Pro-Choice Death

A recent news item on NY Times and on Broadsheet about end of life decisions spurred me to contemplate on the issue.

As a person who firmly believes and advocates pro-choice in terms of controlling and deciding things that are good for my mental and physical well-being; having that same prerogative for choosing death never occurred before.

During a bio-ethics course in college, the case of Terri Schiavo was broached. She was a young woman completely surviving through life support. Essentially, her body was dead. Her family wanted to maintain her on life-support, probably hopeful that a breakthrough in modern medicine will bring their daughter back into their arms. Her husband, on the other hand, wanted to ensure she received a dignified death. The husband and her family fought an epic battle that riveted the American nation and even had the then President Bush interjecting his perspectives.

Undoubtedly, at this point in my life, I feel having the ability to choose what is good for my body is an essential human right. But does that same right encompass death as well?

In a hypothetical scenario where my body is ravaged and riddled with cancer, and I opt for death to ease myself of the pain and the inevitability of demise, am I right in doing so? Can I say I am in the "correct" frame of mental health to declare I choose death? Am I doing justice to my family and friends in wishing for death? What of their desire to be with me till the end?

Perhaps these question are of those nature that will be constantly debated and never fully answered. I cannot truly imagine how Terri felt, or how her husband and family felt when they hotly contended their views on her right to life and death. Neither can I predict how my loved ones will react to my pro-choice inclinations if I experience a similar fate.

But it certainly does make sense for a person to wish for a dignified death in any manner he/she deems appropriate. Who are we to deprive or thwart them from this basic right?

Afghanistan, Afghanistan, Afghanistan

It is disconcerting to see how the failing war in Afghanistan is flashed across various media now. The failing war efforts, the failing war strategies, the failing tactics, the failing counterinsurgency, the failing troops morale, and the failing public support have gripped worldwide nations.

In the midst of this gloom, there are signs of revival in the form of General McChrystal new strategy in successfully combating the Taliban. However, we have yet to see if the US will whole-heartedly embrace this new vision.

Undoubtedly, failing to rid the Taliban from Afghan lands will lead to a global turmoil that will quickly spread into Pakistan and nearby conflict-riddled regions. Hence, winning the war in Afghanistan is imperative. Yet I wonder if the US public is willing to dispense more troops, invest more time and effort into a war that has claimed so many lives and seem far from over.

Not that there have much of a choice. It behooves the US to complete a war that was foolishly and ineffectively initiated by the Bush Administration. But at what costs.

Twenties and Spiritual Awakening

I recently came across a piece on NY Times on the emergence of young females fashioning themselves as self-help gurus. Although their fees are hefty, these females guarantee advice on all matters of the heart, mind, and soul.

Reading the piece made me think of the path of self-enlightenment that has infected my friends and I. Maybe this is a late-twenties phenomenon. My closets friends and I have been for quite some time exchanging, extrapolating, and discussing ideas and ideologies from spiritual books to enlighten our current need to further evolve into better human beings.

Lessons we learn from these profound books are swiftly disseminated among each other, quietly reflected upon, and are used to deal with challenging times, situations, and/or people.

But I wonder where this need to be spiritually awakened appears from? We can all attest that we have had degrees of experiences, ranging from trifling to harrowingly soul-challenging; some experiences similarly shared; others we can only empathize and locate a common understanding and compassion. But all of our shared and unique experiences are compelling us to tackle literature that will awaken and enhance our spiritual re-birth.

Knowledge that I see us quickly dispense to people who come to us for advice. Knowledge that allows us to ignore and gently expel negative energies transmitted by people who are struggling and drowning in their own self-imposed negative nightmares. Knowledge that allows us to stop reacting to situations as we once would and did but now coolly assess the circumstances and find positive solutions.

Our quest to become spiritually enlightened is having a profound impact on how we collectively display ourselves on the public domain. As well as an incredible effect on how we regard matters that are beyond our control, and make peace with not having control.

I suppose it must be a late-twenties stage. That need to nicely sum up the experiences we have had and make sense of the direction we are taking. But it certainly does feel rewarding to know that females out there around the world are collectively on the same path as we are on spiritual awakening.

Bangladeshi, Female and Doubly Marginalized

On the hot trail of a new research on violence against marginalized women in Bangladesh, I met with a few individuals who are physically disabled. One of them is legally blind, and the other is bound to a wheelchair.

In the midst of discussing the forms of violence encountered by physically disabled females, I realized as females we are accustomed to many modes of violence and discrimination, whether subtle or overt, but that very violence must be further amplified for the physically disabled.

A personal account I heard from one woman is of her dismissed from her graduate programme in a reputed national university. Her discharge came about on account of her failure to show her face at the Registration Office. The Office is located on the fourth floor of the building. She is in a wheelchair. And there is no provision for physically challenged people to move in, about, and out that building.

When asked why she didn’t pursue legal action against such blatant discrimination. The woman cited her university professor encouraging her to let the matter slide.

Why?

Regardless of her facing such an outright violation of her basic human rights to education, why would a supervisor, a supposed mentor, telling her to drop the matter? How does her silent retreat into the cloak of invisibility from the public domain aid her right to have access to education?

But this is just a single case. There are multiple and diverse forms of violence faced by physically disabled females in our country. The deeper and the more rural areas one ventures into, the worse the transgressions. Disturbing as it is, one must wonder what other forms and shapes violence against them take. Are physically disabled women also prey to sexual abuse and violation? And if so, what coping strategies and legal provisions are available for them to pursue to redress their grievances?

As an eminent legal expert in our country stated once, females are already marginalized in Bangladesh, but if they happen to be ethnic, religious minority or physically disabled, they are doubly marginalized and susceptible to violence without any chances of pursuing legal actions.

Are they really gay people in Bangladesh?

Granted working in sexuality rights in Bangladesh raises quite a few empathetic nods, but the eyebrows are raised when they learn of sexuality rights of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, & Transgender (LGBT) community. Usually the first question I am asked is – are they really gay people in Bangladesh?

I wish I could flippantly answer no of course not because being gay is such a western construction. But I curb my tongue and remind myself that most people I encounter don’t have the faintest idea of the larger, somewhat thriving, yet cloaked LGBT community in our country. Most people would rather mock at seeing two men holding hands and walking on the streets (quite the norm in our country) rather than actually fathom that they are Bangladeshis living here engaged in same-sex relationships.

Their ignorance is, I will defend, justified. But their willful denial of the LGBT community possessing the same human rights and prerogatives as sanctioned by the UN Human Rights Convention is mindboggling misfortunate.

I have had people smirk at my work in advocating and promoting awareness and tolerance of the LGBT community. I have had people deplore their very existence. I have had people yell that homosexuality is the evil work of western exploitation. I have had people state that homosexuality is a mental disease.

Only after working with, meeting, and befriending many inspirational figures from the LGBT community, I have realized how supremely fortunate I am in being heterosexual. I recall a statement a friend made regarding same-sex relationship; that no matter what race, creed, faith, skin hue they are, being gay always incites violence, censure, and fear.

Can you imagine fearing for your life because you happen to prefer men/women of your own sex?

I ask many critics this question when they take it upon themselves to educate me of my misguided ways. They scoff at my idealistic notion of creating safe arenas where people of all sexual identities can emerge on the public forum without fear or censure.

At the midst of such disdain and open disapproval of empowering the LGBT community with rights and prerogatives that rightfully belong to them as human beings, I quietly tell myself that it took India ten years to decriminalize homosexuality. It may take Bangladesh far longer, or our country will never reach that goal, but it isn’t a lost cause at all.

On inspiration, writing, and fellow writers

Inspiration is always tricky. You can never foretell when you’ll be jolted by a powerful electric surge that sends you into a frenzy of creativity. Or what. It can be the most trivial object that you sighted upon the road, it can be a name, word, or even a lore that you happened to hear or read or watch one day, or it can be a life story of another being that you must capture in words. In essence, inspiration is difficult to define.

Writing is indeed a solitary activity, as many writers will attest. Writing involves sequestering yourself from the world, immersing yourself into a make-believe world, and plunging deep inside fictitious characters, stories, histories, plots. I often wonder if writers find it difficult to distinguish between the imagined world and the real world. Writing involves dedication and discipline to the art and joy of simply writing. It can be pretty exhausting as well. But just writing, just to be able to express a feeling, an idea, a person, an event, or even just a thought can be beyond cathartic.

You never know what to expect when you meet other writers. Writers are known to be eccentric and temperamental creatures. I am fortunate enough to know a group of talented writers who have become close friends and supporters. I have found associating with these fellow writers have cajoled forth inspiration lurking in the corners. I have found while writing alone, I am always mindful of the encouraging words and constructive criticism of my writing by my fellow writers. In short, I have found that while I may write alone, I am always comforted and encouraged by the inspiration I derive from my writer friends.

Every writer should have a network of wonderful and artistic writers that I have. It can be so rewarding and refreshing to bond with writers who are keen on crafting human stories. There is no greater joy than to know madcap writers who are obsessed about finding that perfect word, line, tone, pitch, adjective, verb, to describe perfectly the thought.

One woman defies, another woman accepts

While one woman draws the world’s attention on defying Sudanese law to punish her for wearing pants in public, another woman demurely accepts her punishment and even requests a public lashing to repent for her transgression of drinking alcohol in a Malaysian bar. Both of those women are facing public punishments for violating alleged Islamic laws, but their reactions to their supposed crimes cannot be farther apart.

Lubna Hussain, a journalist (who I now read is a Muslim), is garnering as much attention as possible on opposing the Islamic law that had her arrested for wearing pants in public. As she defiantly questions where in the Quran it is written women cannot wear pants (paraphrased).

Kartika Sari Dewi Shukarno, a Malysian model, is scheduled to be caned in public for being caught drinking beer at a bar. In Malaysia, Muslims are forbidden to drink alcohol. Instead of defying the law, she complied with the punishment meted out and even asked to be publicly caned. Her rationale being she has no right to oppose Islamic law, and that her public caning will educate Muslims to stay away from alcohol.

One woman defies, another woman accepts.

Two Pink Lines Published

http://www.thedailystar.net/starinsight/2009/08/02/story.htm

I walked on Dhaka street

I walked on Dhaka streets yesterday. It felt so refreshing to be able to walk on pavements again. Even amidst the stares.

Pedestrians stared, police stared, rickshaw pullers and passengers stared, young children stared, beggars stared, people by roadside tea stalls stared, even passengers in cars fast speeding away stared.

Our clothes, our looks, our walk, our ethnicity, our class, even our past were being speculated by the passersby.

I walked with a friend deep in conversation. But we did hear the few snide comments. Ordinarily I would have stopped and castigated them. But then I thought why ruin this unique opportunity of actually walking through Dhaka streets by yelling at a random chauvinistic stranger?

So I walked, head held high, talking to my friend.

Perhaps it was Iffat Nawaz who said it, or perhaps someone else, but as I walked and now in retrospection, I feel it is just about time that we reclaimed our streets.

Perhaps the more young females are seen walking on the streets, the more sensitized people will become.

It is definitely worth a shot. Such a small pastime and a fundamental right feel like a luxury to us.

Jaycee Dugard and her Kidnapper/Rapist

The sad case of Jaycee Dugard and her captors raises several imperative questions. As the story goes, Jaycee was kidnapped right in front of her stepfather from outside their home in 1991. Eighteen years later, she is freed from her captor, Philip Garigo, who also by now happens to be the father of Jaycee’s two children, 15 and 11 years of ages.

Jaycee was 11 when she was kidnapped. If her two daughters are 15 and 11, that indicates her kidnapped raped her since she was 14.Plausibly, since the day he kidnapped her. So Jaycee at the age of 14 had given birth to her first daughter already.

At the time of arrest, Jaycee and her daughters were found to be living in a sound proof shed veiled by a false wall within a larger compound. Ironically, the local police failed on locate the false wall on a random property search a few years earlier. So, Jaycee and her daughters were living with their kidnapper and rapist for period of eighteen years without their neighbors knowing their actual relationships.

In addition, and this has to be one of the most frightening aspect of the whole story, the townsfolk, apart from a few suspicious ones, did not wonder of the nature of the relationship between Philip Garigo, another women who was booked as his wife, Jaycee Dugard and her two daughters.

The whole case reeks of a matter that dropped out of the public’s radar, perhaps to the detrimental effect on Jaycee and her two daughters.

Now that Jaycee and her daughters are finally emancipated, there are still looming issues for them to encounter. Least of all accepting and moving past the fact that they had bonded with a husband and father who raped Jaycee from childhood.

As this gruesome tale unfold, more unfortunate details will emerge of Jaycee’s life with Philip Garigo.

To make matters far worse, Philip Garigo is being investigated with past murders of prostitutes that happened in the same locales that he inhabited.

It must be deeply traumatic for Jaycee and her children to understand and accept their shared past,