved.

 At every installation, from Sindh Police headquarters to my host’s home, we’d stop at the front gate. A bolt would be pulled back; the doors opened to us. We’d seamlessly enter as those doors again shut to the outside.

The servants who perform the labor remain on the threshold, able to peer through the doorway. They know they will never be insiders.

I’ll never forget the Desi (local Pakitstani) proud reaction to automated sliding doors. When a journalist took me to see her husband’s IT company she highly praised the lobby doors. Her husband opened a steel grate, allowing us into the building. We climbed a flight of stairs and arrived at the company’s entrance hall. A pair of glass panels parted. We crossed the final few feet into the office. My host’s children pointed out similar doors when we went to Dalman Mall, Karachi’s most upscale shopping center. The doors opened as I effortlessly walked into the mall.  On the other side of the threshold a security checkpoint awaited.

I didn’t understand this pride in automated doors at the time.  I saw only the barriers to entry which surrounded them. My hosts’ viewed it differently. The doors created a path forward where previously only an obstacle existed.

 In the western world, we cross between buildings, cities and even countries without even realizing it. Pakistan’s inhabitants must struggle to break past the barriers which surround them in daily life. Maybe the presence of sliding doors in Karachi is the first step toward their future.  A sign that obstacles can be broken down with time. I hope that Pakistanis continue to take pride the advances they have made.  And in the progress that is yet to come.

A Case of Two Schools

Oars sliced through the water near Karachi’s main port.  The rowers worked in unison, pushing their shells toward construction cranes that towered over the mangroves. I sat on the Karachi Boat Club’s pier watching my host’s children and their friends practice competitive rowing. Most of them attend the same private school.  I stared towards the Arabian Sea, reminded of a different group of high school students. They’re also located near the sea. But, their school places them at a disadvantage.

This summer, I interned with the Population and Community Development Association.  I visited their 10^th grade Mechai Bamboo School (MBS) for disadvantaged children. It was part of an idyllic resort in Pattaya.

My responsibilities also took me to the school’s main campus in Buriram. While there, I learned how the organization promotes the school. They claim it is a great improvement from similar government institutions.  It's described as a center of "lifelong learning" that imparts English ability and micro-business skills.  The Bamboo School boosts of its well rounded curriculum, developed by teachers and students.

I didn’t have much opportunity to talk with the students in Buriram. That was not the case in Karachi. My host’s daughter was class president at Karachi’s private Center for Advanced Studies. The school exhibits a marked improvement over government educational centers. Students are schooled in English and Urdu. The curriculum prepares students for acceptance to international universities while teaching them respect for local culture and religion. Students, with faculty oversight, manage discipline among themselves.  

At first glance, the schools’ methods seem similar. Except for one major thing.  The Thai school provides meaningful education to the needy. The Pakistani school reserves it for those who can pay.

Teaching students to not rely on hand-outs? 

But MBS does require a form of pay. It’s just not the kind that can fund its operating costs. Students’ families must plant trees in order to pay the school’s “tuition.”  The organization promotes that children perform one hour of community service in the School Lunch Garden to receive a meal. This is ostensibly so students will learn to value work instead of relying on hand-outs.  After all, there’s no such thing as a free lunch at the bamboo school, right?

Wrong.

Anyone who visits the school for more than a short time notices the deficit between promotional literature and reality. A donation box for the students’ lunch sits at the entrance where parents pick up their students. The students receive some level of “free” lunch through donations. The Bamboo School advertises that it closes during “rice planting season.” In fact, the school only closes for two days with little rice planting involved.

The landscaped entrance to MBS

 I saw students in class exactly once during my entire two-month internship. Assemblies in honor of visiting sponsors seemed much more common. When I inquired as to the students’ course load, PDA employees discreetly told me that donor visits necessitate a sparse class schedule.  According to an English Teacher, the pupils’ English levels are actually no higher than in average government schools. Contrary to what is claimed in the brochures, student participation in curriculum development is non-existent.

Back in Karachi, the Center for Advanced Studies seemed to deliver on its promises. It’s easy to see why:  CAS requires monetary tuition. This frees it from the need to put sponsors first. Most Pakistani families cannot afford the price of attendance. However, the value of granting some few a quality education benefits a country far more than professing to provide it to many.

Still, those who cannot pay have few options. Government schools are often sub-standard, especially in the developing world. Pakistanis, who place a high value on community service, have started NGOs of their own to provide alternative schools for the poor. But, they also require donations from sponsors.

 Organized religion sometimes offers a solution. My Pakistani host is a successful businessman. He was educated in a Catholic school.  In Lahore I met some students from a local mosque. They were quite friendly and seemed knowledgeable about local history.  The students’ English was far better than any I’d encountered from their older MBS counterparts in Thailand.

Radical mosque near Jinnah's Tomb

Yet, such religious education also carries risk, especially in Pakistan. On a visit to Jinnah’s tomb, my host pointed to a minaret about one block from the Quaid-e-Azam’s resting place. “This is a very controversial mosque,” he told me. He went on to explain that most of its students go on to join the Taliban.

Rowing at the boat club was over. Our driver navigated Karachi’s gridlock; we arrived safely home. It occurred to me that the value of any service is equal to its outcome. A high quality education affords its recipient an opportunity. But, it is up to that person to take advantage. It makes no economic sense to expect something from nothing. Charity isn’t always the answer.  

Karachi Unfolds

Two weeks ago, I returned from Pakistan. It was the most enthralling locale I visited this summer.   Yet,  I have delayed  putting my experiences into words . So much went on during those ten days.
The last time I wrote about Pakistan I wondered which aspect of Karachi  I would see.  I guess that is the best place to start.
I stayed with a family in the city's Defense Housing Authority.   Upon arriving at their home I felt as if I could be a version Los Angeles with more servants.   Then I took first trip from my hosts' walled compound.  We went to the tomb of the country's founder, Jinnah. As we drove through  Ramazan traffic I redefined my idea of bad congestion. Cars stopped as peddlers allowed their monkeys  to entertain  grid locked commuters.  Karachi became a completely new world as we headed back to Defense.
Later, I experienced other elements of my hosts' Karachi: rowing at the exclusive Karachi Boat Club; organic and Mediterranean  restaurants.  From the  journalist who explained some Pakistani cultural mindsets , to the student who provided insight into Karachi'ite university life, to my host famly's children who highlighted practical details of life in the city.  I gradually came to get my bearings in this immense metropolis.   
 Defense is clearly influenced by the west. But, I also got a feeling for the neighborhood's more traditional side.  It pays to stay inconspicuous in Pakistan. One night I stayed up through the morning at a local tea house. Members of Pakistani political families lamented the situation of their country. But, I also could hear their pride at being Desi. It was encouraging to be surrounded by such awareness of the present and  hope for the future at the same time.  
 During some trips through the city my hosts strongly suggested  I sit in the back of the car.  These parts were not safe for foreigners.  I took lunch with a family in one of these  neighborhoods  as an honored guest.  I didn't feel  unsafe.  A bomb recently went off in the vicinity.
It would not have been prudent  for me to see some of Karachi's lower strata. But, the same is true in my home city of LA.  I am taken by how similar the two cities turned out to be in some ways .
Maybe  the Karachi I experienced was already pre-determined.  The world you are born into determines the world you  come to know. If this is true, then the city I saw  is  indeed 'my' Karachi.
 Still, I still feel as if I've only scratched the surface.  I look  forward to expanding my perception of Karachi and Pakistan in the future. As I continue my travels, I will not forget  the nation I've experienced. The faces and reality of a people.

The Little Things

I sat on the bus, bound for Bangkok after a weekend getaway. My clothes were spattered with blood. As I often do while traveling, I read to pass the time. The novel was called ‘The Cellist of Sarajevo’. One of its main characters is a sniper whose life depends on noticing “The small things that are not small things”.  I found this ironic, in some small way. That one quote from a book about the Bosnian conflict could so accurately describe the tropical island of Koh Samet -- and how I’d gotten to this point.  

In the south

Many people know that I’m a big picture person. When I arrived at the island’s pier that is what I took in: expansive beaches and crystal water. As the pick-up truck taxi bounced over speed bumps, I noticed verdant hills rising from the shore line. After lunch I decided to see more of the island.

As is common on the Koh Samet I rented a motorbike. One of the most glaring challenges I’d expected was driving on the British side of the road. But, I put my mind to it and it was second nature in no time. I headed for the south; the most beautiful part of Koh Samet. Most of the roads on this part of the island are far from paved. At times I was  amazed to be driving over such rough terrain in, essentially, a Vespa. Still, it was fun and the views were breathtaking. The parts of this afternoon came together to form a cohesive whole.  After weeks of close quarters and grueling schedules at my organization’s field projects this was just what I needed. I resolved to return to the southern tip of the island to relax the next morning.

 A Southern Koh Samet Freeway

After returning to our north-end resort I had dinner with the other interns. For the first time in a while I felt like I had energy. I set out again the next morning, low on gas from yesterday. After looking around, I saw that many local families were selling bottles. I stopped at the first place I saw.  My bike's tank full, I hit the gas and took in grandeurous beauty that is Koh Samet. I felt unstoppable.

Too unstoppable, in fact.  I’d failed to notice the little things - such as the speed bump advancing towards me at 50 KPH. At the last moment it became a somewhat important detail. I slammed on the breaks; the bike stopped. I, however, kept moving until my face was inconveniently stopped by the pavement.

A good Samaritan put me back on my motorbike and told me to go to the clinic. With blood streaming from my nose and multiple abrasions, I again hit the gas.  It turned out the clinic was closed on Sundays. I returned to the resort and cleaned up. Then I set out again. I was intent on reaching the island’s southern shore and wasn’t about to let a little thing like blunt force cranial trauma stop me.

Land's End

I reached my goal. Though I only stayed about 30 minutes once I got there. It was well worth it. I was the last of my group to leave the island that day. The small details of my time there formed a larger experience that I did not want to end.

 I sat on the bus physically beat up, but mentally rejuvenated. I’d likely have a scar, but that was ok. It’s just another detail, a reminder that the smallest things can tell a story. That big picture of a weekend, or a life, is informed by its events. By the little things that are not little.