A recent NY Times article showed a glimpse into the sad deteriorating world of young girls dating bankers and/or other guys in the finance industry down on their luck because of the current global recession. The article interviews members of a group with their own blog experiencing similar relationship issues with their respective partners. The saddest facet of this article was the utter cluelessness of those girlfriends. Totally oblivious to the escalating global financial turmoil affecting millions of people worldwide, these females were whining and group hugging each other about the petty lapses and cutbacks they had to suffer because their partners cannot afford to pamper them anymore. Talk about setting the female movement backwards!! The article points out that some of these females do have careers themselves, so why is it that they must congregate to share how they feel disoriented with their partners' tenuous grip on their careers. Are these females defined by the affluence and success of their partners? How come these females cannot instead converge to strategize on plans to aid their partners financially in case they get laid off (a plausible certainty as the dire recession cycle continues)? It is deeply disturbing to still read about females who are consciously identifying themselves with their male partners' careers? The ladies further stated that they are attracted to the "alpha males", the upwardly mobile males who will undoubtedly reap tremendous fruits from their perseverance. How about those female trying to be upwardly mobile themselves in their respective fields so that they don't have to worry themselves to death about their partners less than stellar future?
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/nyregion/28daba.html?em
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Right to Sell/Bid on Virginity
I read an article on The Daily Beast written by a young female under a pseudonym sharing her perspective in auctioning off her virginity online. Among her ruminations in setting up this 'social experiment' of sorts, she mentions that she has a BA in Women Studies. I would assume a person who has a background in Women Studies would thoroughly understand the price placed on female virginity across cultures. In Africa, especially the Eastern and Northern regions, you hear of females subjected to genital mutilation. A recent NY Times article revealed how affluent Arab females undergo a risky and expensive re-virginization procedure in France to avoid their cultural's ostacization and familial's wrath at their indiscretions. The issue of virginity is indeed a complex tangle of webs that can simultaneously enhance a female's eligibility (as in the Memoirs of a Geisha, the protagonist was highly prized for her virginity) or turn a female into a pariah. Even in my country, virginity still is a delicate subject. A young unmarried female is assumed to be a virgin until marriage. Hence, the norm at a doctor's visit is to be asked by the doctor "are you married or not?"; a tactful way of gauging a female patient's morality and purity or lack of. Oftentimes, there are incidents where doctors have refused to treat young females who have engaged in sexual activities on grounds that they are morally reprehensible. But the article written by the American girl made me wonder what is the plausible outcome of her 'social experiment'? Is she going to give in to the highest bidder and pocket the large sum placed on her virginity? Will she herald that sacred event by writing more op-eds on the process and how it has taught her more on the power of virginity on society? In any case, she doesnt seem to notice the gravity of being a virgin for those whose lives are determined by that status alone.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Closing of Gitmo
Even though the official closing of Gitmo won't take place before a year, the waves that have been created by this Executive Decision alone will certainly cease the cracking and peeling of the US's image around the world. For too long Gitmo acted as the beacon of US's misuse of power and perpetuation of torture on civilians in their quest to extract information on terrorists. Whether the captured civilians were guilty or not or linked to terrorists organizations or not weren't considered, instead Gitmo and other torture camps set up by the US on foreign lands served similar to KGB prisons, where individuals were treated to the newest modes of torture in order to compel them to give in. The stories voiced by ex-detainees at Gitmo, who were released on grounds that they had no links to terrorists cells and thereby innocent (one wonders what credible information was used to pick them up in the first place!) carry activities that surely violates human rights laws. On those accounts alone and on the countless lawsuits filed against the US government by those ex-detainees, keeping Gitmo operational is simply a slap in the face to diplomacy and compromise across the globe. Therefore, President Obama's first decision has certainly arrived at a pivotal moment in history.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Over and Over Again
Despair reigned. Anju’s frail body lay cocooned in sheaths of soft cotton. Perched on top of the antique mahogany bed, I surveyed the room like an eagle scouting the land. I wanted to cry but my voice gently fizzled in the ambers of unspoken thoughts. I was mute, silent but alert. The carriage of women, older peers shrouded in white, floated through the rooms commiserating. What a tragedy, they whispered. How can life be so cruel to such a young girl….it wasn’t accidental…they say she was pushed exclaimed others. She was so beautiful…how could she have fallen from the roof like that…and when there were other people there too, they continued... what a misfortune! Look at the catatonic father curled in a corner in the bedroom. Look at the mother, despondently pleading to have her child returned. What a shame, the women said….what a dreadful tragedy!
I was six when he started. It was never in a dark room. Shards of memories are my only proof. They rear their heads from the depths of an abysmal darkness to prick and pierce me with their truth. I can see and understand with a clarity that shields my shame. Random scenes unfold like parts of a narrative film that I cannot piece together yet am forced to replay over and over again.
I remember my pigtails bobbling up and down, my worn plaid dress brushing against me as I hurried to catch the commotion. Oh Oh Oh, I thought, I must see why the children were shouting outside. His bedroom opened out into the biggest and longest balcony overlooking our courtyard. One could stand there and glimpse the very boundaries of our neighborhood. The neighborhood, then, was bordered by lush vivid greenery that shimmered and shimmied under the sun’s adoring gaze. Here and there were patches of masked white blocks of houses protruding from the earth, aesthetically complementing and blending within nature’s dominance. Our house was the oldest. Our land the largest. Our family the foremost settlers on this once-fallow land.
I exploded through the doors, oblivious to his presence in his bedroom, and made a beeline for the balcony door. It was locked and I banged headlong into it. He laughed as he saw me rub my forehead wincing and befuddled. He materialized from the bathroom, adjusting his pajamas, and with one swift movement scooped me up to his chest. I wriggled and squirmed as he admonished me to be careful. Open the door, oh open the door, I pleaded. Laughing, he gently planted me on the floor, and unhinged the locks. Once my feet touched solid ground I plunged into the balcony fearing the commotion had dissipated just at my arrival. But it hadn’t.
Someone had thrown a brick from our rooftop and it had landed on the brand new car that Sajid bhaiya, the dashing boro bhai of the neighborhood, had bought just the day before. It was prominently displayed at our courtyard, beaming its lustrous silver visage. The windshield was broken; a huge icy gash ran across its body with hundreds of little cracks branching out like small crooked fangs. The brick lay on top, halved, exposed, and shamed. The culprit was absconding. Sajid bhaiya stood silent next to his car, disbelief penetrating every pore of his face. His mother stood slightly apart screaming and accusing anyone in sight. Shouting and cursing obscenities over and over. I leaned against the wall of the balcony, teetering on my toes, brimming with unbridled excitement. What will happen next? Who is responsible? What will Sheila mami do? Will Sajid bhaiya talk?
I heard my name softly whispered. I turned back expecting him to conspiratorially wink at our bond in relishing in other’s misfortune. But he didn’t wink. He was staring at me. Oddly. At my shoulders peeping from where the strap of the dress had fallen over my arms. At my bare legs where the dress fell in soft folds. A chill soared through my body. I took a step back unconsciously creating distance between us. He abruptly turned his back to me and returned to his bedroom. I returned to the commotion outside…
…. He had me pinned against the bed. I looked at him but his face was a blur. I could smell his warm sticky breath, as he whispered my name nuzzling my ears. His free hand was roaming, wandering, meandering, and feeling my sullied skin. He gently lowered his body on top of mine…. I looked at the locked door….he placed one of his hand gently over my mouth and whispered “ aita shudo ador…this is only affection” over and over again….
I heard my bua calling my name outside his door, the swelling panic in her voice. He emerged from the bathroom and yelled to give him a minute. He walked over to where I was lying naked, trying not to stare at the small puddle of milky liquid gathered in the folds of the bed sheet. With a soothing voice, he put my clothes on one at a time, gently repeating “…aita shudo ador…this is only affection…”
When he opened the door, my bua almost tripped in her hurry to pick me up in her arms. She started instantly chastising me for disappearing. She apologized for disturbing Choto Sahib. She assured she wouldn’t lose sight of me again. She noticed the crumpled bed, the milky puddle, and my numb state. She didn’t say a word.
I cannot remember other episodes, or even if they were more. But his stench, his kisses on my shoulders, on my chest, on my arms, on my legs, on my crevices I cannot cleanse.
As I sat quietly in a corner of that room which was brimming with disbelief and misfortune, I sighed in a relief that seemed twenty years too late. I noticed Choto Chacha in his daughter’s bedroom clutching a framed picture of him and his daughter on her ninth birthday, wailing at the injustice of his loss. Curling and uncurling my aching fingers, I remained in the corner staring at Anju’s body displayed at the center of the room, whispering voicelessly, “ it wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t my fault” over and over again.
Tisa Muhaddes believes in fairies, mermaids, unicorns, and even pots of gold under the rainbow's end. Her one searing goal in life is to actually discover a pot of gold that comes with a lifetime warranty of supply. Till that fortunate day arrives, she amuses herself by observing and noting the idiosyncrasies that compose people, her surroundings, and life in general. With a little bit of ingenuity, and a dash of magic she attempts to weave stories that craftily capture everyday experiences that make human beings at once frail, humane, endearing, and magical.
I was six when he started. It was never in a dark room. Shards of memories are my only proof. They rear their heads from the depths of an abysmal darkness to prick and pierce me with their truth. I can see and understand with a clarity that shields my shame. Random scenes unfold like parts of a narrative film that I cannot piece together yet am forced to replay over and over again.
I remember my pigtails bobbling up and down, my worn plaid dress brushing against me as I hurried to catch the commotion. Oh Oh Oh, I thought, I must see why the children were shouting outside. His bedroom opened out into the biggest and longest balcony overlooking our courtyard. One could stand there and glimpse the very boundaries of our neighborhood. The neighborhood, then, was bordered by lush vivid greenery that shimmered and shimmied under the sun’s adoring gaze. Here and there were patches of masked white blocks of houses protruding from the earth, aesthetically complementing and blending within nature’s dominance. Our house was the oldest. Our land the largest. Our family the foremost settlers on this once-fallow land.
I exploded through the doors, oblivious to his presence in his bedroom, and made a beeline for the balcony door. It was locked and I banged headlong into it. He laughed as he saw me rub my forehead wincing and befuddled. He materialized from the bathroom, adjusting his pajamas, and with one swift movement scooped me up to his chest. I wriggled and squirmed as he admonished me to be careful. Open the door, oh open the door, I pleaded. Laughing, he gently planted me on the floor, and unhinged the locks. Once my feet touched solid ground I plunged into the balcony fearing the commotion had dissipated just at my arrival. But it hadn’t.
Someone had thrown a brick from our rooftop and it had landed on the brand new car that Sajid bhaiya, the dashing boro bhai of the neighborhood, had bought just the day before. It was prominently displayed at our courtyard, beaming its lustrous silver visage. The windshield was broken; a huge icy gash ran across its body with hundreds of little cracks branching out like small crooked fangs. The brick lay on top, halved, exposed, and shamed. The culprit was absconding. Sajid bhaiya stood silent next to his car, disbelief penetrating every pore of his face. His mother stood slightly apart screaming and accusing anyone in sight. Shouting and cursing obscenities over and over. I leaned against the wall of the balcony, teetering on my toes, brimming with unbridled excitement. What will happen next? Who is responsible? What will Sheila mami do? Will Sajid bhaiya talk?
I heard my name softly whispered. I turned back expecting him to conspiratorially wink at our bond in relishing in other’s misfortune. But he didn’t wink. He was staring at me. Oddly. At my shoulders peeping from where the strap of the dress had fallen over my arms. At my bare legs where the dress fell in soft folds. A chill soared through my body. I took a step back unconsciously creating distance between us. He abruptly turned his back to me and returned to his bedroom. I returned to the commotion outside…
…. He had me pinned against the bed. I looked at him but his face was a blur. I could smell his warm sticky breath, as he whispered my name nuzzling my ears. His free hand was roaming, wandering, meandering, and feeling my sullied skin. He gently lowered his body on top of mine…. I looked at the locked door….he placed one of his hand gently over my mouth and whispered “ aita shudo ador…this is only affection” over and over again….
I heard my bua calling my name outside his door, the swelling panic in her voice. He emerged from the bathroom and yelled to give him a minute. He walked over to where I was lying naked, trying not to stare at the small puddle of milky liquid gathered in the folds of the bed sheet. With a soothing voice, he put my clothes on one at a time, gently repeating “…aita shudo ador…this is only affection…”
When he opened the door, my bua almost tripped in her hurry to pick me up in her arms. She started instantly chastising me for disappearing. She apologized for disturbing Choto Sahib. She assured she wouldn’t lose sight of me again. She noticed the crumpled bed, the milky puddle, and my numb state. She didn’t say a word.
I cannot remember other episodes, or even if they were more. But his stench, his kisses on my shoulders, on my chest, on my arms, on my legs, on my crevices I cannot cleanse.
As I sat quietly in a corner of that room which was brimming with disbelief and misfortune, I sighed in a relief that seemed twenty years too late. I noticed Choto Chacha in his daughter’s bedroom clutching a framed picture of him and his daughter on her ninth birthday, wailing at the injustice of his loss. Curling and uncurling my aching fingers, I remained in the corner staring at Anju’s body displayed at the center of the room, whispering voicelessly, “ it wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t my fault” over and over again.
Tisa Muhaddes believes in fairies, mermaids, unicorns, and even pots of gold under the rainbow's end. Her one searing goal in life is to actually discover a pot of gold that comes with a lifetime warranty of supply. Till that fortunate day arrives, she amuses herself by observing and noting the idiosyncrasies that compose people, her surroundings, and life in general. With a little bit of ingenuity, and a dash of magic she attempts to weave stories that craftily capture everyday experiences that make human beings at once frail, humane, endearing, and magical.
Living History
Watching the inauguration of President Obama is definitely not the end but the beginning of a new era. But this era has been long overdue. Witnessing and experiencing the stages of an epic journey undertaken by an optimistic and revolutionary team lead by a fortuitous individual is nothing short of living history. His somber and calm demeanor, his highly evolved sensibility, his insatiable aptitude to know and learn, and his sheer inspiring oratory skills makes me feel just about anything is possible in this lifetime.
I may be at the other end of the world yet I felt cradled by the tangible unity and universality that his historical presidency already incites in citizens around the globe. I feel, at once, at one with my fellow citizens in their plights, greivances, happiness etc
This monumental universalism inspires me to be a part of a social change, a generational upheavel that will bring about an era of diplomacy, sensible ruminations and planning, effective implementations, and an overall dedication in achieving beneficial results through proper and humanitarian channels.
I may be at the other end of the world yet I felt cradled by the tangible unity and universality that his historical presidency already incites in citizens around the globe. I feel, at once, at one with my fellow citizens in their plights, greivances, happiness etc
This monumental universalism inspires me to be a part of a social change, a generational upheavel that will bring about an era of diplomacy, sensible ruminations and planning, effective implementations, and an overall dedication in achieving beneficial results through proper and humanitarian channels.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The feud continues
The new year begins with an ill-conceived war between Israel and Hamas. It is the 11th day of the battle, Israel has sliced Gaza into two parts, rockets are still set forth, and the carnage continues.
News media repeatedly shows the death and destruction caused in Gaza and the hundreds of wounded civilians admitted in hospitals. Children are the casualties du jour.
Israel's claim to initiate such a mass scale invasion of Gaza are in self-defense, in retribution of the rockets shot by Hamas on Israeli's grounds and people, and to eliminate Hamas from the political front effectively. However one has to ask how such a disproportional invasion will determine the long-term results of the political map between Israel and Palestine?
The more images of Palestinian casualties are shown on the news media, the more volunteers line up on the doorsteps of Hamas, Hezbollah, and other such militant political machinations. What is the end result of so much carnage? Neither states are secure from each other.
Israel cannot salvage or undo the damage to their image and to their cause by the numbers of death between the two states - Israel 5, Palestine 555 to date. These numbers alone will severely undermine Israel's claims that it is a state that deals with negotiations and diplomacy foremost.
In any case, the war continues and the deaths accumulate.
News media repeatedly shows the death and destruction caused in Gaza and the hundreds of wounded civilians admitted in hospitals. Children are the casualties du jour.
Israel's claim to initiate such a mass scale invasion of Gaza are in self-defense, in retribution of the rockets shot by Hamas on Israeli's grounds and people, and to eliminate Hamas from the political front effectively. However one has to ask how such a disproportional invasion will determine the long-term results of the political map between Israel and Palestine?
The more images of Palestinian casualties are shown on the news media, the more volunteers line up on the doorsteps of Hamas, Hezbollah, and other such militant political machinations. What is the end result of so much carnage? Neither states are secure from each other.
Israel cannot salvage or undo the damage to their image and to their cause by the numbers of death between the two states - Israel 5, Palestine 555 to date. These numbers alone will severely undermine Israel's claims that it is a state that deals with negotiations and diplomacy foremost.
In any case, the war continues and the deaths accumulate.
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