Bagheera, By Any Other Name: My Black Panther

Originall published on Desicritics

Kipling’s Jungle Book was my first introduction to secret India. How I fantasized as a child about Bhalu, Sher Khan and the Black Panther, the palang or as it was called in the novel, Bagheera. When the movie first came out, I was out for ninety minutes in another secret world, trying to put my imagined version of the stories together with what I had read. Somehow, it was Bagheera the Indian leopard that caught my fancy more than all the others. It slinked and slithered, it disappeared into the jungle at night like a phantom; its grating call sent shivers down my spine.

Yesterday, I was reading stories of Jim Corbett, the legendary man-eating tiger killer. I found it strange that at the exact time I was writing the initial draft of this article that Jason Bellows, on April 29th. 2008 was engaged in writing something just as interesting about the same topic, A Large-Hearted Gentleman, a wonderful account of Jim Corbett and how he killed man-eating tigers. That gentleman lived between 1874 and 1955 and his stories were even more avidly read by me than those of Kipling and by many of us who owned guns and were addicted to shikar. (the hunt)

There is a zoo in Lahore where we went as a family to see the animals mentioned by Kipling. As a child I was saddened by it, and many decades later, as an adult I was appalled. I found the Indian Leopard cage and stared into the eyes of a creature that had been in its tiny cement and steel barred box for a decade, its fur dull, its muscles flaccid from lack of use. I stood a long time and stared into its eyes, the only part of it that seemed alive as it lay on a cement slab. I had read that if you stare into the eyes of a leopard or tiger, it will be unable to maintain your gaze and look away. I stared now waiting for it to look away. It stared at me, it too, it too having read about this phenomenon and did not look away, waiting for me to tire. I spoke. “Hello leopard. What secret thoughts are you thinking? Do you remember your home in the jungle of the Nepal terrai?” Now it looked away and yawned, showing its long yellowed canines. It rolled over and dismissed me. It had been born in the zoo and had no idea about what I was referring to. Its language skills were limited to the taunts the Lahore kids threw at it.

The road from the Woodstock Hostie, as the senior boys’ hostel was called, to the chukkar near the top of the hill in Mussoorie, was a fair hike of about half an hour. The short cuts through the jungle were narrow paths that wound around the hillside. These were often used by the charcoal carriers and other paharis, our name for the hill people who lived in secluded villages on this part of the Himalayan foothills. These were the paths I took on my thrice weekly excursions to visit at the house of my girlfriend and future wife, who, it seemed, lived as far away from my hostie as was possible and still be part of our ex-patriot community. The trip there was in the daylight which was for me a naturalist’s paradise. Along the trails in the rainy season, the leeches, feeling the vibration of my footsteps would stand up like tiny antennae and wave about waiting for a foot to land nearby onto which they could cling. On the bushes there were always insects; rhinoceros beetles, stags with their fearsome pinschers and June Bugs with iridescent green backs. As I walked I would collect one or another of these and move along. These paths were a favorite place for lungurs, the agile and often aggressive hairy monkeys that swung on their long arms and stared down at me from the branches of trees covered with hanging moss. If I was very lucky I might see Chikor Partridge scurry away or a slinking Kaleej Pheasant.

The trip back, usually at night when it was pitch dark was another world experience. My flashlight picked up the shiny eyes of many creatures as I strode along, or often loping on the downward slopes. Usually the batteries in my torch were fairly new, or at least sufficiently charged to produce an orange glow. I used the torch sparingly because it cost money to buy batteries. I walked along briskly in the semi-darkness, the waxing moon giving some light to make out the road. Something moved in the path in front of me and I stopped in my tracks, my heart pounding. The light of my torch reflected back from two eyes of a leopard standing in the path facing me. Behind it, down on the edge of the kud was something black. I stood stock still and I held the light steady for what seemed to me like an eternity. It turned its head away from the glare, then once again stared at me and made a coughing, snarling noise like a saw cutting into hard timber. My hand shook, my knees felt like putty and I had a hard time holding my bowels. It was not fear, rather terror that came over me, alone on a jungle trail with a leopard twenty feet away, at night, with no gun. I blinked my eyes and when I looked again it was gone. I shone the light around and there was no reflection, no sound, only a slight odor of feline urine.

I did not go forward. I backed up slowly for fifty feet and then walked uphill for half a mile and took a major dirt road that led to the Teri road, a rather long way to get home, but hopefully safer than a path where leopards roamed. I was almost home. I could see the light of the boarding halls below me and I relaxed. At that moment a pack of jackals, not more than twenty feet from me near the road began to howl. Somehow this gave speed to my feet as I raced the rest of the way back. This has been a secret until now and one I have kept for many, many decades. Imagine, admitting to my girlfriend about my terror. Imagine telling about a girl friend. Imagine how surprised the leopard was too, who was at the time with his dark-haired girlfriend.

The wife of one of the British officers was walking her small dog on the chukkar not far from where I had met my leopard and stared into its eyes. She told her story rather properly and matter-of-factly. “I was walking the dog and a leopard came out of the bushes at the side of the road and in one motion, snatched Bonnie, holding her by the neck and pulled her away from me into the bushes. Neither the dog nor the leopard made a sound. One moment it was there, the next it was gone!” When asked if she had been terrified she replied, “No, not at all. I was furious that it just took Bonnie like that in broad daylight. I did not have time to be frightened. It was a horribly beautiful animal, I must say, black as coal.”

Two other dogs were taken near homes in the area that year. The men in many households now oiled up their guns, bought new batteries for their torches and vowed that if they saw the culprit that they would shoot the bugger on site. That only lasted until the rainy season, because guns rusted easily if they got soaking wet, and who in their right mind would wander about in a pouring rain anyway? The leopards moved down toward Dehra Dun where the rain was not so severe and there were ample numbers of village dogs to eat.

I have waited until now to insert a snippet of Jim Corbett’s tale. “He continued briskly along the sand, hoping to make it to the hilltop before the tigress finished her buffalo feast. As he squeezed past a large boulder which blocked most of the riverbed, something in his peripheral vision gave him pause: something orange and black, with predator’s eyes, poised behind the boulder ready to pounce. He… set the rifle butt against his hip, and managed to fire a singe shot. For a moment the tiger was unaffected, and stayed coiled on the verge of springing out. Then her muscles slacked and her head came down to rest on her forepaws. The bullet had entered the back of her neck, and plunged through to her heart. … the Chowgrath Tigress was indeed dead.” The tiger is more charismatic than the slinking leopard, and almost always takes the headlines, except in this case. I find Corbett’s prose a bit too dramatic. “Poised, ready to pounce.” Come on.

Charismatic mega-vertebrates such as the elephant, the Sumatran rhino, gaur and tigers have captured the attention of animal lovers in India. Leopards somehow have not had good press agents. They are seldom mentioned except when a goat, cow or dog is killed and then once again the men pick up their guns and make vows of vengeance. But the Indian Leopard is seldom seen now. Rapid human population expansion has forced the leopard to move away into more remote jungle areas. The Indian leopard may still number in the tens of thousands, however, with a human population of a billion and growing, the leopard may endure in its last stronghold in the Himalayas. The leopard, as opposed to the more fearsome and grand tiger, will, I believe continue to remain in its secret places for quiet some time. Children may see the leopard in a zoo, glance at its spotted fur, or if lucky into its eyes for a moment and then pass on to see the elephants or the Bengal Tiger with its sagging stomach.

Leopard fixation is incurable. It is caught at an early age when a young child is highly vulnerable to the environmental and psychological influences of the mysterious jungles of India. I speak from experience. Long before I met the leopard on the pathway I used to put my hand into its mouth. What? Yes. You see my father, a surgeon, had acquired a leopard skin with a mounted head, claws and all, in a moment of a rajah’s generosity. I think it was not really a rajah, rather a Wali, a ruler in Swat whose wife he had treated most circumspectly, examining her through a sheet with a hole in it with the husband in attendance. He prescribed, she took the medicine, got better and the Wali was most grateful. He had a leopard skin with the head mounted, glass eyes, and its mouth wide open. He gave it to my father, who had, without thinking, admired it. The skin was a lovely thing to look at. That leopard skin got a special spot in our living room. My mother did not like it, but we children did. When we did prayers, puja, or namaz, depending on our choice that day, on the carpet, I would stretch out my hand and stroke its head and put my hand in its gaping mouth and feel its long teeth. Incurable. It was my favorite place to read, to lie back with my head against the leopard’s stuffed head, stretched out on the soft spotted fur.

While I attended boarding school I heard many a tale about leopards. One was about a black leopard, or as it was then called, a black panther. These were the most feared and stories about them were very special. They are very hard to see at night as they slink about. One tale that was told in the dormitory as we lay in the dark on our beds was interesting that I feel I can now share.

The Black Panther had made its kill the night before. The goat was not totally consumed so the great white hunter, the intrepid sahib bahadur, decided to sit up for it in a natural machan, which was no more than a comfortable spot on a tree branch with the trunk against his back. He got his three-cell flash light ready, mounted on the side of the shot gun with adhesive tape. The first hour went by and nothing materialized, but, he later admitted, that he became rather apprehensive and a bit fearful sitting there alone. The full moon came out and bathed the area in a silvery light so wonderful he could see for hundreds of feet down the trail leading to the place where the dead goat was tied to a low tree. He was nodding and almost falling asleep when he saw a motion far, far down the path. His adrenaline kicked in and his heart beat wildly. There, about one hundred feet down the road, heading directly toward him was the Black Panther. It walked slowly, almost languorsly, its long tail held high, moving from side to side as it came down the road. The hunter slowly raised his gun, getting ready to fire when the black monster came within thirty yards. His mouth was dry and he fought back the urge to shoot, wanting the kala baghera to be close enough for an easy kill. He was almost ready to fire when it meowed and rolled in the dirt directly in front of him. He was so startled that he fired and crushed, dalit, obliterated, the black house cat only a few feet in front of him, literally blowing it away with the full force of the LG cartridge from his twelve bore shot gun. (USA: OO Buck twelve gauge) Oh, there were many other stories told about leopards, but none of them about the black panther.

The tiger is endangered in India, only a few thousand now remain in reserves. The leopard, however, is doing very well in its extensive range along the entire length of the Himalayas as well as in a variety of riverine, jungle locations. It is sometimes, but seldom observed in India’s wildlife reserves in Kanha, Kaziranga, Periya, Ranthambore and Sariska. It is highly adaptable, nocturnal and diurnal and usually moves away when disturbed as it is a secretive animal. It is a loner except during its mating season. Unlike the tiger, it seldom takes down huge herbivores like the sambar, nil guy or gaur, rather, preys on the spotted deer, kakar, monkeys, peafowl and a variety of smaller mammals. It is the ultimate stealth hunter, relying on its skill to approach its prey so closely that a more prolonged high speed chase is usually not needed, which is the case with the Cheetah. Interestingly, the leopard has a traditional Indian name from which the name Cheetah may have been derived, mistakenly. The leopard was called by another name, chita, in ‘ancient’ times, not the chita of suttee; that is quite another story.

Pakistani and Indian Madrasas - A Fine Balance?

Originally published on Desicritics
Have the political environments of madrasas in two different countries affected their programs and curricula? Has the development of madrasas in India, under a secular constitution since Partition, created religious education programs which have a different emphasis and intent from those across the border in Pakistan where these have developed under an Islamic state?

Recent news reports from Pakistan about madrasas appear to center on whether these schools are supporting Islamic militancy and training young people to become involved with the Taliban. News reports from India about madrasas hint at another concern, how to remain viable institutions whose primary mission is to provide religious training to support the growth of Islam as a word religion within a secular political/social environment which allows for and protects any expression of religious belief for its citizens.

My first personal experience as an adult with Islamic religious schools began in 1984 in Sukkur, Pakistan. During the early morning hours, after the first call to prayer, my colleague, a professional sociologist working with the Department of Agriculture, were invited to an Islamic school for young boys. The school was not far from the Indus River near the famous Mir Ma’Sum Sha Minaret Minaret.

I will call the teacher Alhaji Mohammed. He sat on a mat in the shade under a mango tree. Twenty children sat in front of him on the hard-packed ground. Alhaji Mohammed held a long narrow cane in his right hand and appeared to be half asleep. The boys were reciting, pointing to the Arabic words written out on their chalk boards, Surah 4, vs. 74. Let those who fight in the way of Allah… sell the life of this world for the other. Whoso fighteth in the way of Allah, be he slain or be he victorious, on him We shall bestow a vast reward. (Translation into English by Mohammed M. Picthall, 1953, Karachi.)

All the voices chanted in unison, pointing to the words with their index fingers, their bodies swaying backwards and forwards. One child, a skinny little lad, began to fall asleep and his finger sagged in front of his slate, his eye lids drooped. The long slender cane held in Alhaji’s hand snaked forward and tapped the hand smartly. The boy awakened, and now crying, pointed to the Arabic words. The children next to him raised their voices and sang out the words more vigorously, reinvigorated by the tears. In the background the second call to prayer of the day sounded from the short minaret.

Alhaji Mohammed rose to his feet and with much flourish, adjusted his loose flowing robe, set his embroidered Quetta style hat on his head and walked across the street, followed by the children. At the mosque they all began the ritual washings, hands, feet, face and ears. The teacher set the example and the boys all followed suit. He took a handful of water and slurped it into his mouth, swished the water around, turned and spat onto the soil behind him. The boys rinsed their mouths and spat.

After namaz the group dispersed. I asked Alhaji to tell me about the lesson the boys were learning. “What is the meaning of the Surah the boys were learning today?” I asked in Urdu.

He turned to face me abruptly, (his orange colored beard signaling that he had made the haj to Mecca) and frowning, repeated the Surah in Arabic. Then feeling satisfied, he said, “That’s it.”

I persisted. “Tell me in Urdu what the meaning is so I can understand what the boys were repeating and memorizing.”

“It only has real meaning in Arabic, the language of Allah. To say the holy words of the Prophet, peace be unto Him, in another language, removes the meaning from the Surah. The boys learn the Arabic. After some years of learning, they feel and understand and believe the meaning when their Arabic improves.”

“Do they get classes in the Arabic language as well, so the meaning of the Arabic words they are reading makes sense to them?”

“Yes. At the end of the day when it is cool, I teach them some Arabic. I will teach them the word fight today. Then tomorrow when we once again repeat the Surah they will understand the meaning. First the holy words in Arabic, not in Urdu, then later the meaning.” He now smiled and I got the feeling that I was being dismissed.

Growing up in northern India near the North West Frontier Province, was my first introduction to Islamic schools, most of which were connected to mosques. Entering such places required that we take off our sandals. The stone floors against our bare feet was pleasant as we walked about, led proudly by the Imam. The stone steps leading up to the top of the high minaret of the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore were cool against our bare feet. From the top we could see the huge open area where thousands came to pray. In one shaded corner a group of boys and their teacher were having a lesson from the Koran. Their high voices carried up to us as they repeated a surah, over and over again, learning by rote the verse of that day, in Arabic.

I had not heard the word madrasas until after September 11, 2001. Then the frequency of its usage made it a household word and a concern for those involved in formulating U.S. foreign policy in the Middle East and Southeast Asia. Madrasas came into focus when it became known that several Al Qaeda members and Taliban leaders had developed their rather radical political views at madrasas in Pakistan. Words such as Islamic extremism, militancy and terrorism and Taliban were frequently used in conjunction with madrasas. I learned that Taliban meant student in Arabic. Then we heard that one such school in Pakistan near the Afghan border had been bombed by American forces, and there were pictures of Pakistanis holding up signs in protest against George Bush and America. (A fictional account of such a bombing appeared in my novel One Way to Pakistan) That madrasa was located in the Bajaur tribal region. Reports in the USA indicated that 80 militants were killed in the 2006 air strike. The reaction in Pakistan to this military violation of their territory was immediate and strong. Anti-American feelings ran high. They also ran high yesterday when it was reported that Pakistani people were killed in a raid on the Afghanistan border with Pakistan. Such incidents feed the fervor against one who is called the Great Satan.

In Pakistan, most madrasas offer free education to their students. Thus, many poor families are eager to send their sons to such schools, which in large measure, are supported by alms-giving, known in Arabic as zakat. In some instances, little is provided to the students, who are told to go and beg to help support themselves through the gifts of others who consider giving alms to such children a good deed.

A small number of madrasas are for girls, although I have never personally seen one. I recently read Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson which commented about Islamic religious schools, madrasas, and their financial support from foreign sources. The approach taken by Mortenson through his efforts to develop 55 schools in Pakistan, primarily for girls, was a means to fight extremism and terrorism. I found the first part of his book inspiring. To educate young women gives them a window on the world through literacy, writing and dealing with numbers, it provides them with improved means for keeping healthy and rearing children and this is a most positive effort toward promoting peace, one school, one girl at a time.

In Pakistan there are over 12,000 madrasas. (See the CRS Report for Congress,”Islamic Religious Schools, Madrasas: Background” by Christopher Blanchard, Jan.23, 2008)

“In an economy that is marked by extreme poverty and underdevelopment, costs associated with Pakistan’s cash-strapped public education system have led some Pakistanis to turn to madrasas for free education, room and board.”

This report states that some madrasas have been used as incubators for violent extremism. Some foreign students were enrolled in Pakistani madrasas. In 2006 there was a report that Pakistani authorities would deport 700 of the remaining foreign students unless they got permission from their own governments to remain in Pakistan with appropriate visas. Many of the 12,000 madrasas in Pakistan teach only Islamic studies. In September of 2007, according to the CRS report mentioned, “…many Pakistani madrasas have taught extremist doctrine in support of terrorism.” The curriculum, if it is only Islamic in nature, does not provide students with contemporary knowledge about the world outside Pakistan, about its neighboring state India from which Pakistan emerged after partition or other nearby non-Islamic countries. One teacher in such a school said, “The aim of our religion is to reach god.” The CRS report quoted Samuel Haq who said, “We only impart religious education here. The students later take up arms on their own.”

Though it is matter of conjecture of what is actually taught by religious teachers in Pakistani madrasas, since none of us will sit and hear what the teachers teach, their own statements are that these schools impart religious information only. This is of sufficient concern to many in the world at large. A curriculum which teaches that there is only one right way and this is based on religious belief, which by its nature is exclusive of other ways of thought, of other belief systems, exclusive of others who live out their lives in the greater modern world, this fundamental religious stance can produce graduates whose world and life view is conservative and focused on intolerance. Reportedly, some Pakistani madrasas teach subjects other than religion. Some teach computers and local languages, however, their mainstay is religious training. Some madrasas in other countries are seeking government approval for awarding bachelor and master’s degrees in Islamic religious studies, or as one stated, Islamic Religious Science.

If the truth can only be learned in Arabic from religious documents such as the Koran and the madrasas’ curricula rejects secular information based on scientific enquiry and holds it to be suspect or dangerous, it is logical that such students will form highly conservative social understandings, including negative consideration and respect for other religions or ideas such as the emancipation of women. Militancy, extremism, crusades and/or jihad frequently emerge from rigid belief systems.

In Pakistan, twelve thousand madrasas are teaching youngsters in schools which have funding from other Islamic states, including Iran. As hundreds of young men leave these schools each year, they merge into society at large and seek work and life causes with religious zeal and philosophical underpinnings that, from this writer’s point of view, bodes ill for their participation in the development and support for a liberal, secular and democratic society. Madrasas are proliferating in many Muslim states, including Bangladesh and Afghanistan, and nearby neighbor, India, but there are differences, both in curricula and emphasis.

There has been a long debate about madrasas in India going as far back as 1947. The volume of literature about this is large and experts from within the madrasas system, as well as social critics about the system, have and are continuing to speak out about the need for reform of the madrasas’ curriculum. Such dialogue, which emerges out of Indian religious diversity, is healthy and keeps alive the issues. Dialogue, forces conservative elements to constantly review their programs and their teaching approaches in order to bring these more in line with modern secular-political needs which are in support of freedom of religion as expressed in the Indian Constitution. Madrasas enjoy this freedom to express their religious beliefs and teach these in Indian madrasas.

R. Upadhyay’s article published in Feb. 2003 presents an interesting review which leans toward reform and change, "Madrasa Education in India"
Is it to sustain medieval attitude among Muslims? “A recent circular of Government of India to keep watch on the anti-national activities of madrasas raised many eyebrows in the country. But if we look back to the historical developments of madrasas in India this Islamic system of education has all along been playing a prominent role in keeping the movement of Muslim separatism alive in this country. The British also suspected them. Contrary to it the Post-colonial India for reason best known gave special constitutional privilege for the autonomy of madrasas. But the manner in which the madrasas promote medieval attitude among the Indian Muslims at the cost of secular education needs to be checked. In fact, orthodoxy, religious conservatism and obsession to medieval identity remained the main focus of Madrasa education in India.

Muzaffar Alam’s article, Modernization of Madrasas in India, The Hindu , April 23, 2002 reviews how various changes are being made to bring madrasas up to modern standards, yet still remaining true to their basic principles of training youth in the fundamentals of their faith. This same debate is well presented in the book Bastions of Believers: Madrasas and Islamic Education in India by Yogender Sikand, New Delhi, Penguin 2005. The book utilizes a historical research perspective to describe the growth of this institution and summarizes what the stated intents of madrasas have been.

The debate centers on the words modern and liberal vs. medieval and radically conservative. One writer speaks of new trends in madrasas as being efforts to teach the youth Islamic ‘science’, which made me smile, thinking of the Christian Science Church movement in the United States which is a distinct form of religious fundamentalism with an approach that is far from what is globally considered to be scientific. (However, to be fair, the Latin, scio, from which our word science came, simply means, knowledge in the fullest sense of the word.) But still, the terms science and religion seem to grate when put side by side in this context. Some writers debate whether Islam and democracy are compatible with each other. One thing is certain, the madrasa movement is growing and moving south through India to Sri Lanka and Indonesia. It is a grass roots movement supported and fed by funds from Iran, Saudi Arabia and local donations.

How many young men and women are being taught in Indian madrasas? That seems to be a hard question to answer. Many such schools are not registered and what is taught in them is not monitored nor approved by government, thus counting them or defining what they are is a difficult task. One source suggests that there are 1.5 million children and young adults in Indian madrasas. Another source says there are between 25,000 and 40,000 madrasas scattered across India. (Consider that in Pakistan there may be only 12,000 of them.) I found the blog by Yoginder Sikand, “Islam and Democracy: Lessons from the Indian Muslim” interesting. He debates whether or not Islam and democracy are compatible with each other. Sikand presents Ali Naswi’s point of view this way.

In contrast to Muslim liberals, and echoing the views of the Islamists, he insisted on the need for an Islamic order in order to implement the laws of God. However, he stood apart from most Islamists by arguing that the Islamic political order could come about in India only in some remotely distant future. Rather than directly struggling for it at the present, he believed that the Muslims of the country should accept the secular and democratic Indian state as it was and focus their energies in trying to build what he saw as a truly Islamic society, on the basis of which alone could an ideal Islamic political order come into being.

Madrasas in Pakistan emerged from within an Islamic religious state are not a mirror image of those in India. There is a point of view that many of these madrasas are hotbeds for the training of radical religious elements and this is expressed almost daily in Pakistan newspapers. Many of the Indian madrasas have expanded their curriculum to include a wider number of what could possibly be termed secular subjects, however, all are taught with the intent of understanding and giving meaning to the teachings of Islam. What could be called the ‘core curriculum’ is the Holy Koran. Hopefully, madrasas in India will be influenced by the various religions around them, by the secular political nature of India and by the great philosophical and religious tolerance that embodies Hinduism.

With the growth of dynamic and expansive secular democracy in many parts of the world there appears to be a concomitant growth of more dynamic and radical religious teaching opposing the ‘heretical secularism’ and its perceived dangers. The ‘Great Satan’, America and its war with Afghanistan and Iraq have polarized religious attitudes and have created responses of hatred for the ‘enemy of Islam’. Madrasas are one of the few places that young people can be taught to uphold and struggle, make a jihad against secularism. Though the word jihad has a few meanings, one is certainly to stand up and fight in a cause for the truth as perceived by Islamists. Ali Naswi’s point of view is to wait, and this differs from many in Pakistan. I can still hear Alhaji Mohammed’s voice. Whoso fighteth in the way of Allah, be he slain or be he victorious, on him shall We bestow a vast reward.

Marriage, Loving Style

Originally published 5/27/08 on Desicritics
I found out yesterday that a good friend of mine, with whom I sing in the Unitarian Universalist Choir, had a mixed marriage. “My wife is Jewish” he said. I frowned, not having put two and two together. Later when I spoke to her she told me that among Jews, to marry a gentile was generally prohibited and that for women particularly, it was important to marry within the Jewish community.

Interracial marriages are looked down upon by many world-wide communities yet today; they are looked down upon or ‘prohibited’ because of religious beliefs, because of caste, economic reasons or social pressure. Even in the good ole’ USA such prejudices still exist. The United States Supreme Court’s 1967 decision struck down anti-miscegenation laws: the law changed previous prohibitions. Even so, it took Alabama’s Supreme Court until the year 2000 to finally change its anti-miscegenation laws. Imagine this, until eight years ago; it was a felony to marry a person of a different race! We are talking here about race, not caste, not difference in religious beliefs. But these are often intertwined, as in the case with my friend, who has a ‘Jewish’ wife, which implies both religion and ethnicity. Is there some parallel to the caste system?

We celebrated the anniversary of the 1967 Loving Day two weeks ago by having lunch with our friends. We raised our glasses and toasted Mildred Loving. Who in the world is she? Mildred Loving was the black woman who got this all started here in America. She was a black woman who lived in Virginia and fell in love with a white man and married him. One night, according to a New York Times News Service Report, quoted by The San Diego Union-Tribune, May 11, 2008,

“Mrs. Loving and her husband, Richard, were in bed in their modest house in Central Point the morning of July11, 1958, five weeks after their wedding, when the county sheriff and two deputies, acting on an anonymous tip, burst into their bed-room and shined flashlights in their eyes. A threatening voice demanded, ‘Who is this woman you’re sleeping with?’ Mrs. Loving answered, ‘I’m his wife.’”

The marriage certificate was produced but the sheriff responded that a certificate from Washington D.C. was not valid under Virginia law between people of different races; an inter-racial marriage performed outside of Virginia was not valid. The couple later pleaded guilty to having violated a Virginia law called the “Racial Integrity Act.” Their one-year prison sentence would be suspended, they were told, if they left the state and did not come back to Virginia, together, for 25 years!

Marriage, Loving style, had been hit hard. The man who sentenced them, a certain Judge Leon Bazile, said something like, if God had meant for blacks, coloreds and whites to mix it up, he would not have placed them on different continents in the first place. He told them that as long as they lived they would be known as felons. Good gracious!

In 1963 Mrs. Loving decided to act; she could no longer stand being ostracized. The civil-rights movement was in full swing and according to some reports she wrote to Attorney General Robert R. Kennedy for help. She was referred to the ACLU, the American Civil Liberties Union, and the rest is history. Eventually their having pleaded guilty to the Virginia anti-miscegenation law was set aside, struck down. The Supreme Court’s 1967 decision struck down anti-miscegenation laws, but Southern states were slow to change their constitutions. It took Alabama until the year 2000 to change. Now all children born to cross-race marriages have inheritance rights and their heirs can receive death benefits. Men and women equally. Imagine that.
All of the above hits very close to home. As a teenage lad living in Ludhiana, in the Punjab of India, I played tennis with one of the medical students in the Women’s Medical College. Between serves and doubles matches, my sister being my partner, I met and talked to a young Christian Indian woman who was in her first year of medical school. Let us call her Lavina. We spoke in Urdu of many things, piar, mohabbat, ishq; perhaps sweet things like laddus and gulab jamuns. She laughed at my jokes in English. We continued to play tennis, eventually playing singles. (See my novel, Lalla and Lavina, Stories of Indian Women, Authorhouse Press) It was very evident that my father was upset with me when representatives of her family came to discuss marriage arrangements. Upset is a mild word. He was furious, asking, “What have you done?” No marriage was arranged. I did speak in Urdu to her father and apologized for having played tennis and for talking with her alone. I was forbidden to play tennis. I never saw her again. Writing that still causes me pain.

My father had frequently talked to me about what he called ‘The American Creed.’ But thinking about my father’s strong negative attitude toward the possibility of his son being involved, and heaven forbid, marrying an Indian woman, still hurts deeply. The famous author, Gunnar Myrdal (1944) who wrote, “An American Dilemma” presents a scholarly treatise on this very subject.

At the center of Myrdal's work in An American Dilemma was his postulate that political and social interaction in the United States is shaped by an "American Creed.” This creed emphasizes the ideals of liberty, equality, justice, and fair treatment of all people. Myrdal claims that it is the "American Creed" that keeps the diverse melting pot of the United States together. It is the common belief in this creed that enable all people — white, black, rich, poor, male, female, and foreign immigrants alike — with a common cause and are thus able to co-exist as one nation. Wikipedia. Co-exist yes, but marry?

I am very aware of the thousands of marriages between Indian women and British men during the period of the British Raj. I am aware of the history of Anglo-Indians in India. I had many good friends and teachers who were Anglo-Indians and have broken bread with them in their homes. And yes, I am very aware of the meaning of raising children who are of mixed blood in a culture that labels this miscegenation and isolates them. How else can I say it? If you visit my web site you will see a picture of me with my loving wife of 33 years, Dr. Lily Chu, an ethnic Chinese, and our wonderful, ‘mixed blood’ son.

We are about to embark on a historic period in American history as we prepare to select candidates for both the Republican and Democratic Parties. Barack Obama, if he is elected, would become a world leader, a key figure in current global history, and imagine, he is a man of ‘mixed blood’, his mother a white, and his father a black from Africa. We have come a long way since 1967! The road has not been easy. Marriage, Loving style, will seldom occur elsewhere, globally. Social value systems, caste, cultural styles, legal systems will prohibit it. But I am very glad that Mrs. Mildred Loving wrote to Robert F. Kennedy and started a whole new cultural era, one that is exciting to live and love in. A toast to Mildred Loving!

Patang Fever - For the Love Of Kites

Originally published 5/15/08 on Desicritics
Two annas! I clutched the strangely shaped squared cupro-nickel coin in my hand as I stared at the display. Noab Din our cook held my other hand and pointed first at one, then another marvel, each a different color of paper, each slightly different depending on the whims of the kite makers.
I glanced up when I heard the rattling snarl of paper being buffeted by the breeze. Above my head, four kites flew; their strings invisible to me. It seemed that each had a life of its own swooping and descending with dizzying speed only to magically turn and climb into the sky again. Then one kite, a large green one, no longer flew but fell with swooping, sickening arches and caught by the wind was carried away. Under it a horde of children ran, shouting and pushing each other, eager to be the one to catch the falling treasure. I watched as the kite neared the earth, only to be snared by electric lines. Now it hung sadly out of the reach of the children beneath it. Instead of trying to retrieve it they picked up stones and pebbles and threw them at the paper, shouting each time a stone tore the green gauze.

"I will take the red and white one." I pointed at a medium-sized beauty. "I will need a spool and lots of line covered with ground glass." I looked confident."Watch out. Wait until you learn to fly well before you try the glass covered line. You can easily cut your fingers, and then I will be in trouble with mem-sahib."

Childhood memories make us what we are.

What greater joy is there than to stand on the roof of your house and hold a line tied to a soaring kite above you? Basant! What joy. The breeze was good on this January day and it took my kite joyfully aloft. I let out the string too quickly and the kite twirled and sagged, then plummeted toward the earth. As soon as I stopped the reel from spinning the kite again reared upward. It was an early lesson; one can't rush joy and love. Now I let out the string more slowly, hoping to get my kite higher than all my neighbors.

Patrus, my friend stood next to me giving instructions. "Not so high. Others will not like it and cut you down."

Hardly had he spoken when a white, small kite moved toward mine and crossed my string and in a flash my kite was floundering in the sky.

"Bo kata! Patang kat gayi!" The children screamed and began their chase after my descending shame.

I stood dejectedly holding limp string and a spool almost empty. I began to wind up the string, feeling violated, cheated of my glory. "I will buy another and get glass on my string. I will come back and cut that white one down!" There were tears in my eyes.

Basant! Spring in the Punjab. Kite glory in Lahore and kite madness in Taxila.

Maryam Arif's comments in Pakistan Paindabad, (March 26, 2007) "Kat Gayi, Kat Gayi, Patang Kat Gayi" were wonderful to read. I can see her standing on a Lahore rooftop in the evening, holding a kite string and reveling in the joy of being shoulder to shoulder with the male members of her household experiencing the fun of the Basant festival. She asks, "Who owns this festival?" Good question. Perhaps before Partition such a question would never be asked, because Lahore, the city of delights was in and of India. But what about now?

Where did all this high flying madness begin? Who has the ownership rights? Is this a purely Punjabi exercise? Did India fly kites before 1947? Why are conservative Islamists in Pakistan opposed to the fun of kite flying to celebrate the coming of spring?

It was not madness that began it. There was a General Han Hsin in the Han Dynasty in China who, according to written records, flew a kite in 200 B.C. They had lots of bamboo, string and of course, fine silk cloth that was light and strong. Written records show that this Chinese cultural phenomenon was adopted by others over a period of time and kite flying, particularly in the spring was a custom that migrated to Japan, Korea, Burma and eventually to India.

India really picked up on it and incorporated kite flying during Basant into their Hindu religious festivals. Basant was a time to honor deities, wear yellow clothing, eat yellow colored candies and fly kites that would soar high, lift spirits, give even the common poor man a chance to celebrate and have sky fun for a few paisa. Any kind of tamasha was a mechanism to forget for a brief time the drudgery, boredom and pain of living in poverty. Fun! How else could it be put?
"Fun is wrong!" Can you hear the mullahs shouting in Lahore about banning Basant, banning the flying of kites which leads one away from the important and serious considerations of service to Allah, leading Muslims away to the new-found secular freedoms of pagan and Hindu origin, leading young women to hold a string on a kite in Lahore and laugh and shout for joy?

There is a lovely expression we used to use in Michigan. "Oh, go fly a kite!" When a person became too heavy, too dogmatic and would not listen to reason, we would say it. Very interesting! The very act of flying a kite moves one into a new realm, away from the seriousness of one's own arguments and philosophy to feel the tug on the string, hear the rattle of paper as the wind buffets the surface of the kite. There is another use of the expression of kite flying. "Come fly a kite with me!" This was written on a greeting card that lovers could send to each other. The image is beautiful, uplifting and wonderfully sensual, two kites flying side by side, each responding to the winds of love, uncontrollable invisible currents that move their colorful displays.

Sixteen Flies on a Rope

Priginally published 5/14/08 on Desicritics



The white canvas tent was stained the color of mud and clay on its bottom. Touches of greasy hands had left their marks on the fabric which in turn had become magnets for dust. A capricious Nepali child, with charcoal in hand, had drawn two pictures at the back of the tent, perhaps of the owners of it, as the men depicted were too tall and all had strange hats on their heads. But the tent, when pitched under a tall Deodar Cedar looked inviting and spoke of restfulness, an escape from weary muscles, aching joints, a place into which one crawled for quietness, sleep, a place that smelled of often used sleeping bags and socks, almost stiff from use, stuffed into the bottoms that waited for the next hot springs to be washed and pounded a grey-clean.



The tent’s ropes were anchored to stakes pounded into the soil, three on each side, one in the front and one in the back. During the day, the front rope was untied and hung loose, making entry to the tent easier, or if perchance a small tree grew nearby, it could be tied up high enough so that the occupants did not need to bend down to enter. This rope was a light brown color, not from dye but from the stains of a hundred hand-holds, hands that had just finished eating the leg of a Monal Pheasant, hands that minutes earlier had held the blood stained skinning blades now lying on the small folding table with bird specimens in various stages of being skinned and stuffed, hands that had held ink pens that leaked onto fingers that wrote the day’s diary, ‘Jumuson-Nepal, September, 1949.’



These ropes, still wet from the light rain during the night, now sagged from the weight of their wetness, but when the sun shone bright and brilliantly, would once again shrink and resume their tightness.



It was on this rope, tied to a small tree, that visitors arrived daily. When the men had left for a daily hike or hunting expedition to the lake near Pokhara, sparrows landed on the rope, a mother sparrow and a fledgling baby bird nearly the size of its mother, which sat and begged with a wide open yellow mouth to be fed; then waited for her return. Sitting fat bellied on the rope it defecated a white sticky dung ball which stuck to the cord. A small green caterpillar hanging from a gossamer thread swayed back and forth in the breeze until its perigee from some distant branch, brought it to the rope where it rested momentarily, then arched its green slender body and began the long, inching journey the length of the rope all the way to the tent, where it hesitated, then dropped again on a silken thread to be carried away by the breeze to another juicier landing place. The lizard, not more than two inches long, crawled out onto the tent rope and did two little push ups, then sat motionless waiting for flies.



In spite of the open front flaps of the tent the temperature inside the tent became hot and humid and all the odors and aromas on bags, clothing and old boots filled the tent with fetid air. I looked up from my sleeping bag, now half out of the tent, resting on the ground in the shade, and studied the rope above my head. Sixteen flies were now the owners of the fiber highway, and from where I lay in the partial shade they looked like dark knots until one or another flew off, or until without foreplay or warning two mated for a frenzied moment and then remained in a coital bind that held them together until the female flew off, carrying her conjugal partner on her back to land on the tent flap some six feet away. Sixteen! I counted them again and now noted that all sat horizontally on the rope, all facing away from the tent. Some compulsion moved them to wash their ‘hands’ and then stroke their eyes and heads with their front feet as if ridding them of some unseen taint. All were common house flies except for one which was larger, a brilliant shiny blue-green. When this green bot rose in flight, its wings hummed and sang a tune known well to all who use the great out-of-doors as their toilet; all who remember with amazement that these ‘shit flies’, invisible, until fecal deposits graced the floor of the jungle, arrived in aggressive numbers, intent on some ghoulish quest. Fifteen; and one preening green blue-bot fly.



A shadow of a flying vulture passed across the rope and in an instant the flies were gone, leaving the rope alone and lonely, but not for long. The breeze caught the opening of the tent and the sides billowed, pulling the rope taught each time air blew into the tent. The roof canvas now flapped and snapped and dust swirled near the entrance, filling my eyes and blowing sand into my sleeping bag so that I was forced to turn away with eyes tightly closed. Then as abruptly as the wind arrived, it left and there was a still, an almost breathless waiting until the next current found its way to my campsite. A bright red dragonfly, the largest I had ever seen, landed on the tent rope, less than three feet from my eyes. I watched it sitting motionlessly, noticed that its head was in constant motion, its compound eyes staring, first one way, then another, watching for flies. The sun reflected from its wings, yet shone through the diaphanous lace throwing a glow onto the rope beneath it as if igniting the fibers in pink splendor. I blinked and the creature was gone, for an instant, to return with a green fly in its mouth, held with two tiny legs as it consumed its prey. A vulture circled high and the pink dragon was gone with a flip of its wings.



The tent-rope now looked black against the white snows of Annapurna behind it. The black line sliced the massif in two, as if a willful child had drawn a dark crayon across the picture in a travel book. Annapurna! From where I lay it stretched for some thirty miles and soared into the azure sky with its six major peaks, its summit reaching 26,538 feet, the tenth highest mountain in the world. ( Annapurna, in Sanskrit, Goddess of the Harvests; in Hinduism a symbol of fertility and a manifestation, an avatar of Durga.) The late afternoon sun shone against the snow-covered surface, now a slight orange- saffron tint. High, near its summit, strong winds blew a snow plume, like the plumed crest of a snowy egret which wavered and swirled in the late sunset.



I could hear their voices now. “Kaseru. How has the Barkat Zaman* sahib done today? Did you feed him?” Dr. Carl Taylor, the expedition’s physician, strolled into the clearing and headed toward the tent. “Harold. How’s it going, old man?” He reached down to feel my forehead and withdrew his hand, his face slightly frowning. “Did you take the medications I set out for you?”



“Yes,” I replied. “There were sixteen of them on the rope. The blue one got eaten. The baby shit on the line.” The words came tumbling out all at once.



Later I could hear the other members of the Nepal Ornithological Expedition talking as they ate their meal that Kaseru had prepared.



“No. It is really a mystery. Fever’s still at 104 degrees. Dangerously high. Until we get down to the plains, to Butwal or later in Ludhiana and have blood work done, I can only guess. Hemorrhagic fever, perhaps carried by the rats in the place we stayed in Jumosum, or typhus, or some strange parasitic disease.” Doctor Carl sipped the hot coffee in his mug. “Poor chap, hallucinating again. Rectal bleeding. All he could say this evening was, ‘Today about sixteen of them on a rope and the green one was eaten.’ Poor chap.”



“Well,” said Dr. Robert Fleming, the expedition leader, “we may just have to have him carried out on a litter; Pokhara to Tansing, then on to Butwal. That is going to be some feat, carrying him over the Himalayas in a litter.”

Lip Service: The Smile Train

Originally published 5/2/08 in Desicritics
I have only watched the reconstruction surgery for a cleft palate and cleft lip twice, and it remains in my memory as if these occurred just yesterday. During my first time to watch I stood quietly, in awe, with some trepidation, observing my father do reconstructive surgery in the hospital in Taxila, India. I was 7 years old. The year was 1939. My father, Dr. Stuart Bergsma, a surgeon, performed the operation on a lad, about my own age, whose teeth appeared between incomplete upper lips. The surgeon's knife, as it parted the flesh was almost more than I could bear to watch. In an hour or less, the boy's lips were pulled together with sutures and his swollen flesh looked to me like a grotesque Halloween mask. I tried not to look away. He came to see my father two months later and brought some marigold flowers and said thank you. His lips were united, his smile, a mile wide, one of toothsome happiness!

It was a clear day in the Himalayas. White clouds scudded across the sky. The Kali Gandak Valley of Nepal was a marvel to behold, the river water, from where I stood, looked like a silver band of mercury pouring down between black rocks. I stood next to a rock wall as another surgeon prepared to operate. This was the second time I saw this same operation. I was older, and this time I assisted with the operation in a limited way, having scrubbed, by handing the instruments to the doctor as required. The surgeon was Dr. Carl Taylor, a medical missionary of the Presbyterian Church. The operating table; a rough rock wall, suited the purpose well because of its height. A mat had been placed on it and the patient was lying on his back looking up. Villagers crowded nearby to see this amazing event. There was much talking and singing, but when the doctor picked up the scalpel to make the first incision the crown became silent. The town was called Tatopani, a small Himalayan village between Tansing and the border of Nepal near Tibet.

In order to receive the services of Dr. Taylor, the youth, about my own age of eighteen, had hiked with us for six days, as Dr. Taylor and other members of the National Geographic Ornithological Expedition hunted for rare birds. On Sunday, our day of rest, Dr. Taylor performed surgery and held a day-clinic for others who had hiked along behind us.
It is hard to imagine what such an operation does to the life of those who were handicapped with such a noticeable birth defect, what it did for their future employment, education and even prospects of marriage. Many birth defects are fairly well hidden, particularly those which are the result of our genes, height, a tendency to get diabetes, obesity, heart problems and tone deafness. With such problems we face the world, literally. Our face sees other faces and immediate responses are made on the basis of what we observe. Blonde hair, dark skin, long nose, high cheek bones, big ears, baldness, all telegraph messages. A cleft lip, on the other hand, telegraphs messages from the viewer, of abhorrence, sorrow, distaste, even among some viewers, that of the hand of providence, to others of the process of re-birth; the afflicted person bears the stamp of the pain or shame of another life lived less gloriously before.

This is where The Smile Train, India, comes in. In their latest 2008 bulletin on the web this is what they wrote.

"Every year, 35,000 children in India are born with clefts - a gap in the upper lip and/or palate. Though completely treatable, less than half get the treatment they desperately need - only because they are too poor.Without corrective surgery, these children are condemned to a lifetime of isolation and suffering. Taunted and tormented for their disfigurement, they cannot attend school, hold a regular job or get married. Many are even abandoned or killed at birth.
The irony is that a cleft can be completely corrected with a simple surgical procedure that could take as little as 45 minutes and cost as little as Rs. 8,000.That's where The Smile Train comes in. We are the world's largest cleft lip and palate charity. Our overriding goal is make safe and quality treatment of cleft lip and palate accessible to the millions who cannot afford it.
Since 2000, The Smile Train has sponsored over 110,000 safe, quality surgeries across India, totally free of cost."

Think about that, over one hundred thousand children have undergone surgery for cleft lips and palate, free. Compared to the billion people who live in India this may sound like a small number, but in reality it is a huge service to humanity, to the lives of youngsters who would be doomed to a life of torment. Children with such birth defects come from very rich families, very famous families, very, very poor families, all kinds of families. Nature is no respecter of persons. But the Smile Train does not do lip service to this problem; it reaches out with its service in a way that is inspiring. I am sure all of us have dropped a few coins into the hands of some beggars, trying not to see their misery and bent bodies, looking away in pity, or is it abhorrence, as the coin drops. But few of us have done what these Indian surgeons have done to bring life's blessings to so many.

The Smile Train Partner of the Month is a man who for 42 years has helped children who had no place else to turn. A man who could be described as selfless and his name is Doctor Hirji Adenwalla from Kerala, India. For 42 years this surgeon has salvaged lives and has performed 7000 surgeries to help children with cleft lip and cleft palate. He performed these surgeries, this lip service, himself, free of charge. His record of service is truly remarkable. At a recent press conference for Smile Train he said, "The lessons that we learn from human misery are to love...To never forget and to never, never, look away."

Line up all the smiles that are the result of this man's surgery and truly, there is a Smile Train a mile long.

Drag Queens - Political Bellwethers of Pakistan?

Originally published on Desicritics on Feb. 29th 2008

Almost twenty years ago while traveling through Swat Valley, I stopped in a bazaar and two women approached me, tall women with heavy make up. They stood in front of me and asked where I was from in broken English. I replied in Urdu which set them off with high squeals and sexy wiggles. A crowd gathered. There is always a crowd when there is a tamasha. What a show this was, an American dressed in shalwar kameez, wearing a Pashtun hat, speaking Urdu, driving a Japanese car, talking to two six feet tall ‘women’ who were flirting like crazy and reaching out to feel blonde hair.

“Do you take female hormones,” I asked. It was a fair question because they had asked me if I thought they were beautiful as they puffed out their bosoms. I nodded and rolled my eyes. Wah! The crowd laughed.

“Yes. Yes. I do, but my friend Sheila here does not. She has not been a nar, male since he was castrated as a child. She is a eunuch.” I looked at Sheila and my gaze embarrassed her; she turned away shyly, but then returned my gaze and lifted her eyebrows in a question mark. The crowd of children echoed the word eunuch, hirja.

“Do you sing and perform?” I asked.

“Yes. Yes almost every night. We have even performed in the famous Nishtar Hall in Peshawar when we were younger. We were very famous!”

In the Northwest Frontier Province where I spent my childhood, I had seen many, many men dressed as women, in drag as we say in the States. But not really in drag. My parents always looked away and did not answer our questions about tall women in drag. Cross dressing implied ‘functional’ men dressed as women. I was informed later by my father that most of the men who dressed like women, were eunuchs, and if not, were effeminate, and often homosexual. He was comfortable about this reminding me of the ‘eunuch of Ethiopia’ who was forced to carry Jesus’ cross.

Already my readers are squirming. Drag, eunuch, homosexual, effeminate, cross dressing… these are only mentioned in whispers by the men in parties or away from the family. Such are not discussed within family, within ear-shot of wives and children, particularly the word homosexual; that term had a special taboo, it was unthinkable. But in Pakistan, since its inception in 1947 and in the NWFP where I grew up, many men had a penchant for young boys, and beautiful men as they had throughout history. Check your history books about the Emperors of ancient India, who their favorite entertainers were. Oh, heaven forbid another term, pedophilia in India!

“In a society that strictly segregates women and men, these transgender musicians perform for male audiences—at weddings and other social occasions, swinging their hips in suggestive gyrations.” Dancers Cheer Islamist Defeat in Pakistan Vote, by Yaroslav Trofimov, The Wall Street Journal, Feb. 26. 2008.

This article suggests that the new election results in the NWFP of Pakistan are harbingers of change for cross-dressers and entertainers who had in recent years been prohibited, that a new era of more liberal thought and attitude toward dancers will now become a reality because the people in Swat have voted against Islamic militants who banned music, bombed and burned stores that sold video tapes, prohibited suggestive signs advertising with sexual overtones, and worst of all prohibiting the sale of those suggestive very evil Indian Bollywood movies and videos in which young women dance with faces exposed and hips and breasts moving suggestively.

The Wall Street Journal article suggests that there may be a return to ‘normalcy’ so that the featured entertainer, Adel, will be able once again to perform in Peshawar’s Nishtar Hall; a great step forward toward normalization of social activity.

Does the irony of all this leap out at you as it does for me? Normalization of social activity? So what is normal? Concealing women within society to the point that the normal urge for heterosexual interaction must be satisfied with men acting as women singing in falsetto voices and wiggling their hips and breasts to satisfy the prurient needs of a sexually repressed society? Even more, the ‘dancers cheer’ is a bellwether of political-social change. What an irony.

A bellwether is any entity in a given arena that serves to create or influence trends or to presage future happenings. The term is derived from the Middle English bellewether and refers to the practice of placing a bell around the neck of a castrated ram (a wether) in order that this animal might lead its flock of sheep.

Now the bells are around the ankles of Pakistani eunuch ‘cross dressers’; castrated rams that lead the flock of sheep toward political change. What a beautiful image. But in the same newspaper the headline shouts, PAKISTAN LULL IS SHATTERED, and reports that insurgents are receiving renewed attention in the assassination of Lt. General Mushtaq Baig, an eye surgeon who headed the Army Medical Corps. Insurgents; such a convenient term for cowards who hide behind religious convention and dogma to exert control, even to the extent of assassination and heaven forbid, the closing down of YouTube and repression of cross-dressing dancers.

Dancing bellwethers! Long may they gyrate and presage future happenings, leading out the sheep in the repressed frontier along the Afghanistan border.

Mother Teresa's Prayer

Originally published on Desicritics on Feb. 4, 2008

Puja, worship, invocation, prayer, namaz, dua, salvat, bhajan, meditation, praise, astute; the words are not synonymous. Each person involved in such acts brings with him or her personal understanding, personal cultural experience and personal interpretation of the reason for such acts. Each mind and heart experiences worship differently through the interactions stemming from experience and existence, dare I use the word, existentially. Each worshipper has a cognitive set, emotional baggage, cultural learning. Even the artifacts which surround the one performing namaz are totally different. How utterly different is the Badshahi Mosque from the Indian temple mandira, such as the Gopuram of South India! The motive for the prayers may vary as well. Some pray for a special blessing, some for forgiveness, some for physical health, and some even for wealth. A few pray to praise, repeating over and over how wonderful and powerful God is; are they hoping He will hear their praises and recognize their obeisance for… Others mutilate, flagellate themselves hoping that will show their devotion and thus garner something from Allah.

For one, with eyes open staring at a lingam, the statue, the bringing of flowers, the pouring of oil, the bowing and chanting may represent hope, a wish that a power greater than self will look with favor and grant the supplicant’s mundane yet heartfelt desire; to bear a child, to overcome an illness, to feed a family. To another who kneels in the cathedral with eyes closed to shut out earthly and physical surroundings, prayer may be a means to commune with God almighty on a one-to-one basis, to request forgiveness for sins, to give thanks to a personal God who attends, listens to; such a one prays for answers, gives praise, extols, and murmurs in the ear of the Almighty, hallelujah. Among hundreds gathered together in Lahore to perform namaz, to prostate themselves and intone holy words is to carry out the meaning of islam, subjugation of self before the one god, Allah and commune with other faithful and extol the attributes of the Almighty, the Merciful. Others in Ludhiana may sit together and sing, hum, play drums and musical instruments and make a joyful noise to khuda and feel the fervor of worship in bhajan, become invigorated with the eternal rhythms.

Mother Teresa’s personal letters published after her death reveal yet another meaning of prayer and worship. She expressed joy in 1931 when she took her first vows as a nun and wrote to a friend, “If you could know how happy I am, as Jesus’ little bride.” Those words evoke strong physical meaning, as does the act of prostration on the floor, arms and legs akimbo in the act of complete spiritual surrender to the bridegroom, Jesus, or walking into the church wearing bridal clothing. Some nuns wear a wedding ring.

Teresa perceives a dialogue with the almighty.

JESUS) Wilt thou refuse to do this for me?...You have become my Spouse for my love—you have come to India for Me. The thirst you had for souls brought you so far—Are you afraid to take one more step for Your Spouse—for me—for souls? Is your generosity grown cold? Am I second to you?

Teresa) Jesus, my own Jesus—I am only Thine—I am so stupid—I do not know what to say but do with me whatever you wish…” Time, September 3, 2007, page 39As a teacher in Calcutta with the Loreto Sisters on the way to Darjeeling she reported that Christ again spoke personally to her to work with people in the slums of the Calcutta with the poor, the sick the dying. “Come be my light.”

She embarks on her mission after 1948 but soon thereafter she experiences abandonment. “Lord, God, who am I that You should forsake me? The Child of your love—and now become as the most hated one—the one—You have thrown away as unwanted—unloved. I call, I cling I want—and there is no One to answer—no One on whom I can cling--.”

Teresa’s faith takes on a desperation stemming from unbelief, disbelief, emptiness because her prayers rebounded back to her. She felt totally cut off from God. She doubted the existence of her Lord. Yet she continued to do her work, continued to serve the needy, continued to hold her rosary and move the beads through her fingers.

Now, in retrospect the armchair religious analysts make their interpretations, those who find divine purpose in the fact ‘that Teresa’s spiritual spigot went dry’; that she may have experienced abandonment by God by imposing it on herself; that she may have had a huge amount of cognitive dissonance, or that through all her struggles with faith that she “reveals herself as holier than anyone knew.”

She fought against pride in her entire life of service, fought against her own unbelief and perception of darkness and emptiness when she tried to pray, when she sought One to cling to. But she did her work; her ‘prayer’ was her service, her giving, not vast sums to build a cathedral or support a religious cause, but in her poverty, her penury she gives what she has, herself, to the service of the untouchables. Her salvat, her mukt was her consistent fight against self pride. She perceived an absence of God, yet found salvation in service and dedicating herself to her work to the end through giving.

Teresa had asked that her private letters and notes be kept secret after her death. They were not, nor were her requests carried out, the church over-ruled. Why? “Her Agony” in the Religion section of Time, written by David van Biema got lots of attention. It put her picture on the cover of this world class magazine to be read by tens of millions. It exposed her belief or lack of it, her secrets. Why? Her secret letters became tabloid stuff. (Who wants to read about quiet belief, joy, and peace?) What sells is trauma, agony, voyeuristic peeking into another’s struggle, and agony with faith. What could have been the church’s motivation to release her secret letters? They must answer.

Teresa’s life itself was a dua, a prayer, a dedication to her fellow men, to alleviate the suffering around her, to extend a helping, healing hand to those who suffered. She had no money to give to charity, she gave herself. Whatever her inner spiritual, philosophical struggle was, it was hers and should have remained hers, as words spoken by a ‘sinner’ in the confessional should remain hidden. Though she received Nobel accolades for peace on earth, her greatest achievement resides in the lives of those she touched; it is a prayer through giving. We are not known for what we receive, what we get, what we obtain. We are really only what we have given. It is not her agony that should be celebrated or remembered, rather her gifts to humanity, her love for others. She was a little light burning in a tiny clay dish.

An Oath of Vengeance: Blood Demands Blood

Originally published on Desicritics on Jan 31, 2008

“Life for a life, eye for an eye, nose for a nose, ear for an ear, tooth for a tooth, and wounds equal for equal. But whoso forgoeth it (in the way of charity) it shall be expiation for him.” Koran, Surah 5, vs.45

To live under the first part of this declaration, to believe it and to enact it in one’s life places the individual in a position which leaves little room for forgiveness, little consideration for peaceful negotiation and instills the need to keep score. Certainly the idea of “turning the other cheek” as taught by Jesus can not be considered. However, Jesus was a Jew and the teachings of the Old Testament were almost identical to those taught in Surah 5. The idea of an eye for and eye persists yet today in the minds of those who negotiate settlements never solved by Arafat, never solved by present day Israeli leaders. The life for a life belief, and I say belief, not philosophy, makes for self justification and the drawing of hard lines in the sand.

On an individual scale, those who live and breathe this belief, carry their jambiya sheathed, ready for use against any who violate or step across that line. I remember traveling in Yemen Arab Republic and talking to men who carried their curved dagger at the waist, would never consider walking the street without it, they would feel undressed. So, I asked, when have you used your dagger? Why? Different men responded in different ways. One told me that if the dagger was drawn from the sheath to pay another back in kind, one who blasphemed, it must draw blood. Another said that if another’s dagger drew blood, then he would make an oath of vengeance and the aggressor would surely have his blood drawn.

I lived in Northern Nigeria for twelve years. Almost daily I heard the Hausa words, ‘make an oath’, yi rantsuwa. Men, thus protected by the aura of such belief go about relaxed in their passive aggressive stance, knowing that others around them think the same way. I also lived in Pakistan for a number of years and listened to iman se, saugand which was spoken so frequently that it lost its sting.

I was amazed when George Bush used the words crusade when speaking of the actions which would be taken against the Islamic terrorists after 911. Those too were similar words, ‘eye for an eye’ words. Those words drew a line in the sand. George said America would never rest until we got him, Bin Laden that is. They got Saddam but the misplaced vengeance continues in Iraq. The bad press Bush got about using the word crusade changed his language but not his actions. His immediate response was a telling one.

Not long ago Bin Laden said, “Stop spilling our blood so we can stop spilling your blood.” Diane Christian said in her article, Blood Spilling, “Osama bin Laden released a taped message offering to stop his jihad against European nations if they will stop ‘onslaughts against Muslims and interference in their affairs as part of the big American conspiracy against the Islamic world.’ It’s a noteworthy vengeance text, with a new peace-making twist. Bin Laden first claims his war is not terrorism but righteous revenge for brutality against his people and sacred places. He rejects the label of terrorist and returns it: By describing us and our actions as terrorism, you are necessarily describing yourself and your action…Our actions are reactions to your actions that destroy and kill our people in Afghanistan, Iraq and Palestine.”

One religious cause against another; Israel and Palestine, or the United States against fundamental radical Islamists wherever they are, in Pakistan, Iraq or Palestine. But how is the common man on the street in Baluchistan or Kabul going to view the common man on the street in Chicago or Dallas? Will all Americans be thought of as aggressors against Islam? How is the average American getting on the sub-way in New York or the next plane to Seattle going to differentiate between those who are Muslim believers, peaceful believers who do not carry oaths of vengeance as part of their costume? Truly we are in a disturbing era in world history. War is being waged against unseen ‘enemies’, particularly those considered to be the ‘most dangerous kind’, those who carry their jambiya sheathed but ready to draw blood, or carrying hidden bombs strapped to their waists; and they can not be recognized on a Bombay railway station.

Our family first left India in 1944, boarding a freighter in Bombay and making our way south all the way to Australia and then on to Los Angeles. During the War! By 1947 we had settled into an American home but each of us carried our ‘Indian’ selves with us. As a school child I learned quickly not to constantly provide answers about India, not to talk about India too much; even though the teachers’ smiles were patient with these new strangers. Now I carry with me my ‘desi’ self, carry it quietly and have for many decades. Does one ever lose the sense of what home meant? The point I am making is that each individual carries with him, her or his social-ethnic and emotional costume. But then Partition came!

Our Indian homes had been in Taxila, Ludhiana and Sialkot. Partition came and as a child, I heard with disbelief the reports of horror and carnage at the new international border, brothers killing brothers and making solemn oaths of vengeance against those who slaughtered their loved ones. But how could the Indian child differentiate between the man getting on the Bombay train or the Lahore PIA flight to Quetta? There were a million wounds, much blood and memories which span generations. Even using the word Partition makes the listeners’ faces in Lahore or Lucknow, harden.

The reaction over the years that followed 911 or 1947 are similar; hardening of the categories, solidifying the rationale for the barriers, giving credence to the arms build up and the need for nuclear weapons, justification for preemptive actions, except now the jambiya that are carried are no longer personal but national and the oaths are based on strange alliances and threats. “Leaders perform their bizarre public ballets making friendship over hatred and common terrorist enemy, ignoring their serious disagreements over the Iraq invasion.” (See Diane Christian’s new book, Blood Sacrifice, available from Amazon.com, Feb. 2008).

Righteous violence and vengeance is the mask that is worn, like the phantom of the opera, it both hides and reveals the wearer; it makes the identity of the wearer grotesque. Look at the faces of shop keepers in Murree, Pakistan, when the Kashmir problem is mentioned. Mouths turn down and harden, eyes become fierce as India’s guilt is considered. The Vale of Kashmir considered to be a ‘heaven on earth’ has become the basis for hatred, revenge and oaths of vengeance keep flying back and forth.

I do not mean to preach, but why have the lessons of peaceful living been forgotten? Why are the noble ideals of ‘turn the other cheek’ forgotten; why is the teaching of serenity, peace and enlightenment of Siddhartha Gautama forgotten? Where is the belief of acceptance of all religions of Hinduism, promotion of non violence, the welcoming of all faiths, where has it gone? Where are these noble ideas and ideals? I think they are with us. But there is a second part to the verse. “But whoso forgoeth it (in the way of charity) it shall be expiation for him.” Vs.45b.

Is there charity? Is there hope? Vivekananda: May he who is the Brahman of the Hindu, the Ahura Mazda of Zoroastrians, the Buddha of the Buddhists, the Jehovah of Jew, the Father in Heaven of Christians give strength to you to carry out your noble ideas. J.H. Barrows, In the World’s Parliament of Religions, (Ed.), Vol. II. Chicago, 1893, p.98

Benazir's One Way To Pakistan

Originally published December 28, 2007 on Desicritics

Benazir seemed to have a premonition. “When I first got elected they said, ‘A woman has usurped a man’s place, she should be killed. She should be assassinated, she has committed heresy.” Heresy! Ah, such a convenient fall-back for the accusations made by self-righteous cowards. How does anyone counter the shouts of heresy from the fundamentalists, the radical Islamists who control through ‘irrefutable dogma’? Yes, she had a strong premonition, and according to many, also a strong sense of predestination concerning her life and death.

“If you believe in something, go for it, but know that when you go for it there is a price to be paid. Be ready to pay the price and you can contribute to the welfare of society and society will acknowledge you and respect you for it.”

Her return to Pakistan, her one way return from exile was performed with the knowledge of the grave danger she faced. Already the Taliban had called for her execution, yet in the face of danger she returned, made her way back. She had a strong belief that she could contribute to the welfare of Pakistani society. In her past record there were achievements of note; she worked hard for the welfare of women, the common women in Pakistani society, trying to improve their health, their family life through learning about reproductive choices. “I have always done my best to allow women to succeed.” But overshadowing all her efforts to create positive social change there hung the cloud of that terrible word, corruption, the arrest of her husband Asif Zardari and his long imprisonment and her own exile. Yet she returned and made her way back to Pakistan.

She was a highly privileged person from any point of view. Imagine, being able to gain entry to Harvard at the age of sixteen! Imagine her home life, vast estates, huge houses, multitudes of servants; truly a person who came from a lineage of ‘feudal lords’, who as they moved about the country from village to village were met by common folk who sank to their knees and lowered their heads to the feet of Bhutto’s family members. Yet, in spite of this she had a deep love for her people, her country, and from what she often stated publicly, a belief that she could make a difference politically and socially.

Her one way return to Pakistan was shadowed. “I put my life in danger and came here because I felt this country is in danger.” How true that statement was. She was a person with close ties to the United States, a person with a fine secular education, a person with an international life style, a modern woman in many ways, yet one who kept to her beliefs, her religion and faith to the very end.

“In the end, Bhutto’s secular credentials in a Muslim dominated Pakistan and her close ties to the U.S. could have been her downfall. Al-Qaeda and Taliban hated her close ties to Americans and her support for the war on terrorism.” (NPR.org, Dec.27, 2007)

Don’t be afraid, she had said. I just re-read the text of her interview with the Academy of Achievement, Oct.27th. 2000. It was a worthwhile exercise for me. Her words spoke her own eulogy eloquently.