Massive Mumblings from Malaysia

Happy Merdeka Day, Malaysia
47 candles on the birthday cake



That's Prime Minister Abdullah Badawi, Malaysia's PM since last October when Mahathir Mohamad stepped down after more than twenty years in power.


Independence Day (August 31st) in Malaysia is hardcore. People hanging flags in windows, on cars, radio adverts telling people to "Get your flag up, get your flag up" in an annoying jingle. Those who didn't go out of town for the long weekend most certainly went out last night. The trains were packed, the streets were full. I've never seen anything like it here. Actually, they made the 4th of July look a little pathetic! But maybe that's because we can't maintain our full enthusiasm 228 years since we declared independence...(Note how similar the Malaysian flag is to the United States'? They copied it out of admiration, so the story goes. Or maybe it was just a lack of creativity....)

Exiting the LRT at Bukit Bintang, there was craziness in the streets. People had cans of silly string and were spraying everyone. I made a mad dash (but trying not to look like I was, because that would have made me better prey) to get to what I deemed a safe zone across the street and had almost made it. But then, unsuspectingly, a guy raised a can 3 inches from my face and sprayed, without breaking stride. (Similar to how Erika nearly made it out of the Bird Park before getting crapped on by a bird; so close, but no dice.) This is probably the closest Malaysia gets to Thailand's Songkran Festival (check the archive for April to hear about the water fights, drive by splashings and whiskey swigging).

There may have been a parade, because people were lined up along the streets, but I missed it. The clubs were all packed---and charging hefty covers. Luckily, I was meeting someone with some swing and I got in for free to Thai Club. (Only now I realize that perhaps that is an ill named place for celebrating Malaysia's independence day.) There were Party Packs for free at the entrance: glow sticks, noise makers, streamers, cans of silly string, masks. Balloons and flags were hanging everywhere. The band played only Malay songs and were dressed in traditional clothes. I know the lead female singer, but this was the first time I saw her perform--she's so animated and silly on stage! There was a countdown at midnight---and I swear, New Year's must be insane here considering this party!

Celebrating Merdeka at Thai Club, August 31, 2004 (couldn't get this picture to show up here, so this is the link)


After the countdown, we went outside to see the fireworks, some of which were being set off right above the club. I looked up and something flew into my eye. I freaked out, sure that it was a spark from the firecracker that would blind my right eye forever. My friend tried to get me some water from the bartender and I swear I heard him say that my eye was bleeding. Freak out increased and I touched my eyes and looked at my fingertips to see if there was blood. There wasn't, but I was still scared. I wanted to know how serious it was, but was also afraid to ask. I still have sight, so I guess it wasn't that bad, though it was painful for quite awhile.

My friend only said that my eye was bleeding because the bartender wasn't really paying attention and was taking too long. Incidentially, I can say my eyes are bleeding in Japanese. Me kara chi ga daru. Fortunatley, they weren't really. And besides, this isn't Japan!

Everyone was drinking, drinking, drinking. My Malay friend kept getting free drinks, eveyone was being so friendly. Ah, there's the ethnic harmony Malaysia tries so hard to put forth as its public face! Said friend is currently hung over and sleeping it off on my couch as I write this.

Happy Birthday, Malaysia. It's been a good year.


**************************************************************************
Current Mood: Thought that a severe thunderstorm was inevitable, but turned out (I hope) to have been just a light rain.

Reminded of the following lyrics:

Garden Party, by Ricky Nelson
"I went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends.
A chance to share old memories and play our old songs again.
When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name,
But no one recognized me, I didn't look the same.
But it's all right now. I learned my lesson well.
You see, you can't please everyone, so you got to please yourself.
People came from miles around. Everyone was there..."

Or maybe Bob Marley's words are more relevant:
"You can fool some people sometimes,
But you can’t fool all the people all the time.
So now we see the light."


I get those lyrics, "I learned my lesson well / You see, you can't please everyone, so you got to please yourself," stuck in my head sometimes. I think I've been in the Please Myself mode for the last few months and it's been good. Making my own decisions, not worrying what others think, listening to my heart, silencing my over-active brain--though sometimes its listening to my brain and silencing my over-active heart. It goes both ways.

But my recent mistake made me realize that my attitudes aren't shared by everyone (unfortunately). I don't have to please them, but I do have to consider the impact my actions have on them. I know I can no longer be blind (by falling stars or firecrackers). As Andi recently Confessed: I'm responsible for being irresponsible. So am I, sista.

I need to tweak my actions so that I can still live by my beliefs/attitudes while simultaneously not pissing off those that operate on a different basis. This is partially about expectations that they have, that I don't think I should have to live with.

The tweak: a return to isolating certain situations, so what they don't know, won't hurt 'em. Civil disobedience, not taking to the streets in protest. Maybe it's not the ultimate lesson to be learned, but it's the one that allows me to not step on any toes without compromising myself. Pretty simple (and how I had been functioning up until this minor glitch).

I recently read that which is easiest is closest to the truth.

Cryptic? You bet.

Glory, Glory Hallelujah
Sweet, sweet justice

I went out last night to the just-past-new club on the scene, Zouk. Just waiting to get in I could tell it was a different kind of breed that partied here--a richer, trender, hotter breed. And a higher percentage of Chinese! The downfall--house music, not R&B/hiphop or live band.

Anyway, we met up with my friends' friends. I had met one of them before because we used to live in the same apartment building near by Ampang Park. (I didn't remember him...this is constantly happening--people know me, but I don't know them. I think that means I'm Almost Famous!) That was the apartment I shared with that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Australian and his Malaly girlfriend. To recap: he screwed me over because he lied about how much his rent was, so I was paying 75% of his whole rent and subsidizing his portion--and I only had the stinkin' small room! (Though the price he quoted was right for most other apartments in the building, somehow he'd taken over someone else's lease and was paying like half that--I think it was almost like rent-control....) You can read more about it in my archive from February if you care to.

Well, this former neighbor of mine delivered good news: Gavin has been kicked out of the apartment! Mwahahahahaahha. Too many complaints about him, from the manager and other residents. I know I shouldn't be happy about someone else's misfortune, but come on! He deserved it long ago after preying on many an innocent folk like me. I still have his cell phone number; I'm tempted to send him a "haha, serves you right" type message, but I'll refrain.

A song comes to mind: Survivor, by Destiny's Child (thanks Google):

I'm not gon' blast you
On the radio
(I'm better than that)
I'm not gon' lie to
You and your family, oh
(I'm better than that)
I'm not gon' hate on
You in the magazines
(I'm better than that)
I'm not gon' compromise
My Christianity
(I'm better than that)
You know I'm not gon'
Diss you on the internet
'Cause my momma taught me
Better than that

Hahaha. Maybe not.

Lovely Ladies
From observation to interaction

I have mentioned before that I have been surprised by the level of visibility of transsexuals in Malaysia (that is, men who identify themselves as women. Like women, they like men).

Aside from a drag queen show in Iowa City and Trannie Bingo in Manhattan, I haven't noticed as many transsexuals in the US. Though I do know an American female transsexual (that is, a woman who identifies as a male and likes girls). Since I last saw her four years ago, I have learned that she takes testosterone, had a breast reduction and is living as a man, much more happily.

[Note: these are heterosexual transsexuals—they like the sex opposite of how they identify. It is also possible that there are homosexual transsexuals.]

Months ago I saw a National Geographic special called something like “The Third Sex” that told the stories of a few transsexuals in India and Thailand. It was then that I learned about transsexual Thai kick boxer Parinya Charoenphol. She became famous for her style and trademark kick to the head and after establishing herself as a good fighter, began to wear makeup while competing. She had to leave the ring in order to become a woman, as females are not allowed to fight. This spring her story was told in the movie Beautiful Boxer.



The movie advertisements read: "Believing he's a girl trapped in a boy's body since childhood, Parinya...sets out to master the most masculine and lethal sport of Thai boxing to achieve his ultimate goal of total femininity.”


In Malaysia, I’ve seen “lady boys” on the street in KL and Penang. I’ve seen one working a makeup counter in KLCC Mall. The hairdresser that Erika went to in Penang was a transsexual. I’ve met one or two who weren’t cross-dressed at the time of our meeting, but did a few times a week. I’ve been to two drag queen shows at two different bars. Just last week, at the Social Welfare Conference, I had a chance to have lunch with 7 transsexuals and two other conference participants (pictured below, photo from www.malaysiakini.com.)





The conference had two sessions about transsexuals and I attended both to help solve this mystery of who they are, what they do, how they are perceived, the problems they face, etc. Most of the information included below is from the presentation of sociologist Teh Yik Khoon and the transsexuals themselves.

Profile of Malaysian transsexuals

The local terms for transsexuals vary: hijras in India, kathoeys in Thailand, warias in Indonesia, mak nyahs in Malaysia (this is non-derogatory). There are an estimated 20-30,000 mak nyahs in Malaysia and about 75% of them are Malay--which means Muslim.

A few stats (from 1997 data from Teh):

• 60% of transsexuals in Malaysia are sex workers (usually turned to sex work after being unable to find a decent job and living in poverty)
• about 50% of mak nyahs are drug abusers and 80% of the sex workers are
• 74% have secondary school training
  3% have attended an institute of higher education
• 73% have an income less then 1000 RM ($263 US) per month
  about 30% live near or below the poverty line of RM 500
• 16% received moral support from family members (most usually from mothers)
• 62% of respondents cross-dressed full time
• 63% took hormones to enlarge their breasts, reduce body and facial hair, etc.
• of 71% knowledgeable about HIV/AIDS, only 10% practiced safe sex (usually a matter of a customer being willing to pay more to not use a condom and also competition from foreign sex workers)
• 69% had boyfriends
  93% wanted to get married to a man if their religion permitted it

The hormones are available over the counter and only 15% went to a doctor or clinic to get a prescription. This meant that most did not know how much to consume per day, depended on their other friends for information, and knew little or nothing about the side effects of taking hormones.

Problems arise for the mak nyahs in all areas of their lives: from housing (often landlords will not rent to them), to insurance (can’t get), to jobs (can’t get), to mental health (depression, suicide, drug abuse).

When they go to hospitals, it is often embarrassing for the mak nyahs, because they are generally admitted to the male ward, though they look female. Likewise, they have problems when put in jail—usually in men’s cells. The other prisoners harass them and guards have even made some remove their clothes. Since many are taking hormones, they have breasts and this is quite humiliating. The question of where to pray in a mosque is also a problem, but a local sheikh said they should be permitted to pray at the back of the mosque behind the men.

There arise problems post operation as well. The Identify Card still states the sex as male, but the body is female. This leads to problems at the bank and immigration and means that they cannot marry.

Post-op: You'd never know she was once a man!

When Teh was doing her research, she was observing the mak nyahs working the streets to see who it was that picked them up—and that’s when she even saw one of her students!


Reactions of the audience

I was very interested to see who would be brave enough to attend these two sessions on transsexuals. In fact, the room was full for both! There was a cross-section of people—a few foreigners, but mostly local.

A surgeon presented to explain the mechanics behind the sex change operation. After a few Powerpoint slides, some diagrams of the sort you’d see in sex education manuals came up. The doctor asked if he would offend anyone if he showed pictures and there was no response (thankfully, since it was a scientific/medical discussion). I looked around to see if anyone looked upset/disgusted, particularly the veiled women, but there didn’t seem to be any. (That's when I noticed the sign language interpreter and must say it was interesting to watch him sign some of these words!) As the presentation progressed, the diagrams lead to real photographs of genitalia—comparing a biological woman to the post-op result. Again, no one seemed offended or got up to leave. All the medical procedure information was new to me and I was surprised to learn that a fully-functioning clitoris can be constructed that has sensation by preserving nerves and blood supply.

Cross-dressing is prohibited and is punishable as indecent/immoral behavior with fines up to 1000 RM and/or 6 months to one year in prison (55% of those surveyed had been caught by police). This means that there are no government social services provided for them. Teh appealed to the representatives of the Department of Social Welfare and other service providers in attendance to address this highly vulnerable group.

A question or two demonstrated that some people thought that transsexualism was the result of upbringing or previous sexual abuse—both false. Though most of the mak nyahs played with female toys, had female playmates and adopted the female role as a child, this was not pushed on them by a mother who wanted a daughter, etc. but their own natural inclinations.

One woman asked a question that rested on the assumption that mak nyahs wanted to have the operation so that they could become sex workers. Definitely mislead, that one.

In the second session, after several transsexuals addressed the audience and told their stories, there was a lovely moment. A 68-year old veiled woman (she told us how old she was) said that this was the first time she’d heard about their problems and met a mak nyah personally. She said she felt that they were like her daughters and addressed them as ‘ladies.’

Though I’m sure not all myths/prejudices were dispelled, the education the attendants got was really important in combating the stereotypes and putting a real face on a population that is usually only seen as being social and sexually deviant.


Religious rulings about sex change

In 1983, the Conference of Rulers in Malaysia issued a fatwa (Islamic ruling) that prohibited sex change operations, except for in the case of hermaphrodites. This fatwa means that most transsexuals are prohibited from having the operation, that there are few doctors with proper training and experience in Malaysia, and the cost is also a restraining factor. [4% of those surveyed had had sex change operations and 78% of the remaining would have one if their religion permitted it.]

One of the concerns about having the sex change operation was how the body would be buried. According to Muslim rites, only a female can bathe the body of a female and only a male could bathe the body of a male. The mak nyahs would presumably not fit into either category.

The State Mufti of Egypt issued a fatwa in the late 80s as a result of problems raised from a man having undergone a sex change operation after being diagnosed as having psychological hermaphroditism. The fatwa “concluded that if the doctor testified that this was the only cure against the disease, then this treatment was permissible. It must, however, never be performed at the mere wish of a man to become a woman, or vice versa.”

The details of the case can be read According to the article, the Mufti “makes an interesting remark: what the doctor should be looking for are a buried female or a covered male nature, which can then be brought to light by means of the surgery. This amounts to saying that every human being has one true sex, which may be covered by limbs or organs belonging to the other sex. The truth, however, is always underneath. [The Mufti] thus makes a distinction between an outward appearance [zahir], which may be deceptive and an inward essence [batin] which is always true--a well-known and important theme in Muslim culture.”

In this context, the surgery is seen as “re-gendering a body whose sex had been socially and physically disguised but was nevertheless not changed in the least by the operation.” That is, the surgery was making the physical correspond to the inner, innate, true sex. The author concludes that rather than permitting a sex change operation, the arguments presented in the fatwa actually deny the possibility of performing one at all.



Recommended Read: Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides.
Not about transsexualism, but a great novel about biology, gender, and identify.

You learn something new everyday
Today's history lesson

What is the only Middle East country to have been communist?

The answer: Yemen.

I learned the rough details of what is written below from a Yemeni friend tonight over a cup of tea, but went a-Googlin' to fill in some of the details (instead of working on that 3 page To-Do list...).

In the 1960s, it seems everyone was 'helping' Yemen: the Brits and Saudi Arabia fighting on the side of the former leader's son vs. Egyptians and the USSR supporting a group of army officers who had lead a coup against him.

Meanwhile, the National Liberation Front (a Marxist, nationalist guerilla group) began a revolution against Britain in the south. Once they had the Brits running with their tails between their legs, the People's Republic of South Yemen needed some economic help (no more British cash and Suez Canal had been closed).

Who came to the rescue? Good old Mother Russia.

Civil war in 1986.
Reunification between north and south happened in 1990 (after South Yemen lost its source of cash with the collapse of the Soviet Union).
Power struggles led to another civil war in 1994, but the south was not strong enough to establish itself as its own state again and the northern ruler presides over the re-reunifed state.

According to an article reviewing the 10 years since reunification (using the 1990 date): "Given that the northern population outnumbered that of the south by more than four to one, it is scarcely surprising that the north won the war - though if it had failed to do so the result could have been very messy: fragmentation into more than two states or a descent into Somali-style anarchy were two scenarios postulated at the time."

Though elections have been held, Yemen isn't exactly a democracy. Like Hosni Mubarak in Egypt and Mahathir Mohamed in Malaysia, it isn't a real surprise when President Salih (ruler of the north since 1979 and of the whole of Yemen since 1990) wins yet again and his party retains a huge margin over the opposition.

Another article postulates that the reunification of Yemen should be used as a model for Korea, rather than that of East and West Germany. Instead of a complete takeover (ala West Germany of East), North and South Yemen shared power in a ratio of 3:2 based on negotiations.

"We suggest Korea takes a closer look at how the once-divided Yemen with two conflicting political systems _ capitalism and communism _ moved toward a united nation through negotiations between the two governments," the Economic Research Institute report said.

My friend Dan is currently studying Arabic in San'a (Yemen's capital) and doing some digging (archeological stuff). Here's a snippet of his last email to me:

"i guess for what its worth, i think you'd like yemen (although i have no idea what its really like to be a foreign women here. apparently, as i hear and see, you don't get harassed, but you do get stared at.). actually, i think the comparison of yemen to the midwest is somewhat sustainable. people here generally are nice, but keep to themselves. however, if you do befriend one, if only minimally, you will get the generous "arab" treatment which i hadn't ever really encountered before in egypt, syria, jordan or wherever--where everything had already been tainted by the tourist industry and therefore has a suspect side to it."

Mohamed is the Yemeni friend who started this whole thread (a word I just taught him tonight after his attempt to teach me a tongue twister in Arabic that meant 'a thread of silk on Khalil's wall'). He painted a picture of Yemen as the Wild West, with men carrying guns and short, decorated swords/knifes tucked into their belts.

Meanwhile, my Omani friends would have me believe that Oman is perfect. It's safe, everyone gets a good salary from the government, everyone has a house, free education, healthcare. When I asked them if they had any complaints, if they could think of anything that could be improved, they said no. Oman has a king and no farce of elections (Mohamed believed Oman's system to be superior to Yemen's). Oman has been added to my list of places to go (it'll never stop growing, my feet will never stop moving!). I've got to see this Utopia with my own eyes to believe it.

Roll Call

When I was back in the States, I was converting US$ to Malaysian Ringgit. Guess that means I've been here awhile...

Malaysia's Independence Day is August 31st, but there's been a large increase in signs of patriotism for the last week. Today I noticed flags hanging from every window of a building that is at least 20 stories high. Yesterday police on motorbikes stopped traffic to make way for a bunch of big motorcycles parading down the highway, each with its own little Malaysian flag flapping on back.

It hasn't rained in at least 10 days. Until now, it was raining at least every third day. And man, it gets HOT when it doesn't rain.

I was reflecting on how much energy certain cities require. In Cairo, there is definitely a great assault on all your senses: cars honking, people saying hello from every direction, traffic zooming by, crowded streets, strong smells, sun beating down, pollution, etc. But somehow, I feel like I had more energy there and could deal. Here, it's more humid, but in most other ways, life is easier. But I find myself less energized/more tired. Maybe it's just that I'm one year older now and that's taken its toll!?

In the News: The Malaysian Human Rights Commission, encouraged by several advocacy groups, has recommended to the government that marital rape be categorized as a crime punishable under the Penal Code. It is not currently recognized as an offense at all. Indeed, at least one mufti (Islamic religious leader) has said that it is not possible for a husband to rape his wife.

Perak state mufti Harussani Zakaria said, "A husband has the right to be intimate with his wife and the wife must obey. If the wife refuses, then the rule of 'nusyuz' (disobedient) applies and the husband is not required to provide financial assistance to her." [quotes courtesy of Malaysiakini.com]

Others have said that Muslim women are only allowed to refuse sex if their husbands have STDs, HIV/AIDS, or if she is menstruating. Women's rights group--including Muslim women--have spoken out against this (reminding me of something mentioned in the headscarf article I wrote--below--that historically men have been the ones interpreting the religion...)

Women's Aid Organization has put forth the figure that 10% of the 700 domestic violence cases they have seen involve cases of marital rape. Of course there are many more that go unreported. Further statistics show that 80% of rapists (in general) are known to the victims and 30% are blood relatives of victims.

The number of reported rape cases in 1998 was just over 1,400, but it is estimated that for every one rape reported, nine are not. I've been very shocked at the number of cases of rape, incest, and murders following rapes (often of young children), covered by the paper. I've heard some non-Malays state the claim that sexual repression within Islam is to blame, but that fails to acknowledge the fact that the Malays are not the only perpetrators of these crimes, nor the fact that rape is usually not about satisfying sexual desire.

A Malaysiakini.com reporter wrote that, "It would not be an exaggeration to conclude that rape has reached epidemic proportions in Malaysia."

There must be understanding that rape is sex without consent, regardless of if it happens within a marriage. At least this public debate is bringing the topic to the table and organizations lobbying for the marital rape change also recognize that education and public awareness are an important component to solving the problem. The downside is that often Malays will not question the decisions put forth by muftis, but accept it blindly (even though not all muftis agree on everything...). [More on that soon.]

This and That

• My African friends at the Islamic University wanted to know why Americans always carry backpacks around: What do they keep in there?, they wondered. And why don't we iron our clothes? And why are we always wearing t-shirts and flip flops (eg dressed down)? [Backpacks are a problem, but fannybacks are stylish here?...hmmmm...]

• I spent the evening vegging in front of the TV. Haven't done that in awhile. Saw some TV show, My Wife and Kids, I think it was called, that seems to be the modern day Cosby Show. Only better. I even watched half an hour of a National Geographic show about polar bears. I love watching animal shows; there was an especially cute, flurry baby bird. Oh! and just now there was a Yale basketball recruiter on Boston Public! I love references to Yale and Iowa. For God, for country, and for Yaaaaaaallllllllllleeeeeeeeeee!

• I called my brother's friend's mom for advice about My Future this morning. I would love to work for all the organizations she has (refugee field). The main questions I had were 1) is law school necessary? 2) how does a master's compare? 3) suggestions for paid work/internships? Basically, I was hoping for a job offer. It didn't happen--though I'm still holding my breath she'll think of me if any come her way. The whole law degree vs. master's debate didn't get answered--it depends on what I want. Wish I knew.

• I had my first French manicure for the wedding. And I wore earrings--dangly ones, even--for the first time in years. I'm surprised I could still get them in. I felt...so girly. Yesterday I bought some simple silver studs and have been wearing them. It feels so...girly. I figured I'd give it a go, what with my hair actually getting long (by my standards).

By Hannah Mermelstein, a Jewish American doing solidarity work in Palestine


Khalil

"What's the difference between an Arab and a trampoline?"
the question, the set up, the joke begins
in Hebrew, on the wall of a Palestinian home
or a Palestinian store
where once there were people
where once there was life

and how can the people not hate in response?
but somehow they don't
somehow the Arabic words on the walls say instead
"Congratulations to you on your pilgrimage to Mecca"
and "My store has moved to the market outside"

sometimes the truth is so clear that it hurts
sometimes no response is necessary
the answer, the punch line, the joke ends
"On a trampoline you jump without shoes."

******************************************************************************

A poem with no name

street signs marking settlements
Hebrew, English, and
when not crossed out or faded,
Arabic

crossed out or faded
crossed out or faded
whitewashing street signs
whitewashing history
a mockery of the land
a mockery of the people

i'm starting to understand the importance of naming
i'm starting to understand why every refugee can tell me the name of her
family's prior village and why this is often the answer to "where are you from?"
i'm starting to understand why every mother of every prisoner wants to tell me her son's name, his age, the details of his arrest,
the prison where he is being held
the prison where he is being held
the prison that she most likely does not have permission to visit

i'm starting to understand why every martyr has a poster in his name,
with his photograph, on the walls of every city, village and camp
the same cities, villages, and camps that the street signs forget
the same cities, villages, and camps that have been erased from the Israeli consciousness as quickly as you can say 1948
the same cities, villages, and camps that have been forgotten by history because thus far, history has been written by the winners
and thus far, justice has not won

i imagine a new permanent exhibit at Yad Vashem like the one they have now
the room of mirrors and candles
(or is it one candle reflected hundreds, thousands, six million, twelve million times?)
the room where, as you walk through, you hear the reciting of names
victims of the Nazi holocaust
names that are so many that the tape has yet to repeat itself
i imagine a room a bit like this
but a room instead in which every destroyed village is named
and every victim of Al Naqba is named
and every refugee is named
and every prisoner is named
and every prison is named
and every uprooted tree is named
and every demolished home is named
and every town trapped behind the Wall is named
and every victim of the Jewish psychosis of fear and particularism is named
including ourselves
and i imagine every Israeli, every Zionist, every Jew walking through
that room and
seeing herself and
seeing himself
reflected in the mirrors, in the names, in the light of the candle
reflected in hundreds, thousands, millions
as many times as it takes
until there is not one more rabbi who can look me in the eye and say
"this settlement was built on empty land"

• Mystery of the Moving Tractor: Set Nancy Drew loose at the Schnoebelen farm! Sometime last week, my dad noticed that the tractor wasn't how he left it...living in the safe Iowa countryside, he always left the keys in the ignition. Until now. Seems someone wanted to take the tractor--to steal or just for a joyride, it's unclear. But they didn't manage to get the front bucket thing up, so their plans were foiled. [I STILL have never driven a tractor! My dad agreed to let me last time I was home, but somehow the time slipped away. Then, if ever I should want to steal a tractor, at least I'd know how!]
  
  
  
  by Samuel, age 13, Washington
  
  

• I'm a sap: At the opening ceremony of the Social Welfare Conference last week, a choir of disabled children sang. I felt my eyes get a little moist. Then, at the end of a week on a site visit to a school, a choir of children sang for us. Again, it made me a little teary-eyed. What in the world is it about kids and singing? Do I imagine myself at that age? Do I think of all the promise in each of those little lives? Of their innocence?

• Lazy: It's not that I can't cook anything really, it's that I'm lazy. When it's so cheap to eat out and I'd be the only one eating if I cooked anyway, I prefer to eat out. But sometimes, like today, if I have no other reason to leave the house, I wait till I'm about to pass out from having not eaten to go find food. It's especially bad on Sundays, when the restaurant on the 2nd floor by the pool is closed. Luckily, I have EasyMac to save me, until supplies run out. I brought it all the way from Iowa, to accommodate my laziness. I know my sister lived on the stuff in college. All you have to do is put the noodles in water, microwave for 3 1/2 minutes, and stir in the cheese mix. You don't have to mess with the butter and milk of normal Macaroni! It's the ultimate.
  
  
  
  
• To do: I've made a list of things to accomplish before I leave Malaysia in about two months--it's THREE pages long, typed! People to contact and then interview, books to be retrieved at various libraries and read, organizations to be visited, and at least 6 locations around Malaysia, plus one in Singapore, that I would ideally like to visit to do interviews. And this is just work-related To Dos. Aiyo. I've got at least three blogs I want to write: Interfaith organizations; transsexuals in Malaysia....I know there was another. Where did I write it down to remember?!

I'm Right and You're Wrong

I'm attending the 31st International Conference on Social Welfare this week, which is meeting a block from my apartment, conveniently. I'd forgotten how...boring conferences can be. So many words are wasted at the beginning of each speech addressing The Distinguished Chair, Fellow Panelists, Colleagues, Friends, blah blah blah. And now I've gone and done it! I find it difficult to pay attention sometimes, which makes me seriously question if I'm ready for graduate school! (And I've skipped out on a few sessions already, finding that if the people were just going to be reading a paper provided verbatim, I'd rather just read it on my own.) Oh and it drives me crazy when people get up and start blathering in the Q&A without asking a question or making any sense.

In any case, I made it to the plenary session this morning and wanted to share with you some thoughts of one of the speakers. John Coutts is a Brit in the Salvation Army (I had never thought there was much to the Salvation Army other than thrift stores, Santa Claus ringing a bell at Christmas time for donations, and anti-gay hiring policies--turns out it also supports other social projects and missionaries).

Here's what Mr. Coutts said/wrote in a panel on Relgion, Culture, and Social Cohesion:

"The faiths that inspire are also the faiths that can divide. Some say that the great religions all add up to the same thing -- maybe they are equally right or maybe they are all equally wrong. But this glib conculsion gets us nowhere. It is obvious that the great world religions do not all teach the same thing, and they cannot all be right about everything. I give just one example among many: For us Christians, the supreme proof of God's goodness is the death and resurrection of Jesus. Once of our classic hymns declares, 'Forbid it Lord that I should boast, save in the death of Christ my God.' And yet, according to the Holy Koran, Jesus, son of Mary, was never crucified at all."

Now, I'm one of those people who glibbly say, eh, all the religions basically teach the same thing. Don't kill, steal, cheat, etc. I don't need to pick one. I was just telling an African friend at the International Islamic University this yesterday, when she encouraged me to read about Islam. I feel so uncompelled to pick a religion. I think there is a general, underlying common sense shared by humanity about what is moral and what is not. Her response, was, yeah, those are the big things; but what about the small things.

Here's how I operate: There is a God, but details of all else are fuzzy. I don't know much, I don't think I will ever know in this life about the next, and so I'm not gonna worry about it. I'll worry about my actions and attitudes and intentions, not if I am aligned with a specific religion. It comes down to a lack of faith, but also a fundamental belief that the God I believe exists isn't so petty as to be concerned with labels. And He certainly doesn't appreciate all that happens in the name of religion.

Mr. Coutts continued:

"And the question of truth leads us to the question of toleration. If you and I believe that we have the right idea, surely we have a duty to suppress or at least discourage those who are trying to spread the wrong idea...Even in the most 'liberal' socieiets certain ideas--such as racism--are thought to be beyond the pale. Surely, 'error has no rights?'"

Ah, now this is where problem/violence/conflict erupts: when religion takes up the childhood taunt of "I'm right and you're wrong, na na na na na." And you're gonna burn in hell. I may have mentioned before how an Eritrean Christian I met in Egypt told me that I would go to hell if I didn't believe Jesus was the savior and had opened the gates of Heaven for us--but that he'd pray for me to begin to believe. I get a lot of Muslims also encouraging me, of varying degrees/insistence, to accept Islam. I hate preaching and attempts at conversion, but I can also recognize that these people, regardless of which religion, believe that they are on the Righteous Path and only want to bring me along. Thanks, but I'll go it alone.

I have been very interested in what makes people believe though. Within my own family, my sister would still define herself as Christian, where I would not (and think my brother is similarly a 'heathen'). We were raised in the same house, yet different outcomes. I know it's something internal, but what/where/how does faith function?!


I leave you with two final quotes:

• Pascal used the following logic: God either exists or he does not. If we believe in God and he exists, we will be rewarded with eternal bliss in heaven. If we believe in God and he does not exist then at worst all we have forgone is a few sinful pleasures. If we do not believe in God and he does exist we may enjoy a few sinful pleasures, but we may face eternal damnation. If we do not believe in God and he does not exist then our sins will not be punished.

• Renan was more concerned with earthly appearances and cautious in his positioning: "There are many chances that the world may be nothing but a fairy pantomime of which no God has care. We must therefore arrange ourselves so that on neither hypothesis we shall be completely wrong. We must listen to the superior voices, but in such a way that if the second hypothesis [no God] were true we should not have been too completely duped. If in effect the world be not a serious thing, it is the dogmatic people who will be the shallow ones, and the worldly minded whom the theologians now call frivolous will be those who are really wise" (taken from The Varieties of Religious Experience by William James).

Return

Head on pillow, against the plane window, sure that if I open my eyes these words I've written in my mind's computer (complete with blinking cursor) will evaporate. I finally end up writing, by hand, since my brain lacks a save function. It's been so long since.

Your hair, short again, like when we first met. When I was expecting shorts--you used to wear them regardless of cold weather--you came wearing pants and an oversized corduroy jacket. And that striped shirt--I know I folded it the wrong way once or twice, in half instead of thirds so that you'd have to redo it to avoid that crease down the middle. Your shoes were different, though the skip in your step was not. I had forgotten it was something you did. Do. It's more of a gallop, really, since you don't raise your knees. Your face looks full with that beard and like your father's.

The things I took away from our meeting were physical. I remember the general flow of conversation, too, for now. Seeing you again makes you real again. In my memory, you're just a shape, an outline. Few defining features beyond these visual kinds. Sometimes I feel like you never really existed, when I try to recall your essence. My eye remembers details, but my heart forgets. Then I doubt if it ever really knew.

I hope you heard me when I said that if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be where I am today-- a nomad in love with the world. Thank you. And did you note the past tense when I said that I was sorry that I had wished something bad would happen to something close to your heart? (But remember, there's no crying in baseball. And, in case you didn't already know, the Yankees are traditionally a good team.)

Why am I making the private public? I used to insist on sharing my secret joys or transgressions. No discretion. That's how several strangers became friends. Andi still jokes about that time freshman year, sitting on a bench on Old Campus, when I told her some juicy story; she claims we'd barely even ever talked before that.

But that was another time. You are (were?) the past and I return to join you there now.

A friend likes to tell me that one can never really love another person because that other person cannot truly be known. You know only what they let you know of themselves and even if genuinely true, they could change. Love yourself, he says, then you are love and nothing else matters.

A quick Ctrl-A and a swifter DELETE?
Naw, let it ride.

I'm not in Malaysia anymore, Toto

--I was about to leave my table at Panera (a sandwich restaurant) when I remembered, oh, I have to clear my tray away on my own! In Malaysia, the workers assigned that task at McDonald's or food courts kind of get irked if you do their job for them.

--Hours after I threw two plastic bottles away at my house, I raced back upstairs to extract them from the trash and put in the recycle bin. In Malaysia and Egypt, no recycling, so I have gotten into the habit of tossing plastic and cans. (Though in Egypt, garbage collectors--who go building to building, door to door, by donkey cart--sort the trash at their homes and things do end up getting recycled.)

Wild Wild (Mid)West
Now we're talking 'bout "fields of opportunity!"

Both President Bush and Senator John Kerry ended up in Davenport, Iowa this morning as they zigzag across the US. Practically across the street from each other.

During their speeches, there were 3 bank robberies in Davenport. The bandits must have thought they'd catch the police with their hands full with security for the two visitors. Looks like they were right. No suspects have been caught and it appears the three were not connected.

I know they're criminals, but I'm greatly amused by this and kind of feel like they deserve applause for being so smart...

Kerry was in Dubuque, another Iowan town on the Mississippi River, last night. I listened to some of his speech. Though I'm definitely a supporter, I'm already sick of his "American can do better" and "help is on the way" refrains. Not sad that I'll be hiding out during most of the election campaign in Malaysia.

Also realized how annoying TVs are. So loud, invasive and blaring. I think Andi made note of this awhile back. Ugh. I feel like I can still hear the TV from the other side of the house and there's no escape!

All Grown Up
And stronger than me!

I used to babysit my neighbors. I was 12 or 13 and the kids were infant, 3, 5, and 7. I'd bring along my sister, two years younger than me, as help. My mom was always at home, ready as backup if ever I needed to be rescued (she never had to).

Today, those same kids are 13, 15, 18, and 20.

How this is even possible, I don't know. They're supposed to forever be little kids that I let tackle and tickle me.

Now, the oldest two have a boyfriend and a girlfriend. The 15 year old is taller than me and I think the 13 year old is better at putting makeup on than I am.

I ventured over to their house today to 'play.' The 15 year old and I played several different card games, including Go Fish. We had a dispute about the rules; she claimed the winner was the first one out of cards and I said it was the person with the most pairs. So we called my house to seek outside advice; my mom agreed with Lucy. But I wouldn't settle that easily; what did my mom know about such things?! I suggested we call the public library reference desk, which amused and embarassed Lucy. The guy who answered the phone didn't act as if it was a strange question and plugged it into the internet to give us the second opinion: I was right! But then Lucy called into doubt his authority on the matter. We finally agreed (after deciding not to call a preschool) that whatever my sister Katrina said would go. Katrina agreed with my version!

Perhaps something's wrong with me, to derive such pleasure at being right in a disagreement with a teenager...But SHE started it (the competitiveness)!

"Let's armwrestle," I joked.

She was all too eager, which made me hesitant and act as if I'd been joking. I finally gave in and we sprawled out on their wooden floor, elbows padded by a blanket.

I ended up walking home with my head hung in shame.

Fields of Opportunity
[Iowa's lame motto]




Last night I went with my dad to check on the sheep that are grazing at my cousin's place. That translates into a 30 minute drive there to count the sheep. While there, we looked in at the rabbits and used the flowering can to fill their water bowls up. It was just like when I was young and responsible for rabbit chores nightly (my father spoiled us and did them in the early morning). My sister said that sometimes, when she's home in the later afternoon, the thought "Have I done my chores yet?" flashes through her mind. The worst was in the winter. My dad would lug two 10 gallon buckets of hot water to the barn and we'd have to submerge the frozen watering bowls to defrost them. Dipping a hand into the hot hot water in the cold cold weather was never a pleasant thing. But it is a nice memory.



We took backroads to my cousin's, mostly gravel. I felt starved for the scenery, staring and trying to engrave it into my mind. The rolling hills, corn, sky, of course. But also the precise colors, the way the light fell, the total composition. Sometimes it seemed that the landscape was posing, just waiting to be photographed or painted.

On our way home, we stopped for some ice cream. Though I knew we had at least a gallon bucket back home and I wasn't particularly hungry, I had some for old times sake. Years ago, our parents would load us up into the car--dressed in pajamas--and head to Dane's Dairy for a cone on a hot summer night.