tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30501958029932509502024-03-05T04:23:38.037-08:00RachelGoesEastRKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-26515094877314827432011-08-29T17:39:00.000-07:002011-08-29T19:29:53.129-07:00Where has the time gone?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here goes a little recap. LIFE Program ended mid July and I decided my work in Israel was not done. While at the time the decision to stay long term seemed too daunting, I compromised with one extra month. Four weeks later and I’m left wondering where the time has gone. What exactly did I do for one month in Tel Aviv with no job and no real commitments?</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yehudah ha Levi street-- you can almost see my apartment from here.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.ardc-israel.org/en/">African Refugee Development Center</a></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">: Along with continuing my work with Tov Lada’at, I picked up some office hours at one of the largest organizations working with refugees in Tel Aviv, doing just about the same Higher Education work. Among other roles, I met daily with asylum seekers who were interested in pursuing higher education, and then tried to connect them with the right school or program. While I loved meeting new people, it became frustrating work when I realized there were so few options for the refugee community. Language restrictions paired with an inability to get student visas, refugees and asylum seekers are barred from most Israeli Universities. This became particularly upsetting when day after day I met with motivated, qualified candidates (some of whom already had bachelor’s degrees) who were scrubbing toilets or street cleaning for a living because it’s the only place they could be hired. Not only is the Israeli government denying the universal right of education, I think it is also missing out on a huge opportunity. This community turns to violence and drugs because they are bored, they don’t have any goals to work towards; Israeli policies don’t afford them a right to a future. I think that creating a cadre of university-educated people will not only reduce rates of violence in South Tel Aviv but also decrease the community’s dependence on outside organizations. It is like an investment—this elite group will go on to build self-sustaining organizations for its own community; I already see this happening with Tov Lada’at fellows who have started their own youth programs, art clubs, and English courses. And not to mention, these people will eventually return to their home countries (they all want to) as pro-Israel advocates in areas of the world where that is rare, like South Sudan. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite the frustrations with the job itself, I worked with a group of fun, interesting people from all over the world including Eritrea, Italy, England, and France. Almost like a mini-UN. While it was only a mere few weeks we had together, I guess something about having similar world views and dealing with the same daily frustrations, positioned us to be instant friends. My last night in Tel Aviv just so happened to fall of Tisha B’av, a Jewish holiday that requires all businesses, restaurants, and bars to close. I think we found the only place open in all of Tel Aviv—an Eritrean restaurant built into someone’s home. It was the perfectly appropriate send-off party—drinking Eritrean beers while listening to traditional music and eating injera with my hands, all in the presence of great company.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Two trips up to the Misgav</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. Over the course of my five months in Israel I became close with a few people from an area in Northern Israel called Misgav. It is considered a peripheral area made up of small villages, and just so happens to be (at least in my opinion) the most beautiful place in all of Israel. It is mountainous and green and raises people to be the outdoorsy, laid-back type. My friends and I joked that something must be in the air because everyone we met from Misgav is incredibly kind, welcoming, and self-sufficient, while still valuing their family and home. On two separate trips to this area I got to eat authentic warm hummus in an Arab village, take care of baby olive trees in Nurit’s family’s orchard, have dinner overlooking what seemed like all of Israel, see the fabulous rock star </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1832366874">Yeuhdit Ravitz</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbXe_QggNxY&feature=related"> </a>perform for all of Misgav, and participate in a Shira V’nabira. Literally meaning: singing and beers. This is a common party in Israel based on a kibbutz tradition where youth get together to drink beers and sing Israeli songs. Except the Misgav version of this party was pimped out. A group of friends arranged it to be a huge spectacle equipped with a stage and live band, hundreds of beers, boiled corn, watermelon and salty cheese (I highly suggest this combo—deelish!), couches, tables, and a huge projection screen with the lyrics. Think giant group karaoke. It was a blast until I realized that Hebrew songs get a little old when you don’t know how to sing them. One of the most entertaining parts of the night though was watching the guys—all retired soldiers from elite units in the Israeli army—break down and put away the whole set-up as if it were an army drill on efficiency. I could not imagine my American friends putting the effort into, nonetheless even knowing how, to throw a party like this.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shira V'nabira held in Yuvalim, Misgav.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nurit, her father Arik Raz, who founded the Misgav, and I on their olive orchard.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGN9g12urxrE3eTaLD2QIP2lYjdZWFrEieM9tDedJdVVRo6kXuXw1V6KZcwPkDQqAgXZb1Fu9BoIKSs0REz0a9QyQAfHgadHkcJiOPSnHM-_AZB4Ae9I7m5uffk8qQy0L2YF-OWY8YEyky/s1600/misgavgrasshopper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGN9g12urxrE3eTaLD2QIP2lYjdZWFrEieM9tDedJdVVRo6kXuXw1V6KZcwPkDQqAgXZb1Fu9BoIKSs0REz0a9QyQAfHgadHkcJiOPSnHM-_AZB4Ae9I7m5uffk8qQy0L2YF-OWY8YEyky/s320/misgavgrasshopper.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look closely: I made friends with a grasshopper.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Making new friends</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. I’ve enjoyed my last month in Tel Aviv particularly because I have been able to spend time with new friends. One of the guys I worked with from Darfur happened to work on my daily walking path from my house to work. One of my new routines became to stop in at his coffee shop a couple evenings a week to say hi. The only problem is that in many African cultures, it is customary to feed the guest. So I couldn’t visit without Guy (the Darfuri) practically shoving iced coffees and homemade meals down my throat. No matter how small the gesture, it was comforting to know I would run into someone I knew everyday on the street. It felt grounding somehow. As if the amount of people you know (and could thus potentially run into) is an indicator of your adjustment to a new place.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was able to connect with some distant relatives—sharing some lovely Friday night dinners in an actual home and spending quality time with cousins my age. Not to mention, learn how to cook the shakshuka, the Israeli staple made of tomatoes and eggs.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mmmm... shakshuka!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And finally, because I was in Tel Aviv, I could more easily meet up with </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.tov-ladaat.org/">Tov Lada’at</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> fellows. One of the students, Dighe, took me to a friend’s wedding where I experienced Eritrean marriage customs first hand. The couple rented a giant room in South Tel Aviv. And while it wasn’t a looker from the outside, let me tell you, those Eritreans know how to party. I got there before the bride and groom came, which is typical. We ate traditional Eritrean food and drank beers until the happy couple made their grand entrance to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkYLTRmHJ3o">Eritrean party music</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, sparklers, and confetti. Everyone was on the dance floor clapping and dancing around the couple. People throw money at the newlyweds and do this dance where you lift your shoulder up and down at another person and then roll onto each other’s backs. She wore a white princess gown and he wore a suit, just like any wedding we’ve seen before. They even had bridesmaids and groomsmen in correlating outfits. After a few beers (I was retiring early compared to everyone else), some more dancing, and saturated with cultural observation, I left Dighe to party the night away with his friends.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tov Lada'at Family at our closing ceremony for the year.</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ramallah</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. That’s right, Ramallah. I crossed over to the forbidden side! I hope you just read that with sarcasm because when I spent the day there, riding buses and touring the streets, there was not one moment I felt unsafe or threatened. It made me reflect on how the West Bank has been framed for me by certain medias and in certain Jewish contexts. It is made out to be something scary, forbidden, “the place we don’t speak of” (granted, Israelis are not allowed in). But in all reality, the West Bank, and Ramallah specifically, is a bustling city filled with restaurants, coffee shops, universities, and everyday people. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The center of the city.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michelle, Daniel, and Phil by some typical hookah smokers.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Michelle, her brother, Phil, and I left from Damascus gate in the old city and took one of the green buses operated by the Palestinian authority to Ramallah. We crossed the border, past the concrete wall and border patrol, got off in the middle of the city, and immediately went to find authentic Arab hummus and shwarma. After wandering around the busy streets with giant food babies we happened upon a “Stars and Bucks” for delicious coffee beverages and then walked to pay our respects to Yasser Arafat’s grave. There wasn’t a whole lot to see in Ramallah in terms of tourism, but it was interesting how a place only an hour away from West Jerusalem could feel like a world away. It reminded me a lot of Amman, Jordan with the heavy traffic, sidewalks jammed with pedestrians, and streets lined with coffee shops, bakeries, and markets. On the way back home we reached the fortress of a checkpoint, and just like everyone else on the bus, were forced to get out, wait in line, show our identification to an IDF soldier, and reload the bus. It was then I understood the inconvenience and frustration Palestinians might feel about these security measures. On the way there Michelle and I started speaking with the Palestinian woman sitting next to us about issues like these. We chatted for a while and finally asked about relations with Israel. Michelle said something along the lines of, “And things with Israel are ok?” The woman pointed to the concrete wall shooting high above our bus and laughed, “You call this ok?”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yasser Arafat's grave.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The checkpoint coming back in Israel from the West Bank.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Taking Tel Aviv by storm</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. Tel Aviv is a party city. With the beach bum attitude, girls in small clothes, and ample amount of bars and restaurants, I like to think it’s similar to Miami in vibe and attitude. This of course means that it is almost impossible to avoid temptation, especially if you have a strong case of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). It just doesn’t feel right to come home before midnight when you can constantly see and hear people exploring the city’s nightlife. It’s been a blast to see what Tel Aviv has to offer but I think it’s probably good for my health and liver, that I came home when I did.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On another Tel Avivi note, Rotschild street is on fire. Not literally, just figuratively-- with hundreds of people and their tents. Thousands of people all over Israel have been rallying together to protest high costs of living and limited state benefits by pitching tents in the central public space of their city. I was fortunate enough to live right next to Israel’s largest protest on Rothschild Street, the busiest avenue in Tel Aviv. It is a sight to see. For at least ten long blocks, hundreds of tents line the pedestrian walkway. There are signs and posters everywhere, tents are painted with messages, and community organizers host nightly discussions where groups of people sit in a circle and discuss an aspect of the protests. The street is absolutely alive with the spirit of protest; it is like nothing I’ve seen before. And because this is the Israeli form of protest, just plain tents and posters don’t do. There are dance parties, live music performances every few blocks, tee-pees, movie screenings, street theater, food, and people everywhere either sitting on couches or beds in the middle of the walkway with their friends. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rothschild avenue, although this picture was taken during a lull in the day. <br />
In the evening this place is teeming with people.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A double decker!</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Israelis I’ve spoken to about the protest are ecstatic about the movement, they have never seen their own countrymen organize and rally around a domestic cause with such vigor and with such numbers. Many say that it is a cause almost everyone can agree on--unlike the country’s highly polarized political problems. I saw this first hand during a city-wide rally when an estimated 300,000 people marched in the streets. Seas of people took over Tel Aviv’s busiest avenues. There were kids and families, college students, and the elderly chanting and playing music together. It felt like Tel Aviv was literally busting at the seams because people were everywhere—on their balconies, sitting on top of streetlights, and taking pictures atop tall recycling structures. The energy was palpable.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had a profound moment one evening while watching the documentary made about Barak Obama’s 2008 election campaign called “By the People” amongst the Israeli protesters. The movie highlights how Obama inspired activism in a place where it has been dead for a while-- American youth. Walking back home from the movie, weaving in and out of people camped out for their cause, I began to feel envious. Where did that fervor and excitement go that we had on the dawn of his inauguration? I began to wish I had a cause I felt that passionate about. I wondered even </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">if</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I could ever feel that passionate about a cause. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now just to turn the tables for a minute, I couldn’t help but notice a small glitch in the system, a paradox, if you will. Actual homeless people were sleeping on uncomfortable public benches right next to the self-made “homeless” protesters.. The people who are taking to the streets in mass, fighting for access to fair prices, are the same people turning a blind eye to street cleaners from Eritrea who survived political repression only to come to Israel to be treated like sub-humans. There is something profoundly wrong with the image of young activists, happily building tents, playing music, and throwing dance parties next to a man without an actual home, sleeping on a bench or in a public park. While I whole-heartedly support the protests, I guess I just wish people could look around a little more and consider how everyone could benefit from major reforms, even the homeless.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Whew. That one was a doozie. One novella later, and I’ve told you (if you are still reading) the highlights of my last month in Israel. Not to mention the fundraising campaign I’ve been working on putting together for Tov Lada’at:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9zGLSRNx6nrCJOOaHEO-vzZb9_3v7UbduC1x8qLU-Qv2M2rReyIaUsfoMdPsZNYDYPypPv8dY76y8ups3Bi45EXNEqNqapuBOX13VXyIQtnP9m1LUFwpAzE14G7MHCe-sQFPHbe-jvu2/s1600/TOVLADAATWithButton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9zGLSRNx6nrCJOOaHEO-vzZb9_3v7UbduC1x8qLU-Qv2M2rReyIaUsfoMdPsZNYDYPypPv8dY76y8ups3Bi45EXNEqNqapuBOX13VXyIQtnP9m1LUFwpAzE14G7MHCe-sQFPHbe-jvu2/s400/TOVLADAATWithButton.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tov Lada'at Sponsor a Student Campaign- props to my cousin Shir for designing this add.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In short though, the month was an absolute whirlwind of laughs and struggles, working hard and playing hard. I’ve been back several weeks now and am slowly adjusting my new Baltimore lifestyle. I can’t tell you how my time in Israel has changed me (because I don’t know myself), but as the plane pulled away and I couldn’t help but hold back the tears, I knew that something about that stubborn little place will always be with me.</span></div></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-12086189238264900472011-07-18T15:22:00.000-07:002011-07-18T15:22:01.569-07:00People<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They say when you go on these programs abroad you “find yourself.” You learn about your strengths and weaknesses, and become a stronger person because of it all. While I’m sure I’ll understand the impact the past nine months had on my personal growth eventually, right now I can’t say this is true for me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rather then leaving the LIFE Program having learned about myself, I will leave having learned about people. I have met a whole host of characters, some of whom have made me laugh, some of whom have challenged my character to the very core, and all of whom I hope to always remember. So here’s to the individuals who showed me a new way of seeing things, taught me, or just made plain made me smile:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Ralphi, the always-smiling Mumbai Jew, who welcomed us with open arms to India with his contagious laugh.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Lakshmi and Renuka, our curious and lovable underage workers, who despite waking me up most mornings to clean the room, were easily forgivable.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Mr. Bakshi, our eccentric Siek landlord in Hyderabad, who never seemed to master the art of knocking.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To my Hyderabad friends—Kib, Gopes, Varun, Sashi, Rajesh, and the IDEX team, who took Hyderabad by storm with me. Thanks for teaching me Settlers of Cattan and showing me the ropes of the city that can feel quite daunting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Manish, my boss at SKS, who challenged my way of thinking and working every single day I worked with him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To the staff at SKS, especially Neha, Sivani, and Sakshi, who acted as my lens into everyday Indian society, and who looked out for me as if I were family.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Swapna, Rajeshwari, Sudaker, Annand, Rajkumar, and Prakash, the staff of Naraynkhed school, whose warmth and hospitality while I spent time at their school, will always make me think fondly of rural Andhra Pradesh—despite finding a snake in my room.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Venkat, our soft spoken country director who welcomed us into his home, despite being questionable at his actual job.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Mark Zober, the most compassionate and kooky person I have ever met, who, in one conversation alone helped me decide my future.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To the friends I met in Jordan-- Hassan, the Egyptian protester, Madian, the out-and-proud restaurant owner, and Mohanned, our tour guide; who by the very fact of our talking seemed to break down barriers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Nir, Guy, Eyal, and Tomer, founders of the Puzzle Project, whose country-boy attitude and laid-back style showed me a taste of real Israel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Michelle, my new Brazilian friend, who knows how to be adorable, impassioned, and an emerging social entrepreneur all in one.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Matan, my hilarious, IDF-veteran, socialist friend, who isn’t afraid to be a little different.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Anna, my long-time childhood friend, who I was able to see in a whole new way, as a dedicated advocacy coordinator and ultimate Tel Aviv hostess.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To the gay Palestinians at the drag show, who challenged social norms by just being themselves. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Kate and Florentine, the founders of Tov Lada’at, who showed me the meaning of true dedication, because having a full-time job and running a non-profit in your free time is certainly not easy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To all of the asylum-seekers and refugees I had the pleasure of working with, whose resilience, strength, and intelligence is inspirational. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And to the people who count the most:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Abby who showed me what it means to really listen and how to be supportive. Thank you for all of the good times and the laughs. You are a true friend.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> To Alex whose drive, focus, and dedication are characteristics I admire. You will change the world one day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Amy who showed me generosity and what it really means to have a passion for a cause. You are a true activist. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Gabe whose compassion and talent I wish I had more of. Thank you for teaching me that its ok to be sentimental sometimes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Phil who always knew how to make me laugh. Thank you for being your unique boxer-dog-loving Snoop-Dogg-rapping self.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To Nurit who lives life with confidence and grace. I know you will be a great success at anything you put your mind to. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To all of the aforementioned people, thank you. I said from the beginning that the next 9 months would be one wild ride, and that it was. Thank you guys for opening my eyes to new experiences and new perspectives. Thank you for making it all worthwhile.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And maybe I had it wrong in the beginning. I’ve met people from all sorts of places with all sorts of backgrounds. Maybe “finding myself” is just about finding my reflection in these people.</span></div><!--EndFragment-->RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-51814345645867136902011-07-03T16:10:00.000-07:002011-07-03T16:10:11.100-07:00Soldiers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve been avoiding writing about “the conflict” because the topic is so highly politicized and heated, that conversations rarely end well. I also have this constant fear of never knowing enough to talk, argue, or write about it intelligently. So then, I will do what writers do best, and write about what I know. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The most interesting and iconic Israeli institution that represents the conflict to me is the Israeli Defense Force: the IDF. By the nature of my friendships with young people post-army, and by just walking the street and looking around, I have learned a lot about the intricacies of the institution. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For those who need a recap: at age 18 all Israelis are enlisted into the army. Some people are exempt, like certain religious communities and those who get a low health rating, but mostly everyone goes. It is so deeply engrained in Israeli culture as a rite of passage that most people never consider not doing it. Girls serve two years and boys three, in all sorts of different units. There are the infantry soldiers that dress in the classic olive green, the highly esteemed air force pilots in cream, and the border control who wear my favorite color of the bunch, a dark gray. They fulfill a variety of jobs beyond what we typically think of as the role of a soldier. I’ve met people who served as teachers, accountants, administrative assistants, air traffic controllers, musicians, and social workers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Upon observing tons of IDF soldiers in passing, I have developed an idea I like to call “Soldier Style.” I’ve noticed that lots of young Israelis like to take on the persona of being a soldier in various ways. Some girls manage to make the boxy uniforms look cute. They take their pants to get fitted and tuck them into their boots like skinny jeans. Sometimes it’s funny to see these small girls with cute hair and make-up in uniform, wielding a weapon. Other men seem to enjoy the “GI Joe” look, rocking the aviators and tough guy attitude with pride. Others wear their uniforms like any teenagers do—with their pants slung low, halfway down their butts. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxyLiCDkxRHlkUqkhUTUa3yRwG2gGNDlxBf1I1FT0KuQd0cWAnzyiEQ_xL7ibg1JObIAg3mHjD94RZ9lwnVaBJuKy-6pZvJwoiUQtjbrb5HGDmuLoyGROBINItvFCCWyguIRltEA0yJnR/s1600/Six-IDF-Women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxyLiCDkxRHlkUqkhUTUa3yRwG2gGNDlxBf1I1FT0KuQd0cWAnzyiEQ_xL7ibg1JObIAg3mHjD94RZ9lwnVaBJuKy-6pZvJwoiUQtjbrb5HGDmuLoyGROBINItvFCCWyguIRltEA0yJnR/s320/Six-IDF-Women.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sight to get used to...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is common to see groups of young soldiers in malls or bus stations chatting like teenagers all around the world do, except with big M-16’s strapped to their backs. It is a strange site to see for the first time, certainly a little jarring for tourists new to Israel. The strange part is when it becomes commonplace. Just the other day I was on a bus to Tel Aviv and a solider sat next to me. As he fell asleep the butt of his gun ended up inching onto my lap. He ended up sleeping in a hunched over position, spooning his gun like a baby. And then the other day I saw a little boy bump his head on a soldier’s gun. We were all standing in line to board a bus and the boy, who was holding his father’s hand, couldn’t have been older than three years old. He looked over to see what he had hit his head on and started playing with the barrel of the soldier’s M-16. Moments like these I just end up cocking my head and thinking how strange it all is. Yet the normalization of a sight like this is the most alarming part. Warfare should never be normalized. Guns should never be commonplace. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiyNKhmrM8YqCFOr6wwwezK1H8L73QHl6JT-kS6i_6CHsHqzHkkYPhBQzJ9O300Fh4KYHV8xAkbWetXM8IZiJ3k_-LwHyQUsMzgFtgmdQL3FIu2Dp4nPGGoovmLCOTd_7at5kmpZiQEpA/s1600/israel-picture-tel-aviv-idf-soldiers-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiyNKhmrM8YqCFOr6wwwezK1H8L73QHl6JT-kS6i_6CHsHqzHkkYPhBQzJ9O300Fh4KYHV8xAkbWetXM8IZiJ3k_-LwHyQUsMzgFtgmdQL3FIu2Dp4nPGGoovmLCOTd_7at5kmpZiQEpA/s320/israel-picture-tel-aviv-idf-soldiers-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soldiers gathering at the Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You can see the impact of the army in Israeli culture and society in ways I am only beginning to learn. Young kids grow up knowing that if they leave their backpack somewhere public, it is very likely a bomb squad will blow it up later for fear of a suspicious package. People who grew up in the 90s tell stories of carrying their gas masks to school, and how they each decorated their gas mask box. Certain types of people are expected to get into certain units in the army, and there are stereotypes attached to each. Young Israelis post-army seem to be so much more adept at doing things like changing tires and traveling in remote places. Many don’t start studying until their mid-twenties and thus seem to get married later. The stereotype of the Israeli man is to be strong and emotion-less, like the good soldier they are supposed to be. Some say that Israel as a whole is a post-traumatic state. And these are just to name a few…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Security measures occur in everyday Israeli society without people thinking twice. For example, security guards and metal detectors are stationed at the entrance of any public place, whether it be a mall or bus station. Many private restaurants and cafes also have their own security. Before entering the public bus stands via bus, a security guard always hops on the bus to scan the inside. On a bus to Tel Aviv the other day the guard scanned the bus and stopped the only Arab man to ask for his ID. While I might be able to understand the security measures, Israel openly embraces their policy of racial profiling. The Arab man was with his family. To think of the daily harassment him and his family must undergo, and then to be singled out like that on the bus, I felt humiliated for him and ashamed of the institution. As for more security, checkpoints are scattered all throughout the country in any potentially volatile area and expansive walls sometimes surround settlements or border highways.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj19Y_K9hCXTZjQsrnxNwFPbChxh_8jKdGvbWuPh2C_RRaXufbqlV3bR4A3mibOxH9jKn0K6iHHno3n8f5heFxtUJDA3Nnk7Kb5uZbHzcohMsUsGki7AonUVeGpvFkNyX1P6F9vMvQFV3h1/s1600/checkpoint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj19Y_K9hCXTZjQsrnxNwFPbChxh_8jKdGvbWuPh2C_RRaXufbqlV3bR4A3mibOxH9jKn0K6iHHno3n8f5heFxtUJDA3Nnk7Kb5uZbHzcohMsUsGki7AonUVeGpvFkNyX1P6F9vMvQFV3h1/s1600/checkpoint.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small Israeli check point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After visiting Israel three times, studying about the conflict in school, and now living in Jerusalem, all I know is that the situation is infinitely more complex and intricate than I will ever be able to understand. It includes issues of property, religious rites, ethnicity, and identity. There is always more information to be learned, always another expert to speak with, and always another bereaved family on either side to tell you their story. My friend Matan spent six months in Hebron (a mixed city in the West Bank) at a check-point. He is one of the most liberal people I have ever met and I think his story illustrates the complexity of it all. He said he went into his duty disliking Israeli settlers and thinking highly, benevolently of all Arabs. He tried to approach Arabs as “the best of the worst of them,” that is, a friendly Israeli soldier. Though as time went on and he was constantly faced with insults and uncomfortable situations, the lines became blurred. He could no longer label anyone as anything.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The conflict has taught me to analyze, question everything, and never rest assured that any one given point-of-view is the correct one. Although, the one thing I feel confident saying is that the way certain Israeli policies marginalize Palestinians is not only an abuse of human rights but also a way to incite more hate and violence.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My problem now with “Israel-Apartheid Week” or the Israeli settlement movement (movements representing both the far left and right) is not necessarily the ideology itself, it is the close-mindedness of it all. Because I imagine if activists on either side could open their minds to discussion and new ideas, we could all be a little closer to a peaceful resolution. I know that is incredibly naïve and simplistic to say, but maybe it is the fresh, naive attitude that can see more clearly about the subject than the people who live deep inside of it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuS70XNqWmoMYE_60z6rrLHStAEGqfvFTcT8yakTZ1L4g3GppIC5tR8GQT39bx4FmL4lQoWie3JU36jNXk8rdtmIOTKhmAK_1UV-xW5CNuA7dTHi2MeM2TXTdW119dHQ7xN9wTtxXo8IBu/s1600/holy5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuS70XNqWmoMYE_60z6rrLHStAEGqfvFTcT8yakTZ1L4g3GppIC5tR8GQT39bx4FmL4lQoWie3JU36jNXk8rdtmIOTKhmAK_1UV-xW5CNuA7dTHi2MeM2TXTdW119dHQ7xN9wTtxXo8IBu/s320/holy5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The iconic image-- soldiers praying at the Western Wall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><!--EndFragment--> </div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-30514080962878752612011-06-19T05:02:00.000-07:002011-06-19T05:03:38.420-07:00You know you have been in Israel a while when…<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm coming up on the four month marker of my time here in Israel. While being immersed in this culture, I've noticed a few behavioral changes :</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. You’ve replaced the word “um” for “em.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. You eat a cucumber whole, like you would an apple.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. The words “the conflict” will always refer to one conflict, and one conflict only.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. You cut lines.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. You drink two more cups of coffee a day then you did at home.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6. You’ve stopped using please and thank you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">7. More volume the better with your hair. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">8. You’ve become a pedophile because all attractive people in uniform are probably 18.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">9. You panic Friday morning when you realize the only food you have to last you through Shabbat is brown rice and an onion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">10. Breakfast is not complete without a fresh vegetable and a cheese of some kind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">11. You go through a carton of hummus every few days.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">12. You no longer care when a gun is pointed towards you on the bus.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">13. You wear sandals on every occasion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">14. You press your fingers together and shake your hand in someone’s face to say “wait a minute.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">15. You bought a nargila (hookah).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">16. Falafel is a staple.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">17. You put tehina (a yummy sauce made from sesame seeds) on your frozen yogurt.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">18. You drink chocolate milk out of a bag.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">19. Your skin has turned a darker shade of brown.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">20. You treat Thursdays like Fridays and Saturdays like Sundays (the work week here is from Sunday-Thursday).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-54473345485763030732011-06-05T16:10:00.000-07:002011-06-05T16:10:47.433-07:00Ahalan from Jordan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first time I felt like I was in the Middle East in the past three months was when I was in Jordan last week. The LIFE program took the group on a four-day study tour in North Jordan and Amman. We stayed in an eco-village, met with diverse people and organizations in Amman, and ate pounds and pounds of fresh hummus. While I didn’t go in with many expectations of what Jordan would look like, it was a lot more beautiful and interesting than I had imagined.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6d4PA6B4mKprtMQT_DMkboM4casaJwSNdPiC11GdcqtUlrBARpY3ZZz2H4OhlGbguYjs1mi384we97R_wLwzmgyvCMPNKwRyLacaIaupSTW-UR1Pqe9G_BtXu3JYuUTnvO0hyphenhyphen_UCen__7/s1600/IMG_2089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6d4PA6B4mKprtMQT_DMkboM4casaJwSNdPiC11GdcqtUlrBARpY3ZZz2H4OhlGbguYjs1mi384we97R_wLwzmgyvCMPNKwRyLacaIaupSTW-UR1Pqe9G_BtXu3JYuUTnvO0hyphenhyphen_UCen__7/s320/IMG_2089.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nurit and Alex at a nice over-look. You can kind of make out the Sea of Galilee.</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Amman reminded me of a tamer, Islamic India. We stayed in a pretty busy part of town, on a street lined with stores selling men’s suits. The city as a whole is a sprawling and unplanned, with clear divisions of wealth. While we stayed in a more moderate part of town filled with street food and barbers, book stands and junk markets, just a quick drive away lay the King’s palace, other such fancy houses, and even a Starbucks. The city was a lot more liberal than I had expected, with fun restaurants and bars.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgpT9nl9w9AIAFqtR7u26PPAcQRaXNznol_vTdP-Z7if0vY0iyd8d2fHozHamIiKezA5QQeOreIdgbtQr0PHkrWwAcwummcfNhbHkABrTuu4ZNAiNv3zyLatgZIcOJGrNxNdyRMPQbFT2/s1600/IMG_2149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgpT9nl9w9AIAFqtR7u26PPAcQRaXNznol_vTdP-Z7if0vY0iyd8d2fHozHamIiKezA5QQeOreIdgbtQr0PHkrWwAcwummcfNhbHkABrTuu4ZNAiNv3zyLatgZIcOJGrNxNdyRMPQbFT2/s320/IMG_2149.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A busy street scene.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnE1BgUuzRttnV4fVakh0QSVXWDeAJl_Z7jPM9hY-xOGS42mAyxTArmhhnRdGGW9gIfuDjw37XArCd-h1CEU2Jps2RYH-NSEz1HqnllMk_NexE_RkbCLxVsBOE9J0PyCDCZASHxgwPkP-U/s1600/IMG_2383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnE1BgUuzRttnV4fVakh0QSVXWDeAJl_Z7jPM9hY-xOGS42mAyxTArmhhnRdGGW9gIfuDjw37XArCd-h1CEU2Jps2RYH-NSEz1HqnllMk_NexE_RkbCLxVsBOE9J0PyCDCZASHxgwPkP-U/s320/IMG_2383.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A man selling goats from his truck. </td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before leaving for the trip, our program gave us as a strict safety protocol. The Israelis in our group were not allowed to say they were from Israel, we were not allowed to speak Hebrew in the streets, and we were assigned a security guard upon crossing the Israel-Jordan border. While I learned that Israeli-Jordanian relations are a lot more tense and fragile than the peace agreement implies, I felt much safer in the streets than I imagined. Yes, the women got stares (and maybe India has de-sensitized me to this), but I never felt unsafe. We walked home late one night and the streets felt quiet and calm. I found myself wishing that we </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">did </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">introduce ourselves as an Israeli group. Because while there is still a tremendous amount of hatred and tension, there is even more ignorance and mis-information. The two sides are never in a position to meet each other face-to-face, and see “the enemy” in a human form. One of the most poignant things I heard all week was from a Palestinian refugee who was raised in Kuwait and then Jordan. He said that he grew up thinking that Israelis were non-human, that if you cut them they wouldn’t bleed blood. He then met them, became friends with them, and later did business with them. He now runs a well-know bookstore and coffee shop, famous for their non-discriminating employment policies. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for a few highlights:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1.We stayed in an eco-village in Northern Jordan run by Friends of the Earth Middle East. We spent the night in adorable little log cabins and got a tour of the nature reserve by Abdel, one of the managers of the organization, whose passion for the land and knowledge of it was inspiring. As ignorant as it sounds, it was humbling and eye-opening to meet people who I always labeled as very different from myself, interested in the same things: ecology, green living, and the importance of preserved natural space. An Egyptian guy was interning with them during the same time as our short stay there, and after speaking with him, I think he is one of the most interesting people I have met all year. When asked about the recent events in his country, he spoke of it in the first person, “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> should have stayed in Tahrir Square longer.” He was there on the ground, protesting with his comrades. Something he said to me also struck a chord. When asked about how Egyptians feel about Israelis he offered insight that I had never though about before. He said that for Arabs, it doesn’t make sense that there are non-Arabs in the area; they Israelis are seen as encroaching onto Arab territory. While some families have been here for generations, it made me think. Putting religious reasons aside, does it make sense that Westerners flock to this little piece of land surrounded by Arab countries? Would it be the equivalent of carving a small space in between Canada and the US for Africans? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7e0BgMpLuBYR7-XduKoRu0seRwYX1UydPoplnqBEOLEi3UjiZkp1BgMSHcMncDdO-lp3xTsX0tLfCg7foznUza_XpkZu2P99sOZSiXgLgSOmzUjaolEmOoyXqACXKFZRBU_lWjqEoAkh/s1600/IMG_2065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7e0BgMpLuBYR7-XduKoRu0seRwYX1UydPoplnqBEOLEi3UjiZkp1BgMSHcMncDdO-lp3xTsX0tLfCg7foznUza_XpkZu2P99sOZSiXgLgSOmzUjaolEmOoyXqACXKFZRBU_lWjqEoAkh/s320/IMG_2065.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view from the Friends of the Middle East Eco-Park</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. We met with some other really interesting organizations like the Jordan Breast Cancer Foundation, JHAS (the Jordan Health Aid Society), and the United Religious Initiative, all of which offered a new insight into the Jordanian social sector and civil society. My favorite, JHAS, is an organization that provides medical services for Iraqi refugees. We got a tour or their clinic and were invited to a dinner at the director of JHAS’s home, Yaroup, who transformed his backyard into a going away party for a friend. We ate well and “schmoozed” with some of Jordan’s elite working with refugee issues (for which there are many in because Jordan is known for its liberal border policies). That night we got a ride home from a JHAS employee who was on a break from working in Libya. I tried to pick his brain without being too obnoxious.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. As mentioned, we met with some exceptional individuals who despite the risk of speaking with a group coming from Israel, were warm and accommodating. I think Arabs are known for their hospitality, and we for sure were greeted with it. We were almost always offered coffee or tea everywhere we went and were received with friendly attitudes; people who went out of their way to be helpful. From the hostel receptionist who gave us tips to getting to Petra, to our tour guide (he is assigned to us by the Jordanian government), Mohanned, who took us to see fun parts of Amman even on his day off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. PETRA. A couple of us stayed on two more nights to see one of the seven wonders of the worlds. We spent the whole day hiking the old city, famous for being carved out of sandstone. The place is beautiful, and you are free to jump and climb around on the rocks and ancient caves as much as you want. My favorites were the Johnny-Depp-Look-a-Like Bedouins who try to get you to pay for rides on their donkeys or camels. They’ve developed jokes over time that they know will please the tourists. So when you ask what a donkey’s name is, it is usually always “Shakira” or “Jackass.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do we look like Indiana Jones?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our Bedouin friends and his steed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our hike's destination-- the monastery.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I left Jordan not only with an acquired taste for dark Arabic coffee, but also with a more developed understanding of the Middle East. I know the politics and conflicts at play are far more complex than the tip of the iceberg I learned about in my four days there, but I am for sure walking away with a fresh perspective. Including one valuable learned lesson: do not ask the border police who the picture on their wall is. Not only is King Abdullah widely liked by his people, but his picture is found everywhere, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> criticizing the King can be considered treason. Also, after insulting their King, do not try to shake their hands, they may be good Muslim men and have just washed for prayer. I’m just glad I got out of their without being arrested…</span></span><br />
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<!--EndFragment--> </div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-87538140057037658252011-05-29T06:44:00.000-07:002011-05-29T06:44:10.179-07:00The Trifecta<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was fortunate enough to be in Israel at a time when the country celebrates three national holidays nearly back to back: Yom Ha’Shoa, Yom Ha’Zikaron, and Yom Ha’Atzmaut: Holocaust Remembrance Day, Memorial Day, and Independence Day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First came Yom Ha’Shoa, celebrated in true Israeli fashion. The night before (referred to as the “erev” and when most of the celebrations for the various holidays occur), my roommates and I went to a local high school to watch their ceremony. It is a rite of passage for teenagers in eleventh grade to focus on Holocaust studies; they take a trip to Poland and are responsible for putting together the Yom Ha’Shoa events. This group of kids reenacted Adolf Eichmann’s trial, focusing on the survivors’ courtroom testimonials. Of course I barely understood a word, but it was interesting to watch from the cultural perspective. First off, I was inside an Israeli high school for the first time, and surprise surprise, it looks the same except with Hebrew writing. I was impressed by the seriousness with which the kids undertook the evening. They sang songs and delivered speeches with a maturity and solemnity I could not envision in their American counterparts. Also, I’m not sure if it’s just me but all of the boys seem to have really deep voices.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the day itself a national siren blares throughout the country at 10 am for thirty seconds. People are expected to stop their cars, get out, and stand. I found myself in quite the fortuitous situation—standing in Rabin Square (the iconic spot where Israel’s champion of the peace process, Yitzchak Rabin, was assassinated) watching a demonstration by Israeli soldiers and surrounded by four main streets. The moment was surreal; it felt like something out of The Matrix or something. The siren was more muted then I expected, but everybody—busses, motorcycles, and cars—stopped in the middle of the busy street to commemorate for a moment the Holocaust. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Less than a week later came Yom Ha’Zikaron, a morose day for all Israelis, where the country commemorates all fallen soldiers. The erev of the day all non-essential businesses are required by law to close. No restaurants, bars, busses, or anything that can be seen as providing entertainment. That night I went to a program put on by Masa-- the huge umbrella organization that funds programs for Jews from all over the world to come to Israel. It took place on a foggy evening on top of a historical hill. While Masa does many great things, I find their large public events to be downright insulting. They shamelessly plug their “make-aliyah” agenda and are a big fan of flashy shows. So while I enjoyed the part of the event where I learned the personal stories of seven fallen soldiers, I found the light effects, fancy media techniques, and script a little over the top. I wish I could have been at a low-key communal event to see how the everyday Israeli pays tribute to those who have died for the country. As I was leaving the event, Alex and I struck an interesting conversation. Everybody talks about the tragedy of a young soldier killed but nobody mentions the tragedy that puts these kids at risk in the first place. Throughout the event we saw tons of pictures of the seven highlighted soldiers posing in uniform with their guns. They are made to be heroes and heroines: “This noble soldier </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">died</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> for her country,” but nobody stopped to ask: “Why is this eighteen year carrying around a gun?” Nobody seemed to think it was a shame to celebrate a young teenager in uniform, holding a weapon half his size. Just as much as a lost life is tragic, same is the conflict that makes them all be soldiers in the first place. My Israeli roommate Nurit told me that when babies are born in her family it has become a tradition to say to them: “May there be no army when you turn 18.” I like this sentiment because it expresses a reserved optimism that I wish more Israelis had; a hint that the conflict doesn’t have to be forever and that an end could be sight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On Yom Ha’Zikaron itself another siren blares throughout the country, but this time I was in a small café by my house. Everyone stopped mid-sentence to stand in silence. The transition from a day or mourning and remembrance into once of celebration is a strange juxtaposition of sadness and celebration. I think it is meant to symbolize the idea that from tragedy comes beauty and life. It also aptly describes the delicate balance of everyday Israel life. Israelis stubbornly try to live their lives through the trauma and despite it; life must go on, because to dwell on the conflict becomes too stifling. So, people prepare all week for Independence Day by adorning everything with Israel flags. And then, as if wound up like a spring on Yom Ha’Zikaron, go crazy on Yom Ha’Atzmaut. We started off at a house party on the roof of a rabbi’s home and then went to the public market for a party organized by the University. Once we got there the cops were already starting to shut things down because I think every person under the age of 35 in Jerusalem, came to the shuk party. It was madness but I’m glad I got to be a part of it all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTcrnnePKHgYNf4Fb2O6pwM-2pc_hiqmYtp_zs_OiS5tXnn0c3Fbp4B49_gPiMAwKgOUCzIw2nQya_Za7OqHzosrXd0yvWyCquIkizHdhduHEY9unpq5xHI0IIiHxi3a14-d8MPn66LaY/s1600/IMG_2005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTcrnnePKHgYNf4Fb2O6pwM-2pc_hiqmYtp_zs_OiS5tXnn0c3Fbp4B49_gPiMAwKgOUCzIw2nQya_Za7OqHzosrXd0yvWyCquIkizHdhduHEY9unpq5xHI0IIiHxi3a14-d8MPn66LaY/s320/IMG_2005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting ready to celebrate Israeli Independence Day. We <i>tried</i> to wear blue and white...</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, three holidays down and three more interesting cultural experiences to think about. I hope this blog was as enlightening as the days were for me. Cheers.</span></div></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-43374424242972550632011-04-27T05:50:00.000-07:002011-04-27T05:57:41.050-07:00Easter with the Eritreans<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="MsoNormal">I haven’t been feeling inspired to write lately, but just yesterday I had another one of those “Is This Real Life?” moments that sparked my creative juices and got my pen to paper again (or shall I say hands to keyboard). I will call it, “Easter with the Eritreans.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As some of you may know, I am working with an organization based in Tel Aviv called Tov Lada’at (<a href="http://www.tov-ladaat.org/">www.tov-ladaat.org</a>), or Good to Know. It is a small project that helps African refugees gain access to higher education. They work with a cohort of eight students, offering them scholarships to school, a monthly leadership seminar, and guidance towards creating their own community projects. <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The situation with African refugees and asylum-seekers is an interesting one, and one which I hadn't heard about until moving here. In short, many Africans (approximately 27,000) from countries like Eritrea, Sudan (80% of Israel’s asylum seekers come from these two countries), Somalia, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, flee from some form of political or religious persecution in their home countries, looking for a better way of life elsewhere. Since geographically speaking, Israel is one of the closest democracies; many end up coming from Egypt through the Sinai desert of foot. Often times the refugees hire Bedouin smugglers to lead them through the desert but are still faced with abuse from the smugglers, threats of rape and violence, and attack from the Egyptian army<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">. </b>Once arriving in the “Promised Land,” the Israeli government rarely gives these people refugee status (in fact, they are arrested by the Israeli army and put in jail) and they are often here on temporary visas that do not allow them to work. They are then stuck in a strange legal limbo, with little access and support to basic needs, along with facing a lot of discrimination and racism on a daily basis. With all of that said, many have been here for several years and are quiet adept at Israeli life. Despite the lack of human rights, they have families, and jobs, and go to university like everyone else. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of my duties as an intern for TL is to work with half of the fellows as a sort of mentor, to support them in developing their own community projects. I’ve enjoyed the work immensely so far because I’ve been able to really get to know four refugees. I’ve met with them to discuss their past, how they came to Israel, and their future aspirations. Every single one of the fellows have personal stories of hardship. And above all, their warmth, intelligence, and resiliency constantly amaze me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So back to Easter. It started off with the release party for one of my fellow’s magazine. He is one of the Eritrean men I “mentor.” The word mentor here feels funny to me because this man is the most remarkable person I have ever met and the idea of me imparting wisdom onto him just seems like a joke. He went from Eritrea, to Ethiopia, to Sudan, and then to Israel, constantly fighting to get a college education. While spending time in a refugee camp and then again in Israel he helped start art groups that meet once a week to write together or discuss community matters. The group in Tel Aviv pulled together their own resources and published a magazine for the Eritrean community called “Maedo.” They distributed it during a fun talent-show like even on Easter. It was held in the back of a little run-down Eritrean store close to the Central Bus Station. The station itself is notorious for being a little-Africa of sorts; it is the hub for all refugee activities in Tel Aviv and always bustling with people from all over.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJP89j4QG90qu78p4hcM55QcsmJL_HO1dDnPirQedL-Rv8OULrM_QPK1GcJCfQ6URmn_5fpo7KSpGMQZ0dM_oCk8syHdMXPJFgqcrG-DVlAsg-GmYwpZSkAJGbdkqhR1ceZ3x5F3FUCKpY/s1600/eritrea.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJP89j4QG90qu78p4hcM55QcsmJL_HO1dDnPirQedL-Rv8OULrM_QPK1GcJCfQ6URmn_5fpo7KSpGMQZ0dM_oCk8syHdMXPJFgqcrG-DVlAsg-GmYwpZSkAJGbdkqhR1ceZ3x5F3FUCKpY/s320/eritrea.gif" width="286" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That little guy in red is Eritrea. It is often bulked together with Ethiopia although they have been in conflict for years.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wanted to go to the event to support this man and thankfully my good friend Anna and co-worker Florentine joined me because it was nice to have some company sitting among a crowd of Eritreans speaking a language I don’t know. The event itself was really interesting though. Various people performed – reading poems, telling jokes or stories, playing some traditional Tigrinia songs, and my personal favorite, dancing to 50 Cent’s “In Da Club.” The multi-culturalism of it all just blew my mind. There I was, an American, sitting with a German and another American at an Eritrean event in Israel. We almost covered all of the world’s continents. Anyways, even though we didn’t understand a word of the festivities, it is remarkable how much you can gauge from tone and body language. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was really interesting to see how Easter is celebrated in different cultures. There were no bunnies or Easter egg hunts to be found. Rather, it seemed like a big party. People are out on the streets and dressed in fancy suits and dresses. They served cola and water and traditional snacks like popcorn and a thick bread I’m not sure the name of. The program ended when Florentine and I were whisked from our seats and made to dance with everyone. I think Flo put it aptly afterwards when she said, “I guess I can check that one off of my list!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Afterwards I went with another one of the fellows, Dighe, to his apartment for another Easter celebration. In a previous meeting I had told him how much I wanted to eat some good injeera (a sponge-like pancake served with different sauces; the “naan” of Ethiopian/Eritrean food), so he invited me to the party where there would be promised home-cooked Eritrean food. I’m not sure how I always seem to get myself into these situations but soon after I found myself in a small apartment surrounded by about 15 Eritrean men drinking Heinekens and dancing to Tigrinia songs on You Tube. Once I got over the initial stares and the fish-out-of-water feeling,; it was a blast. I ate some fantastic njera and after being practically force- fed a few “chasers” (the Israeli equivalent of a mini-shot) I danced to Shakira’s “Waka Waka,” a staple for any Africa-lovers. I learned how to say “How are you?” in Dighe’s mother-tounge (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Workma?</i>) and was even presented with a Hanukkah candle as an Easter gift. Something about candles is symbolic, seeing as the whole apartment was sprinkled with lit Hanukah candles. I liked the quirky juxtaposition of the two holidays. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwZ21SZGlHs6cIuXU81bEWALOGywTsBqQFifmadkfq5nPWhtChwgsIb-OSj-3fKx-QYgkTBtbiKP4qcTZFblJgi7qYtwUY7vp8DEAjOsQ76u61Ap5Pkv6VhohcxTMaWQV_7gAzP_xB5ks/s1600/injeera1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwZ21SZGlHs6cIuXU81bEWALOGywTsBqQFifmadkfq5nPWhtChwgsIb-OSj-3fKx-QYgkTBtbiKP4qcTZFblJgi7qYtwUY7vp8DEAjOsQ76u61Ap5Pkv6VhohcxTMaWQV_7gAzP_xB5ks/s320/injeera1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An example of some injeera. You eat it with your hands and the sauces are mostly meat-based.</td></tr>
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The whole day was nice reminder of how people can overcome hardship. These refugees undergo unspeakable difficulties in their daily life, but they don’t let it define themselves. They were just people, doing what people all around the world do best on Easter: celebrate. Whether that’s decorating Easter eggs and eating chocolate or eating injeera and drinking beers. </div></div><br />
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</div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-13041882639576341732011-03-27T16:05:00.000-07:002011-03-27T16:05:32.536-07:00Ba le Jerusalem<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First let me give you a context. When I was about ten years old I was enlisted to help two of my closest friends with filming a movie for Hebrew School. Being in Jewish Day School, I though I had excellent Hebrew, so I starred in their film they produced about Jerusalem by jumping onto the screen and reciting the three words: “Ba le Jerusalmem,” meaning “Come to Jerusalem,” except that I forgot the word for Jerusalem in Hebrew. This still makes the three of us laugh today, but come to think of it, its not that funny at all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regardless, I have arrived in Jerusalem and am alive and well. My six roommates and I share a really nice apartment in a quiet neighborhood called Talpiyot. We’ve got three bedrooms, an adorable little kitchen, and a huge living room. Abby and I are roommates again and sleep in tiny children’s beds we like to call our “Polly Pocket beds.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we’ve been working on our internship placements this past month we haven’t done much at all except get adjusted. And an adjustment it has been. I’ve had a few reverse culture shock moments that remind me I’m no longer in India:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1) Cross walks. As in, it’s not ok to cross the street whenever?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2) Trashcans. It is no longer acceptable to throw my trash directly on the street. For something that took me so long to get used to in India, it’s a wonder I have to catch myself before littering.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3) Clean air. I never realized how much I missed it until I got it back. It is all of a sudden enjoyable to go for a run outside.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4) People with skimpy clothes. I just stare. It is shocking to see spaghetti straps or a skirt above the knees.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5) It is not necessary to argue with the cab driver to put the meter on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6) Sidewalks. I can enjoy the beauty of walking somewhere.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">7) A whole new set of oily foods to try and avoid: butter naan and samosas have been replaced by falafel and chips.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">8) It is acceptable to eat with both hands. I still find myself tearing pita bread apart with my right hand only, leaving my left hand in my lap.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for the past few weeks, we go to Ulpan (Hebrew class) three times a week, where it has become painfully apparent that I lost the majority of the Hebrew I once knew. I have been frequenting the market, or shook, where I love to buy my fresh veggies, fruits, nuts, cheese, bread, and hummus for the week. I’ve explored the local nightlife scene, and although Tel Aviv in known to be the life of the party, I’m still convinced Jeru knows what’s up. One week in there was spent at a leadership conference organized by MASA in a Jerusalem hostel. And otherwise, we’ve just trying to stay busy exploring the country. Gabe took a group of us on a tour of the old city. One day we went to the Biblelands museum (womp womp). I’ve been on an exercising kick, and am training for a 10K. And Abby and I have been busy visiting various friends and relatives. We went to Benyamina, a beautiful city close to Haifa, for a relaxing Shabbat at her friend Jen’s house, filled with eating and a walk on the beach. Last weekend we stayed at her cousin’s house in a settlement in the West Bank. The whole experience was unique. We took a bullet-proof bus in, passing rocky uninhabited hills on the way to their settlement. Another Shabbat filled with eating and sleeping, and then we hitchhiked to get back to Jerusalem. I love how saying something like “I hitchhiked in the West Bank” sounds so much more bad-ass then it actually was. We rode with a sweet older couple and everyone does it anyways to get in and out of the settlements. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This week I’m set to start my internship most likely working for an organization that provides higher education support for African refugees and asylum seekers… I will keep you posted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One last note before I part, for those who haven’t heard, a bomb went off in Jerusalem last week. It was an abandoned bag left in a place across from the Central Bus Station, a place I’ve been to several times at this point. I was thankfully far away, at a leadership seminar with my fellows. It was a strange moment for us all. After reading the news together, my Israeli program director said something like “Welcome to Israel.” While there hasn’t been this sort of violence in several years, it is unfortunately somewhat commonplace for Israelis. The two Israelis I was with at the time took the news very matter-of-factly, with little emotional response-- what strikes me as an adopted coping mechanism. Life continued in Jerusalem as if nothing had happened the rest of the day. There is the sense that Israeli society must be resilient and not let the attack change day-to-day life, because that is precisely what the terrorists wanted. The whole thing put things in perspective for me, making me realize how delicate the political situation is in this country.</span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-31293241457952469612011-03-20T17:24:00.000-07:002011-03-21T11:48:51.738-07:00I hate goodbyes.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, the title says it all. I hate goodbyes. And although I find myself writing three-weeks into my fancy new life in Jerusalem, with a whole new set of adventures ahead, I cannot help but feel nostalgic for India. So, I’m going to devote this time to say goodbye to India. More on Israel to come.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I spent my final weeks closing up things in Hyderabad and then traveling with friends in the northwestern state of Rajasthan, both of which reaffirmed and invigorated my love of the country. I think goodbyes always have a way of reminding me what I love about the person or the place, and about all of the good memories we shared together. So in an effort to say goodbye to the places that have meant so much to me, I wrote them letters:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Hampi, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you for awakening my thirst for travel and discovery. You will always be remembered as one of the most beautiful places I have ever been.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Your cliff-jumping-hitchhiking pal, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rach</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwAEWjPkv_6steRYfG6F45g2Y7Z86Y8g7EFpXEYypuoPmSjOfz-1TJSuLH_PLw3zXnZCslDN0gH32sJuTjLYRvvxcF-CHFQVuLE_vkQh0bXCgzuTkAMo0BpSILs0KKCtTyRSyJczMw1nq/s1600/IMG_8670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwAEWjPkv_6steRYfG6F45g2Y7Z86Y8g7EFpXEYypuoPmSjOfz-1TJSuLH_PLw3zXnZCslDN0gH32sJuTjLYRvvxcF-CHFQVuLE_vkQh0bXCgzuTkAMo0BpSILs0KKCtTyRSyJczMw1nq/s320/IMG_8670.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A memorable Hampi moment.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4fxm3eJ4RcXUm9BHmclKtf6JYTWsWGbEycjYnthPVyehYnoDX3YT-kARmhddiBIMgPdLDKiap___eMmdd7bldCrPIkayXy_acib1uuuMMGCjeTcG4cc55Ke8sOuZh95R81uznpdL2asp/s1600/IMG_8623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4fxm3eJ4RcXUm9BHmclKtf6JYTWsWGbEycjYnthPVyehYnoDX3YT-kARmhddiBIMgPdLDKiap___eMmdd7bldCrPIkayXy_acib1uuuMMGCjeTcG4cc55Ke8sOuZh95R81uznpdL2asp/s320/IMG_8623.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the sights on the way to Monkey Temple.<br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Delhi,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If there were any city in India I could see myself living in, it would be you. You have so much going for you between your numerous markets, historic sights, and diverse neighborhoods. Your many parks were at once surprising and refreshing. I hope you realize your potential. While most people might think Mumbai is where the “scene” is at, don’t worry, I believe in you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Perhaps your future resident, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rachel</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzGOIq9k_rHpictr7vG7d11_Tfzfr1k6VnLyLQ1zcc5dcid8f1Nxh2BZWWV2Y6dahhtGN-O2pANVUuIrJDav2teEaXdfo-Vqi_O5RORoe77ii_68Jj5vFtK_3VwdMGgorx8r6ervofrdB3/s1600/IMG_9947.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzGOIq9k_rHpictr7vG7d11_Tfzfr1k6VnLyLQ1zcc5dcid8f1Nxh2BZWWV2Y6dahhtGN-O2pANVUuIrJDav2teEaXdfo-Vqi_O5RORoe77ii_68Jj5vFtK_3VwdMGgorx8r6ervofrdB3/s320/IMG_9947.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the more beautiful sights I saw in Delhi at the Hauz Khas Village.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJhu9etekti1jBZ4sCNvSCvEjt7aZ5mVNQverwVtrq81IGDxl2TiuYdTodeJulsaioNFN7ggNheUmP6A2KHheN2CsIt_9bGaB_Z2eay1-IP3m0v3v-OgOEFthbYDYHWqAy0vlSVRUMYkm/s1600/IMG_0126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJhu9etekti1jBZ4sCNvSCvEjt7aZ5mVNQverwVtrq81IGDxl2TiuYdTodeJulsaioNFN7ggNheUmP6A2KHheN2CsIt_9bGaB_Z2eay1-IP3m0v3v-OgOEFthbYDYHWqAy0vlSVRUMYkm/s320/IMG_0126.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite views of the Phar Ganj Main Bazaar.</td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Pushkar,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you for teaching me how to live life shanti-shanti, even if it was only for one week. I will never forget your bustling market or the cool nighttime motorcycle rides. Thank you for hosting me at my first Rajasthani wedding, even though that meant dancing in front of a crowd of strangers for hours. For me, you were a city of memorable rooftops—breakfast on rooftop restaurants, sleeping on a family’s roof for the night, and beautiful views of the setting sun watched from a guesthouse roof. Please don’t ever lose your charm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With Boundless Love,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Richa</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-8GeOUReKG0r3-fObW5mae-EXzi6rT40sw1Ul1Xt5mMeGVJf0RgJql9AG4y4-yfUILy19lGMZa7dL6dCWejlxT6v48zGy7ACSzn6-7UDO1apS086kVLtDdh9P_yEANEw8KLK8qAY_YeF/s1600/IMG_1326.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-8GeOUReKG0r3-fObW5mae-EXzi6rT40sw1Ul1Xt5mMeGVJf0RgJql9AG4y4-yfUILy19lGMZa7dL6dCWejlxT6v48zGy7ACSzn6-7UDO1apS086kVLtDdh9P_yEANEw8KLK8qAY_YeF/s320/IMG_1326.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from a Pushkar roof.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9j__FBnAih7bIXaP5lPO0E1QbhgtlWdD6Dl6n5RkxXfBFjHCuH9jNjjZKm7r5MH7eQNS2GLsYa_wu86VTVLhgfg94t6jceCTVpxgZXx7iH3DueAdSZ0_Jt_XjuWOTpGXC4dM_ZjjsIrxt/s1600/IMG_1347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9j__FBnAih7bIXaP5lPO0E1QbhgtlWdD6Dl6n5RkxXfBFjHCuH9jNjjZKm7r5MH7eQNS2GLsYa_wu86VTVLhgfg94t6jceCTVpxgZXx7iH3DueAdSZ0_Jt_XjuWOTpGXC4dM_ZjjsIrxt/s320/IMG_1347.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the dogs are shanti.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIVyKNlo7aj9MKtvLIZHWxOTp4g1vWQFsRoA6i7uaS2V6-yEcQzhIXYT5h-3OJu4U9wp159g3488w9WgIjiALBlFvDUBqznj1BMm6bB8se7rwpvOCYHmXPaZLwC7EiC1O0kth2FRCHR3IO/s1600/IMG_1333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIVyKNlo7aj9MKtvLIZHWxOTp4g1vWQFsRoA6i7uaS2V6-yEcQzhIXYT5h-3OJu4U9wp159g3488w9WgIjiALBlFvDUBqznj1BMm6bB8se7rwpvOCYHmXPaZLwC7EiC1O0kth2FRCHR3IO/s320/IMG_1333.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rajasthani wedding-- the bride is in red in the middle.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Bundi, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will remember always your narrow alleys and your rooftop dinners. Your old havelis with crackling walls and your secret green spaces. The late nights of whisky and dancing under the stars and then the early morning chai sipped on the porch that followed. Thank you for the lazy afternoons spent in Papu’s shop and the best samosa I have ever eaten. Thank you for the new friends and the memories we shared together. You were a city of allure for me, one with hidden adventures inside to unlock. Thank you for teaching me how to take a risk-- your home-cooked meals and unassuming beauty were worth it alone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-A relaxed and rested Rachel</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSwBRWSWiGFIVXljzV2ctTqMzq-U43x35vtYMkTVe-2PgN8ZI5B895asRxyToc9WY4iHUzxjxKygAXNtCd-4rBek-TJmhGVlyR8Jm_sDrz1VHFoVXRM-zZ49dJCL_okYAtISHCGHweE7Y/s1600/IMG_1507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSwBRWSWiGFIVXljzV2ctTqMzq-U43x35vtYMkTVe-2PgN8ZI5B895asRxyToc9WY4iHUzxjxKygAXNtCd-4rBek-TJmhGVlyR8Jm_sDrz1VHFoVXRM-zZ49dJCL_okYAtISHCGHweE7Y/s320/IMG_1507.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bundi.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7prGcECl25lS8nNryfXV88kPkUIqPEwqW-Ek72Bf1zlmrdSiAttwopDgOgG0NDyUFDtJmAXbcfu4HOC72HApIg-_ldirkEhEfpQ0l1rp97IpwxZXrblDGmZuQlUvqQCeG5wGV47YhfdY/s1600/IMG_1520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7prGcECl25lS8nNryfXV88kPkUIqPEwqW-Ek72Bf1zlmrdSiAttwopDgOgG0NDyUFDtJmAXbcfu4HOC72HApIg-_ldirkEhEfpQ0l1rp97IpwxZXrblDGmZuQlUvqQCeG5wGV47YhfdY/s320/IMG_1520.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The narrow alleys.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_N8-q9gbAwqiKDp_ZZPckQb8ek04Mb8rOwdP0td0lzQtjlDFx2mjtW1XvNhLpADV0AgGwDwyec5vnPzRLnuECEnhXzHfx8hJpM4v181YTibqZgF61U8d8Mo3w_Y26Vob0LYv9c6tOlmfI/s1600/IMG_1533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_N8-q9gbAwqiKDp_ZZPckQb8ek04Mb8rOwdP0td0lzQtjlDFx2mjtW1XvNhLpADV0AgGwDwyec5vnPzRLnuECEnhXzHfx8hJpM4v181YTibqZgF61U8d8Mo3w_Y26Vob0LYv9c6tOlmfI/s320/IMG_1533.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New friends Papu and his wife Babi G. They hosted us every night for dinner on their rooftop home.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Hyderabad,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know I was rough on you at times about your traffic and your pollution, but you will always hold a special place in my heart. Although it may be hard to admit, I will miss your bustling streets and your littered roadways. I will miss my daily challenges like crossing the street or fighting for a good price on a rickshaw. I will miss my walks to the Bakshi apartment, ignoring stares from men and the always-tempting street food. I will miss shopping in the market at my vegetable man and I will miss the pharmacist who stocked up on my hair gel for me. I will miss naan, aloo gobi, malai kofta, and eating it all with my hands. I will miss the me who was all of a sudden cooking new recipes and good with directions. Most of all, I will miss the wonderful people I met within your walls and the times we spent together—a fight at Syn, Charminar at night, dinner with family, Sunday gameday, bonfires at farms, a broken table, nerf guns, skeets, bat-hunting, late night moped-rides home, Just Foods, free plates at Kibbeh, face-painting, and Moses—the memories are as vibrant and diverse as the city itself. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wish we could have had more time together. With more time, I could have learned more about your nuances, your history, and your cultural depth-- something I still question. Though, I only wish the best for you. I hope you continue growing, and continue finding you cultural and social identity among India’s numerous cities. To my friends and coworkers who made the experience memorable, thank you. And to the city that was there when it all began, thank you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With love always,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rachel</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRC5-x6HplJwWyBaHYaDcGMiMMuPl_CiyxRcLSU7uGx0pJGXrDGOnjA8rIr2I2xjVLz9fVP74XRzlIiQGNIaXDigTuu3HA173aLzVUr1UwiZZeAW59HZUIpyDGhvpvvMoopN1jrkpZzkzh/s1600/IMG_9108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRC5-x6HplJwWyBaHYaDcGMiMMuPl_CiyxRcLSU7uGx0pJGXrDGOnjA8rIr2I2xjVLz9fVP74XRzlIiQGNIaXDigTuu3HA173aLzVUr1UwiZZeAW59HZUIpyDGhvpvvMoopN1jrkpZzkzh/s320/IMG_9108.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the people that made Hyderabad memorable: my coworkers. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbXG1fKdOhkXDb6N_x1CNC7V0UaNAKaKR57BLZ-8rQ8YiUTgOkGaGIFelD1KYZpLabwzoaYne4rjQ6CmUtMbqdfDEk4X1qMtWM2fdyhuCHPaKbGOOqvQluLXpS9VAwmpL0tDKvi7-tNujz/s1600/IMG_0930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbXG1fKdOhkXDb6N_x1CNC7V0UaNAKaKR57BLZ-8rQ8YiUTgOkGaGIFelD1KYZpLabwzoaYne4rjQ6CmUtMbqdfDEk4X1qMtWM2fdyhuCHPaKbGOOqvQluLXpS9VAwmpL0tDKvi7-tNujz/s320/IMG_0930.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And my roommates. Plus Lakshmi, the girl the Bakshis referred to as their "servant." </td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course there were many cities along the way that made India a truly remarkable experience for me, but these were a few of the exceptional ones. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have always valued the importance of place and the ability it has to shape a person. A certain building or a particular city can have profound affects on a person-- make us feel happy, comforted, at home, content, at peace, spontaneous, explorative. Sometimes a place can simply draw us in. And I think India, unexpectedly and with full-force, did just that. It drew me in with its’ colors and foods, the people, the places, and the sense of adventure it all represented. Dear India, I will miss you. Hope to be back soon. Love, Rachel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-23718282793984380542011-03-02T07:33:00.001-08:002011-03-02T07:33:56.513-08:00Taltalim<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While sitting here in my Jerusalem apartment, I am going to tell you about how I learned Hebrew in India. There is an Israeli phenomenon where young people, shortly after their time in the army, leave the country for months at a time to explore and travel exotic places. Their brains are fried after years of service and they need an escape. As I learned from Nurit, my Israeli roommate, the places most commonly visited are South America and India. So many Israelis come through the small, laid-back cities of India like Pushkar and Hampi, that you can find remnants of them all over—signs and menus in Hebrew, a Chabad house, and even Hebrew speaking Indians. Because of the abundance of Israeli travelers in proportion to travelers from other countries, many Indians with poor geography think Israel is a huge place with a huge population. The locals that work in the tourist industry end up learning some of the key phrases to get the travelers to stay at their guest house or shop at their store. As I discovered in Pushkar, an Israeli hotspot in the Northwestern state of Rajasthan, they often stand on their stoops and holler “taltalim,” meaning “curls,” to the passing Israeli women who are known for their voluminous kinky hair. While walking on these streets I often got the same cat-call, which I always greeted with a smile. Because as I have observed on the streets of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, to be confused with a beautiful Israeli woman is a compliment in my book. </span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-91222109137352792102011-02-11T14:06:00.000-08:002011-02-11T14:06:17.929-08:0010 Things Found in Abundance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">1. Modes of transportation. The streets are cluttered with cars, busses, mopeds, motorcycles, auto rickshaws, bicycles, horse-driven carts, ox-driven carts, and even camels. I’ve seen it all, which leads me seamlessly to my next point…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2. Traffic. The traffic in Hyderabad is like nothing I have seen before. It is not your typical traffic with cars patiently sitting in line behind one another, waiting for their turn or exit. Imagine space for four lanes (except there aren’t any lanes because there are no painted lines) stuffed with six or seven cars/busses/autos. Not to mention the herds of motorcycles and mopeds snaking between them all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-q_Tqs5hZh3n20tsJrxsjdn9IPqYnKN75w8ymyZiq52lBcjrLyOzAbOGleXfaMZ00yoLB5M9gHmXWu4pQx1qK713sO1NjvFAMcwGBB7SBvASujYVb6aun9jSx69j28oeRRzRqsgB7hCWk/s1600/IMG_8052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-q_Tqs5hZh3n20tsJrxsjdn9IPqYnKN75w8ymyZiq52lBcjrLyOzAbOGleXfaMZ00yoLB5M9gHmXWu4pQx1qK713sO1NjvFAMcwGBB7SBvASujYVb6aun9jSx69j28oeRRzRqsgB7hCWk/s320/IMG_8052.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A glimpse of traffic from an auto. Plus there was five on one motorcycle!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>see the roads here almost like a flowing, tumultuous river. Everyone is moving the same direction but with no real order. When entering a congested road or trying to change lanes, cars kind of have to flow into the mess as soon as they see an inch of space, hoping the person behind them stops.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now this mixed with no cross walks, stop-lights, or general adherence to traffic rules make driving, crossing, or even walking close to the street feel risky, not to mention unpleasant. This is especially the case considering the incessant beeping that follows traffic everywhere.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>I’ve learned a few key lessons about crossing: walk one lane at a time, walk confidently, and when all else fails just put your hand up to the on-coming traffic and scream.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3. Mustaches. They are a sign of masculinity and thus India’s most popular fashion trend. Thick, thin, bushy, or handle-bar style-- men of all ages sport the ‘stache. You will rarely see a Bollywoood or Tollywood star without one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">4. Colors. I never thought I was a dull dresser until I came here. All women, no matter their age or socio-economic status wear the most brilliantly colored, bright clothes. The brighter the better. When women are not wearing their saris they often wear kurtas—longer shirts with slits up the sides— with high-rise leggings and a scarf. Often times the kurtas will come with “matching” leggings or pants that are equally as bright as their tops. For example, I purchased a striking red shirt that came with orange pants and an orange scarf with red stripes. I wear my black pants and gray top to work and feel self-conscious not about showing too much skin, but about looking too drab. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">5. Tiny people. Indians are small. Not just short, but petite too. So much so that everywhere I go I feel huge. This “giant-syndrome” becomes particularly obvious when in close quarters like my office elevator. It feels like I take up half of the elevator and cower over everyone. This does come in handy in certain occasions, like taking group photos. When everyone else is a head shorter than you, it makes for easy group picture posing because you don’t have to search for a spot to be seen.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0hVV6pKohg7h-deR33soPlk4AsQQVaNQ4-4dlt8rq0vmUGkXeVJX9P56kJOCfuk96SnMuobcjlezWrR4TI2InIMj66QPNARPJT6strXe2NXAll0Vz42bSjWfA-Aqu7z5fpFviswDauop/s1600/IMG_0898.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS0hVV6pKohg7h-deR33soPlk4AsQQVaNQ4-4dlt8rq0vmUGkXeVJX9P56kJOCfuk96SnMuobcjlezWrR4TI2InIMj66QPNARPJT6strXe2NXAll0Vz42bSjWfA-Aqu7z5fpFviswDauop/s320/IMG_0898.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just to demonstrate "giant syndrome."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">6. Men peeing on the street. The concept of public toilets hasn’t fully permeated Indian culture yet so the sight of men peeing on various walls throughout the city is a common sighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women have it rough because you can’t just squat anywhere and the aforementioned lack of public toilets makes travel to unknown places a little bathroom-challenged.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">7. Roaming animals on the street. While this may be a stereotypical image of an Indian road, it is absolutely true. On my street alone, I regularly see dogs, pigs, goats, cows, buffalo and chicken. Although this is not the extent of it. I have also seen camels, horses, donkeys, cats, monkeys, and onetime even an elephant (although he was accompanied by a handler). The strangest sight is to see the buffalo and cows meandering around the city, seemingly with no home. While I am still confused about this issue, I think they have places to return to every night. One of my tour guides in Delhi said that they like to stand near the street though because the passing cars help cool them off from flies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">8. Masala. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would a blogpost be without the mention of food? It’s a mixture of hot spices abundantly found in just about everything. So much so, that when servers see a white face in a restaurant they often times assume we want food “no spicy.” Even after this firm “no spicy” warning, the food somehow always manages to clear out my sinuses, making me sniffle by the end of most meals. I determined that this is the reason Indians tend to not only wash their hands after a meal, but also rinse their faces. After all, they have runny noses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">9. Ads with white people. This may be the strangest phenomenon discovered yet, but ads all over town feature white people. The Shopper’s Stop by my house—a big, high-end department store—has a few huge advertisements hanging on the face of the building featuring little white kids wearing Western clothes. When the models aren’t white they are always very light-skinned Indians. This speaks to the stigma against dark-colored skin here—everyone wants to be lighter than they are and will wear lightening cream or bleach their skin to appear so. A darker coworker of mine, one of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—wears a sweatshirt outside in 90 degree weather just so her skin won’t get any darker.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">10. Non-verbal communication. I have learned how to have a conversation here solely through bodily gestures and grunts. A deep “ughh” sound means “yes.” A popular one is the head wobble. Moving your head from side to side, making discreet figure eight motions when someone is speaking with you means something like “I hear you,” or “Agreed,” or “You understand me?” And my personal favorite, the raised pinkie. Or, “Where is the bathroom?”</div><!--EndFragment--> </div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-3521143904701543872011-01-31T10:50:00.000-08:002011-01-31T11:00:09.515-08:00I Think I Should Have Been a Farmer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Greeting from the field. Sorry I have been a little MIA the past few weeks but I have been in and out of constant Internet access while spending some time in the more rural parts for work. My first “assignment” was to stay in Narayankhed, a small town five hours North of Hyderabad, and home to SKS’s flagship school. I was sent to spend extended time at the schools there, see how they operate, and maybe help out where I can. I stayed on the school’s campus—a couple of buildings surrounded by woods and hidden from the main road. There is the school as well as a few living quarters built years ago for SKS's first micro-finance work. While there I was reading the autobiography of SKS's executive director, Vikram Akula. At one point I was reading about the exact spot I was sitting-- a little surreal. Anyways, Narayankhed itself is a small city consisting of a few streets packed with dabas (little informal restaurants), stores, and tea stalls. The surrounding area is rural with fields of paddy and the common herd of goats, sheep, or buffalo.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVWvqQqhPDx7Mnt7VF9X4JQXoYMkY-hJ_S9KrAW40FRkri05n-qcnAhyphenhyphenDO-cKCp6yd7jHWy4BLUUyBXSrOvtw-SbQ_6tsVdITYAoujmfYsQkBe6qWLLnU0jcEIa-H5HFCxdU711ZFwsBQ/s1600/IMG_0209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVWvqQqhPDx7Mnt7VF9X4JQXoYMkY-hJ_S9KrAW40FRkri05n-qcnAhyphenhyphenDO-cKCp6yd7jHWy4BLUUyBXSrOvtw-SbQ_6tsVdITYAoujmfYsQkBe6qWLLnU0jcEIa-H5HFCxdU711ZFwsBQ/s320/IMG_0209.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fields of paddy</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">All of my coworkers seemed to be so concerned that I, a single female, would be staying there alone. But secretly, I couldn’t have been more thrilled about it. I was looking forward to the quiet time, time to get out of the city, breathe, and relax. The problem about that though, is that a white person in the village doesn’t exactly go unnoticed. After an early morning and a long trip to get to the school I was tired and looking forward to reading or napping. Instead, I was immediately escorted to one of the teacher’s homes for the evening. Her house was modest but certainly not poor as she herself described it. There was a proper bedroom, an empty room used for eating (on the floor of course), a kitchen with both a traditional stove (ie fire) and modern gas stove, and a living room of sorts with a TV. When I reached her home we were just hanging out, looking at her pictures and her marriage saris when before I knew it the entire village seemed to be in her small home. At one point I tried to count how many people were in the room just looking at me, but lost count at around 30. Since it soon became obvious that I was the entertainment for the evening, I couldn’t think of anything else to do but teach them the Hokey Pokey. And by teach them, it was more like me dancing and the neighborhood watching and laughing. While Rajeshwari, my hostess, was cooking dinner I sat with her neighbors in the front room watching TV. I had one of those “Is this real life?” moments when sitting on the cement block that acted as a bench in Rajeshwari’s living room. They turned on an English station for me, which happened to be playing the new James Bond movie. Looking to strike conversation, I looked at the woman to my left, someone’s grandmother who had more wrinkles then I’ve ever seen on a person and asked “Do you like James Bond?” As soon as the words came out I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Did I actually just ask that to someone who doesn’t speak a word of English and has no teeth? Yes, yes I did. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Later that night we ate dinner, in which I pretty much had a religious experience with Rajeshwari’s cooking, and then went back to my room and slept like a baby. Being that I was alone and a woman, my coworkers took extra precautions to make sure I was always safe and comfortable. First off, I was either fed or offered food all the time and secondly, there were at least two men on the campus with me (staying in an adjacent building) at all times to make sure I felt safe. At one point when I had to be alone for a few minutes one evening I was made to sit inside my room with the door locked. While this whole in-the-woods-with-two-young -men thing might sound intimidating, as it turns out in India, men don’t even come near you. The guys I stayed with strictly adhered to Indian standards of etiquette between men and women. They never stood too close to me and if there was a moment when we had to be in somewhat close proximity, they were clearly visibly awkward about it. This point was demonstrated so clearly one evening while eating dinner outside on our respective stoops. Instead of grabbing a chair to sit somewhere between the two stoops (meaning a little closer to me), Sidu and Sudaker preferred to pretty much sit on top of each other on their own stoop. This is also a commentary on the touchy-feely nature of relationships between Indian men. It is common to see men holding hands, leaning on each other, and just being physical with each other. They aren’t gay or anything like that, it is just how they express friendship and mutual adoration for one another. I am convinced though it is a result of the culture’s conservative rules about PDA with people of the opposite sex. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyways, I left Narayankhed desiring only to return with more time. I want to get to know the teachers and spend time on the beautiful school campus. The mornings there were worth it alone. I sat on the stoop of my little brick building surrounded by woods, and grass, and silence. I could read and clear my head and actually breath. That is until exactly 9am when an SUV packed with school children (literally packed, there isn’t the same standard of safety here as there is back home) would come speeding in on the dirt road. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After one night home, a group of my coworkers and I from the head office headed to Kusimanchi for a two day Teacher Training Workshop. I never thought I would be saying this about a trip that made me work on the weekend, but we had a blast. The workshop took place in a building still under construction—with no second floor and no walls—in the middle of red chili fields. It was a very Indian thing that while we were conducting a professional conference construction work went on like nothing changed, so although we had to deal with the occasional sounds of falling construction materials, the location was beautiful. My coworkers, all city-dwellers, went nuts for the scenery and needed pictures in front of the fields or next to farm materials. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the training in Kusumanchi</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3QK5bJ-C1cMSLZQ7bLogJEy6zSw0usvvJgncIHDNVdtr1jEpDObMsIjMUSWavrmy7JdlsHogdGE-eExKMLgQbr9BYOFdVkgkuAm34dXia7SsJHl2MI0TYrhyphenhyphen-yD8_MIifS-F0Wx9sIms/s1600/IMG_0608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3QK5bJ-C1cMSLZQ7bLogJEy6zSw0usvvJgncIHDNVdtr1jEpDObMsIjMUSWavrmy7JdlsHogdGE-eExKMLgQbr9BYOFdVkgkuAm34dXia7SsJHl2MI0TYrhyphenhyphen-yD8_MIifS-F0Wx9sIms/s320/IMG_0608.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm on a boat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><div class="MsoNormal">After the training on the first day we took a motor-boat ride on a lake at sunset and then went out to dinner in a bustling little city, Kammam. While walking to dinner there was not one person on the street who didn’t stare at Nurit and me walk by. I think we made half of the town’s night. So much so, we were in the newspaper the next day! It always makes me feel uncomfortable, but just by the color of my skin, I am often given celebrity status. Like at the end of the training, I was bum rushed by the crowd asking for pictures and autographs. At one point, people had to form a line to take a picture with me on their camera phones and I often caught the teachers taking a picture while I wasn’t looking. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Regardless of the stares and the mosquitoes, the squat toilets and the little lizard that ran around my room, my time in the field has been refreshing. The rural scenery is breathtaking and strangely enticing. Maybe it is just the unknown that is exciting for me, but whatever it is, maybe in my next life I'll get to be a farmer.</div></div></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-20200753661010372332011-01-18T11:51:00.000-08:002011-01-18T11:52:55.129-08:00Signs You Work in an Indian Office<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few observations written out of love for my coworkers...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. Hidden resources. There is a surprising lack of resources for such a large office. Just to remind you, I work in an eight story corporate office complete with elevators, security badges, and a parking garage. There are four or five people at the front gate alone who greet you as you walk in, including one guy who runs a mirror along the undercarriage of your car. There are three elevators, two restaurants, a whole floor designated as the cafeteria, and one fax machine. That’s right, one machine for 350 employees. I learned about this because a couple of weeks ago I had to send a fax. To start, I needed to print a professional letter on letterhead. I wrote the letter but am not connected to a printer, so I recruited a coworker to help me print. Then I had to find the admin.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">guy to ask him to get the paper who had to ask another girl for the key to a locked cabinet. He handed me two sheets so that when the printer messed up on the first, I had one chance to get it right. Letter in hand I was told to go to the first floor to talk to the fax operator. She was out to lunch. I returned back only to learn that the fax machine had moved to level three in legal services. I had to walk through rows of unknown cubicles to find the fax machine and wait for the fax operator to return from a meeting. An entire afternoon down and my fax was sent.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. Motorcycles. My coworkers all drive motorcycles into the office. While that might be the case if I worked at a Harley Davidson shop or something in the states, here driving motorcycles and mopeds is completely normal, even the preferred mode of transportation. When cars are expensive and roadways are so jammed pack that eight modes of transportation are squeezing into four lanes, motorcycles are simply the best option. I was so amused by one of my coworker’s cool black helmet that one day I insisted on putting it on in the middle of the office. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was a little weird after that.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. The chaiwallah. There is a person in my office whose whole job, as far as I can tell, is to bring us chai- very milky, very sweet tea-- twice a day. Once at 11am once at 3pm, like clockwork. I feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs because everyday exactly around 11 and exactly around 3 I start to feel a little parched. I look around my desk and Ganesh, my chaiwallah, is usually standing there with a tray of little tiny cups filled with the delicious treat. In many offices when the chai comes nobody does anything but stand in groups sipping to themselves, the equivalent of gossip around the water cooler. Most recently though, tragedy struck. My office outlawed the personal delivery of mugs so that I have to leave my desk, go to the little kitchen outside, and pour my own chai. The new rule had rendered Ganesh’s job pretty much obsolete but in this service-oriented society no one seems to care. I find that in most restaurants, hotels, gas stations, salons, and stores there seem to be a whole lot of employees doing absolutely nothing at all.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. Lateness. Not to be rude or culturally insensitive, but Indians are kind of lazy. The office opens at 9:30am every morning but people don’t usually start trickling in until around 9:45 or so. It is what they call “Indian Standard Time.” Punctuality can be so bad that the education department implemented a daily check-in for our morning and evening meetings to ensure that people actually come on time. You color green if you are on time, yellow if you have an excused absence, and red if you are late. Who new that coloring would actually hold people accountable, but it does!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. Lunch room etiquette. I know I have spoken about this before but I feel like it deserves another mention. Lunch time is so much fun. For less than a dollar I get a huge tray of two types of rice, naan, three varieties of curry, yoghurt, and a dessert. I sit with my coworkers who sometimes buy, sometimes bring from home. They open their “tiffins” (ie lunch boxes), take out spoons, and begin scooping their food onto each other’s plates. It is a strange experience for me because obviously I would love to share my food. It feels very uncomfortable though to just take from my plate and plop onto another’s without asking them first.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few rules I learned the hard way: 1) If you are eating food with a spoon do not use that same spoon to scoop food for another person. This should be obvious for hygienic purposes but everybody shares everything (even the same bottle of water) so I didn’t think it would be a big deal. 2) Don’t bring the same leftovers twice in a row. This isn’t a huge no-no but one of my coworkers looked horrified when I told her the coconut curry I had made was the same one I brought in the day before.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A lot of people make (or have their cooks make) a fresh curry and rice every morning for their lunches. 3) Wash your hands before and after. There is a row of about six sinks attached to the cafeteria for this purpose alone.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6. Christmas. I think one out of about 25 people in the education team at my work is Christian. Nonetheless, it was insisted we decorate the meeting room for Christmas. Being the intern, it was naturally my job. The team spotted a potted plant in the lunch room that they intended on repurposing for our Christmas tree. The admin guy ended up doing most of the work- stealing the plant, wrapping it with read and green sparkly streamers, lights, and topping it with a Santa Clause stuffed animal. He hung a star from the ceiling and scattered the floor with balloons. The “tree” was hidden in the conference room so that when everyone came in for our morning meeting it was a pleasant surprise. I couldn’t help but crack up seeing my coworkers excitement about the dinky tree and balloons, which I think they interpreted as my genuine excitement. I spent my afternoon that day building a giant snowman to accompany the tree. Perhaps that excitement was genuine…</span><br />
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</div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-59149371440115676412010-12-30T08:50:00.001-08:002010-12-30T08:50:53.302-08:00An Ode to my Body<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m going to take this time to give myself a pat on the back. I am constantly amazed with my body’s strength and resiliency that I think it needs some recognition. From day one, I have enjoyed all of the street foods that India has to offer. Samosas, grilled corn, and even those little delicious potato things that come in tin cups. I also adamantly support my personal philosophy that some of the best food comes from the smallest, grubbiest, little restaurants and stores. I cook my own vegetables from the local market and I never pass on local food offered to me by friends or coworkers. I’ve watched roommates make trips to the hospital, surviving on toast for days, while I order delivery from the local hole-in-the-wall. Now let me not brag, I have experienced minor “bumps in the road,” to put it lightly, but for the most part my body constantly consumes and savors these delectable treats without major problems. In fact, my roommate has dubbed me the “iron stomach.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But as the saying goes, all giants have to fall (is that how the saying goes?). Anyways, I knew by sheer odds that it was only a matter of time before I came down with something. So fall, I did. Literally. To spare you all the gory details, I got sick as soon as we arrived in Jaipur. I passed out the next morning and busted my chin open on the marble floor. A visit from the doctor, three stitches, and a couple of bruises later, I’m feeling much better and left with only a little band-aid. I spent my time in Jaipur, the renowned pink city, becoming intimate with hotel room TV and if I see another commercial for Dettol, Kohler, or some watch company again, I might scream. Bummer I had to miss the sights, but at least I have a cool story to tell now, right?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think I can forgive me body for this one hiccup considering, as previously mentioned, how much I do “challenge it.” If you haven’t gathered already by my mention of food in every blog entry, India for me has been somewhat indulgent food-wise. I feel like I talk about food in India the way Elizabeth Gilbert talks about food in Italy in her book “Eat, Pray, Love.” It’s a fascination, close to a point of obsession. But beyond enjoying the flavors and tastes, a big part of eating for me is about appreciating the culture it comes from. Food is such a big piece of every society that to truly immerse yourself, to get the full experience, you need to eat and appreciate the food it has to offer. It’s the same reason that I chose to put my vegetarianism aside when I traveled to Kenya. I didn’t want to create another obstacle between me and anyone else, another reason to define me as different or separate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was disappointed the other day when while eating at a nice restaurant geared towards tourists, my family was approached by another family from the US. They seemed really excited to hear I was living in Hyderabad and asked if they could ask me one question. Of course I obliged. Of all things, they wanted to know if I could eat the street food here. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> the one thing they wanted to know? While some of the bacteria might be different, and for some it might be wise to get your stomach adjusted before you dive in, if the people here eat it, why shouldn’t we? I find that approaching a culture with an open-minded and flexible attitude lends to interesting and fulfilling situations later, like drinking chai with local shopkeepers or eating the Indian equivalent of fast food with my coworkers. Food opens doors, it’s an automatic conversation piece, and something to do. I feel like I would be missing out on so much if I lived my life afraid of doing as the locals do. I would miss out on my neighborhood’s local culture if I didn’t have my vegetable stand guy in the market or my weekly trips to the restaurant up the block. I would miss out on lunch with the ladies from work and homemade dinners at friends’ houses. I would miss out on truly experiencing India. Now this is all to say that you don’t have to love the food, just don’t be afraid to try it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe my good health has been due to an exceptionally strong intestinal track, but I like to think that a little part of my success can be attributed to a go-with-the-flow attitude. Whatever it may be, thank you body for (mostly) going with the flow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-68441570639265789962010-12-26T08:06:00.000-08:002010-12-26T08:09:50.814-08:00A Breath of Fresh Air (literally)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Farewell Delhi, you will surely be missed. As my family and I drive out of the city and onto Agra to see the Taj Mahal, I’m going to take a minute to reflect on the capital city of India. While my time here was too short (a mere two nights) I can already tell I really like this place. Being the capital, it is clearly given first access to amenities– things like good roads, grassy areas (you mean there are trees in major Indian cities?), and even a metro! While there was still the abundance of cars, motorcycles, mopeds, auto rickshaws, bicycles, tractors, horse drawn carriages, and the traffic associated with all of them, I could walk around the city and actually breath. There is a lot of history here with old mosques, forts, and markets sprinkled throughout the city. We visited some of the sights like Humuyan’s Tomb and a famous minaret with the oldest iron pole in the world that scientist can’t explain why it hasn’t rusted yet (sad that the pole was my favorite part?). I enjoyed just driving around the city, trying to get a feel for the place. While I had no sense of where we actually were, we drove around New Delhi, and circled the parliament. The government buildings are vast structures with a clear history in the British colonial era and the areas surrounding them were spacious and green.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjLT32tCimswSn8EdWj6oxlkhvejkvIkj72PuSaV1ZAJLw7Vwt5j7DWLRDB3whvXU4nBUvM0lrmYIBvmMsxp606sCp8Zn5NcqwqszvFEKOc6-wI7-49NCpIiWG3mNyaZhdhcImiBzlh2y/s1600/IMG_9216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjLT32tCimswSn8EdWj6oxlkhvejkvIkj72PuSaV1ZAJLw7Vwt5j7DWLRDB3whvXU4nBUvM0lrmYIBvmMsxp606sCp8Zn5NcqwqszvFEKOc6-wI7-49NCpIiWG3mNyaZhdhcImiBzlh2y/s320/IMG_9216.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Humuyan's Tomb, I just like whatever Ben is doing here</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GKMHRWeHmMAHRxymk-jWUk02F2Y5_Qg_9ezl73-Nx90pC60ocroM0Ipf8wSlHdw10GPtlZUOXR3lO0ClJFAP6VnP8Uk1wFKmxSYECeq8XrL5xaI43s90NYe1sM8oj_R-aQrySprgBdkr/s1600/IMG_9234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GKMHRWeHmMAHRxymk-jWUk02F2Y5_Qg_9ezl73-Nx90pC60ocroM0Ipf8wSlHdw10GPtlZUOXR3lO0ClJFAP6VnP8Uk1wFKmxSYECeq8XrL5xaI43s90NYe1sM8oj_R-aQrySprgBdkr/s320/IMG_9234.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Qutat Minar</span></td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We spent Christmas Eve doing what Jews do best, eating Chinese food. We ate at this really nice restaurant in our hotel and were surprised by hotel staff carolers in the middle of our meal. Wearing Santa hats, they serenaded us with classics like Jingle Bells and Dashing Through the Snow, singing with distinct accents and not quite getting all of the words right. It was awesome, especially when I realized that probably no one in the whole restaurant celebrated Christmas (we had some Israelis sitting next to us and everyone else was Indian). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My highlight of the city though was spending the day with Nurit for our work-related meeting. We got up really early to meet our boss at his Delhi home in a surrounding city called Noida. After grabbing coffee and pastries in the empty hotel lobby we took a cab to his place and from there drove to his school in a rural area. The kids were off for break but we toured the building, spoke to the teachers, and huddled together in the office drinking chai. Delhi is freezing by the way. While I kind of always giggle at the South Indians in Hyderabad who start wearing sweaters and jackets when it is anything below 80 degrees, here it is absolutely legit. Manish treated us to some breakfast at an Indian fast food chain where although I don’t know exactly what I was eating, it was definitely tasty. We finished off the meal with one of the more interesting foods I’ve tried here so far- some sort of nutty ice cream topped with squishy yellow noodles. I though it was weird at first and put my spoon down, but who am I kidding, I ate it all. Nurit and I then tried out Delhi’s new metro to meet up with a friend of hers in a touristy market area called Pahar ganj. The metro is really fast and really clean. If it weren’t for some of the women wearing saris or kurtas around us, it felt like I could have been anywhere in Europe of the US. Actually I take that back, the Delhi metro is much nicer than the DC metro. Anyways, we spent the rest of the day checking out some markets, sipping chai with friends, and overeating delicious paneer butter masala and malai kofta for lunch. This whole over eating thing seems to be a reoccurring theme for me on this trip but as Nurit’s friend Johnty explained to me, Hindus believe that food is God and it cannot go to waste. So really, I’m just trying to do my part.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1Wlk4TMC6xEbil-SQcmNRHSGfXa5B9YeUOaSQsVAPseNaiDUM_ql-wnntkNzNUYqvlQb4UTAeaHnE4Y95NPMnAIJ6xxhcSmlCN-FUOuRryNrFiBxt-XXplOCY7HvHr7IwqoqA61NWTZ-/s1600/IMG_9240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1Wlk4TMC6xEbil-SQcmNRHSGfXa5B9YeUOaSQsVAPseNaiDUM_ql-wnntkNzNUYqvlQb4UTAeaHnE4Y95NPMnAIJ6xxhcSmlCN-FUOuRryNrFiBxt-XXplOCY7HvHr7IwqoqA61NWTZ-/s320/IMG_9240.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nurit and I discover the metro</span></td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well I guess to sum it all up, I wish Delhi and I had more time together. I liked her grassy areas and her bustling markets, her tasty food, and her character. Delhi strikes me as a city with immense potential. It a place where the old world and new world meet and a place where the feeling of India’s growth and “emerging world power” attitude feels palpable.</span></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-63694383320030890152010-12-10T04:38:00.001-08:002010-12-10T04:39:20.635-08:00This one goes out to all the vegetarians<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I saw a beautiful thing today. I didn’t go on a hike or to some remote village though, I was just eating at TGI Fridays. That’s right, TGI Fridays. I think two parts of that sentence are surprising: 1) the “I” part, as in me, Rachel Kutler, was eating at Fridays and 2) the part where there is a TGI Fridays in Hyderabad, India. Anyways, we had some LIFE programming in the morning and collectively decided that we were homesick for some simple American food and went there for lunch.</span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Fridays looks a lot like the ones you see in the states—random pictures and things on the wall, red and white striped tables, even our server wore the customary suspenders with “flair.” But back to that beautiful thing. I was looking over the menu, noticing some of the same items like potato skins and mini quesadillas, when there on the bottom, a little inconspicuous, beautiful mark appeared: a star to indicate the “non-vegetarian” items. That’s right, non-vegetarian, ie things made </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">with</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> meat. Now since day one in India it has been made abundantly clear that vegetarian food is the norm. It is exactly the opposite of the US so that here, when you go to a restaurant, you’re not sure if they will have meat items. It has been awesome for me, not only is the food already delicious but I can eat it all too! And eat it all I do. Naan, roti, aloo gobi, malai kofta, chana masala, palak panneer, the list goes on. I eat it for as many meals as possible each day, and can’t fathom ever getting sick of it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So despite eating veg food all the time, seeing those little starred menu items indicating non-vegetarian dishes in a chain restaurant known for its burgers and meat in the US, felt like a little battle won for us herbivores: Vegetarians around the world: 1, Meat eaters: 0!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-59217561921952382232010-12-08T12:52:00.000-08:002010-12-08T12:54:14.724-08:00Most recent happenings<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Greetings! I think its been a while, so here goes an update… Life here in Hyderabad has been good. My internship is a little bit of a messy situation, but that’s no fun to talk about, so instead, a rundown on the highlights of the past few weeks:</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Thanksgiving</b>- It was a blast. Every roommate made at least one dish and it was a legitimate feast- veggies and tofu, fried rice, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, chicken for the main course (no tukey to be found), and a Brazilian chocolate dish for dessert. I think India has been tapping into my inner chef because Abby and I embarked on making two fancy dishes- stuffing and pumpkin curry soup- both of which were hits! We invited out country director, Venkat, along with his family. They are absolutely adorable but very traditional in a few ways. His children were weirded out by our strange looking bland food and only ate some chocolate we gave them. I knew I did my job of passing on the traditions of Thanksgiving when Nurit, my Israeli roommate, immediately went to lie down on the couch after the meal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Vizag</b>- The seven of us took a weekend trip to Visakhapatanam (otherwise known as Vizag) for the weekend. It is the second biggest city in Andhra Pradesh and know for its’ beaches. After faring a 17 hour bus ride and coming off a little tired and a lot disheveled, we hopped right onto a crowded city bus (literally people hang out of the doors) out to Rushikonda beach. The beach is a little further away from the city center and known to be a little more secluded. After searching for some deals, Alex, Nurit, and I stayed in this little rustic hut a 5 minute walk to the beach. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Coastal Andhra is absolutely beautiful and the beach itself, while crowded, is nice. The water is a perfect temperature although we didn’t get much of an opportunity to swim seeing as we were a major attraction for the Indian tourists. Hoards of people, mostly young boys in tiny bathing suits, kept stopping us, asking to take photos with them.—we could barely make it to the other side of the beach before sundown. Then back to our hut for cold beers, dinner at a restaurant with a view, and off to bed to early to wake up for our city tour in the morning. We hired a private driver the next day to take us to all of the sites Vizag had to offer- a mountain with a view, a park with some strange statues, and my personal favorite, the fish market. Although none of these sights gathered nearly as much attention as a group of four white people walking around together. It is not uncommon for me to be stopped on the street and asked to take a photo with someone’s daughter, wife, or entire 6</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> grade class. Overall the trip was refreshing but lesson learned about traveling via bus: 17 hours sitting in one place is never fun.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hut sweet Hut</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rushikonda Beach</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEd4rIbxtOVfpzJu66R3B7ti8CzHiCuxjF6ZWUrQ0ef7Y-Xi3c9t1uxpKRIms8or1vzpUWD7fZ-xDIhteCk4_fUSywjSNIbWV59NyaneWKK59EKCSx_1iu8QHgc_Sg3STXwfUuahoNkTH/s1600/IMG_8973.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEd4rIbxtOVfpzJu66R3B7ti8CzHiCuxjF6ZWUrQ0ef7Y-Xi3c9t1uxpKRIms8or1vzpUWD7fZ-xDIhteCk4_fUSywjSNIbWV59NyaneWKK59EKCSx_1iu8QHgc_Sg3STXwfUuahoNkTH/s320/IMG_8973.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish until the eye can see (note: this is not the fish market)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Vizag</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Hanukah Party</b>- By Hanukkah party I really mean we threw a party, put gelt (the chocolate coins) on the table, and called it a Hanukkah party. We invited all of our friends (a total of about 5 people) plus some others we had met at a conference that day. Abby and I called upon our inner Jewish mothers and made potato latkes. I have never been more impressed with myself- they were dee-lish. Anyways, debauchery ensued and we all had a great time. Beyond the shattered dining room table and the fight that almost took place- the night was a great success!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Tollywood Film</b>- I am now going to be a famous Tollywood star. Just kidding (well sort of). Tollywood is just like its neighbor Bollywood but in Telegu instead of Hindi. There is big movie making industry in Hyderabad and they are always looking for talent (ie white people) to star in their films. We met with an agent who picked us up in the morning and took us to the set of “Ayare,” a movie about a swami but the plot of which, I still have no idea. All I know is that on the set there were a whole bunch of people dressed in orange and a giant poster of the swami looking over us on a rock above. A few people were sent to costume to put on the orange saris and matching red bindis while some of us stayed dressed in our western wear. I ended up spending the majority of my day napping in a shaded area but after a few scenes as an extra and then chatting with the director, Abby and I were given our big break. We acted as the swami’s followers, and had to follow the actor down the center of a parting crowd (her in her sari and me in my jeans and t-shirt). There were a few takes and at one point the famous actor, Rajendra Prasad, was even asked to move over so we could be seen. We ended up joking with the actors and the director, taking photos with them that we claimed would be used as publicity, and even made some money while we were at it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well that’s it for me in terms of the most recent happenings worth sharing. I’ve got some lists brewing so stay tuned for more soon…I hope all is well at home and enjoy the cool weather for me!</span></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-63271508610400346242010-11-22T11:53:00.000-08:002010-11-29T08:37:22.273-08:00Happy Hampi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just arrived back home from what I can safely say was one of the best weekends of my life. Four of us- Amy, Nurit, Alex, and I took a night bus Friday evening and arrived in Hampi around 5:30am the next morning. We took a non-A/C bus which although caused some panic in the beginning, was quite comfortable. We drove the whole way with the front door open and a nice breeze flowing throughout the cabin. We arrived in Hampi really early the next morning to be immediately approached by a couple of auto-rickshaw drivers looking for our business. We were trying to feel out the situation to get a good deal but Nurit (the Israeli) was quickly won over by the auto driver who shouted at us “Boker Tov,” or good morning in Hebrew. As I learned later, Hampi, and India in general, is a huge tourist destination for Israeli travelers. The driver took us around to some of the local guest houses near the popular touristy spots and we settled on Archana guest house—a small cement building painted bright pink and green with (my personal favorite) a rooftop view. It became a little more obvious later on that the guest house owner and the rickshaw driver might have had some sort of deal worked out between them. Nonetheless, we took a long nap, showered, met up with Alex’s friend from Brazil, Tatu, and were fresh for the long day of touring ahead. We stopped at a popular bakery/restaurant called the Shanti restaurant for some breakfast where it turned out Nurit’s old friend from her backpacking days, owned and managed. After three years without seeing each other they had a warm reunion, and so the restaurant became somewhat of our home base for the weekend. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We did some shopping along the main market, lost the boys (unintentionally), and explored the ruins surrounding the city. Hampi is known for the ancient Hindu kingdom ruins that now speckle the city center and its’ outskirts. While I don't know anything about the ruins-- like from what time period they come from or from what kingdom-- it doesn’t really matter in order to appreciate their beauty. They are stunning on their own. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Amy, Nurit, and I climbed some smooth red rocks next to the market to discover old stone temples on top that seemed forgotten if it were not for the underage teenage boys drinking beer. The temples offer a breathtaking view of the small city and the surrounding rocks and forest. After some lunch we took a little dinky boat across the river to the other side of the city, a place I am going to dub “Little Israel.” The other side felt like a completely different world from the bustling city center. It has a relaxed resort like atmosphere with palm trees and dirt roads, and every restaurant or guesthouse has a completely open layout with no doors or windows. About the Israelis-- there are signs in Hebrew, every restaurant offers Israeli food, and there is even a Chabad house (basically a place where Orthodox Jews try to get Jewish tourists to celebrate Shabbat or what not—it’s all a little strange to me). Everyone on that side just seemed to spend their days wondering the landscape by foot or motorcycle. After being there for a few minutes and taking in the air and the attitude, I could certainly understand why. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We took a rickshaw to a place called Monkey Temple and began the 500 step trek to the top to see the views. The land is so green and lush and the juxtaposition of the rocks, stone ruins, palm trees, and green farmland is like nothing I’ve seen before. We didn’t actually make it to the top to see the monkey temple though, for fear of monkey attack. Along the way up the trail you are surrounded by monkeys, EVERYWHERE. One would appear out of a bush on your right and then suddenly another would land on the railing inches from your left. They were completely desensitized to humans and it was a little terrifying. I mean, we all saw how that movie Congo ended.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> After watching the sunset from my roof that evening we went to a restaurant overlooking the river called The Mango Tree. I demand anyone who travels to Hampi in the future must go there and order the Mango Tree Curry. It was sweet and savory and creamy all at once. Absolute perfection.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIzbEb123UrAszDyPVGNe4IQ4iEmXQPVrP76I3IhdprMXa1MefnzDCXpl0nH99FNJfjaBBFGZPJ2ywyo_ZafdV-6JPwchegqfAseJLNEFEO6wrdDdb3OqUuRfhOH7dyyfQ-C9OyN4DO_d/s1600/IMG_8545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIzbEb123UrAszDyPVGNe4IQ4iEmXQPVrP76I3IhdprMXa1MefnzDCXpl0nH99FNJfjaBBFGZPJ2ywyo_ZafdV-6JPwchegqfAseJLNEFEO6wrdDdb3OqUuRfhOH7dyyfQ-C9OyN4DO_d/s320/IMG_8545.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Virupaksha Temple and Hampi Bazaar below</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUBTIWEOKKA7eYnWgSSRsKuGzvNbgjsWODE_5a44bjwh4mPxDt6xRoxRFh7qaB6TxITWqvR1ld3W1nuQHuHlGXRRfcnQDvocgZGg1FE-oX1XZyKFr079QBT8BEAhUuvhtZg-b9iHKyN1d/s1600/IMG_8616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrUBTIWEOKKA7eYnWgSSRsKuGzvNbgjsWODE_5a44bjwh4mPxDt6xRoxRFh7qaB6TxITWqvR1ld3W1nuQHuHlGXRRfcnQDvocgZGg1FE-oX1XZyKFr079QBT8BEAhUuvhtZg-b9iHKyN1d/s320/IMG_8616.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The view on the way towards Monkey Temple, notice that little guy on the left...</span></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next morning we were forced to an early start because the guest house owner abruptly insisted we check out 24 hours from when we checked in. Don’t worry though, we bargained her down to 8:30am versus 6am. I split off from the girls and went with Tatu and Alex in search of a lake they had heard about. We stopped for breakfast at a guest house with a view overlooking a rice field and surrounding red rocks. We got our day started off right with a few beers and were off (beer in hand) to find the lake. We didn’t know how to get there but stopping a local and asking “lake?” seemed to work just fine. After a ride in the backseat of a van with some locals and through a dusty little village we came to big cement wall. It wasn’t until we walked a little closer and peered over that we found the town's vast reservoir, and for our purposes, a prime swimming spot.. Once there a young guy asked us if we wanted to jump. Feeling a little uneasy about it, we insisted he do it first. He led us straight to the top a giant rock, about an 8 meter drop to the sparkling water below, and jumped right over. Now I didn’t have my bathing suit with me and I was scared out of my mind, but I figured, how many chances will I have to go cliff jumping in India again? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After sun bathing on the rock and swimming below we had to get going to make it back to the mainland in time before the last boat of the day. We had a long walk back so when offered the chance, we jumped on the back of the Indian version of a pickup truck for the ride home. I found myself standing in the back of a truck, hair wind-blown, snaking through the most beautiful country I have ever seen, and holding on for dear life. It was hard to restrain a scream of excitement. The tour was so nice in fact that we completely missed our turn. We were dropped off on the side of the road, a long hike from where we needed to be. Nonetheless, we walked through a quiet little village, played with some children, asked a few people for Hampi, and were pointed down a path towards another river. We were crossing the right river but in a more secluded spot. The boats this time looked like giant but shallow coconuts split in half and made to float on water. They were made of wicker but surprisingly sturdy—they carried two motorcycles plus a handful of passengers over to the other side. We stood in the middle of the coconuts with two men paddling up front as our motor. Perhaps not the most efficient way of traveling, but definitely one of the more entertaining. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12ZiZEPdwdWHrKu4f05gQ3nneJsmJMwQzCupQslttIPP1t9Y2oEWevgBqpUju1Y2S-Gj0Vaf2Vx_MuL-aWKsKxoGkZjEPSrOBxXkNXLOykEabqRsGHTCIgwGLXyiGhwwtJsH3cYscX5Uk/s1600/IMG_8664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj12ZiZEPdwdWHrKu4f05gQ3nneJsmJMwQzCupQslttIPP1t9Y2oEWevgBqpUju1Y2S-Gj0Vaf2Vx_MuL-aWKsKxoGkZjEPSrOBxXkNXLOykEabqRsGHTCIgwGLXyiGhwwtJsH3cYscX5Uk/s320/IMG_8664.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The view from our jump<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8BTWKj7XwJ5_FGaNnD0ZLaQ0BnvIPPoW8uruRcSOKaOGva_fSL0VAxb2eA4nRwDmieNyW3sDUdAFgxu5sl3-NxFH05hW6TsOOsw_yz7nRanBye0vdEjXlClMydz0m6PEvhIlBIysN2lz/s1600/IMG_8673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8BTWKj7XwJ5_FGaNnD0ZLaQ0BnvIPPoW8uruRcSOKaOGva_fSL0VAxb2eA4nRwDmieNyW3sDUdAFgxu5sl3-NxFH05hW6TsOOsw_yz7nRanBye0vdEjXlClMydz0m6PEvhIlBIysN2lz/s320/IMG_8673.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the road again</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-RnbTLZtoJMRgKmbc_s4iuPsKwBtOsTaoesedAC8jCAqlTJUsBESwdlw5TPeO-FHLUXA-0udaGURMMkAPqmsXmrh1giF6PzxZp3r7KwD0A0-Y-iYTghtL8dHm_zguwKjhllmfBWSPYtOf/s1600/IMG_8683.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-RnbTLZtoJMRgKmbc_s4iuPsKwBtOsTaoesedAC8jCAqlTJUsBESwdlw5TPeO-FHLUXA-0udaGURMMkAPqmsXmrh1giF6PzxZp3r7KwD0A0-Y-iYTghtL8dHm_zguwKjhllmfBWSPYtOf/s320/IMG_8683.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just to get an idea of the coconut boats</span></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In our roundabout way home we ended up stumbling upon some of the well-known ruins—a big temple and a long row of crumbling columns smack in the middle of rolling green fields. With mango popsicles in hand we crisscrossed our way overtop giant smooth stones, around ancient temples and through dirt paths, passing wild horses and dogs and cows, to eventually find ourselves back in the middle of town again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That night, after a last goodbye to Shanti restaurant, we hopped on the night bus again to make it back just in time for work the next morning. Despite the exhaustion and fatigue I think Hampi awoke my travel bug- I’m ready to go somewhere next weekend!</span></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-51257858594840706782010-11-14T00:47:00.000-08:002010-11-29T08:43:32.418-08:00Internship, City, Oh My!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey guys. Now that I’ve had a little more time to settle into Hyderabad and completed my first official week of my internship I think it’s time for an update.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First on the job. I work for SKS NGO which is the ngo attached to SKS Microfinance, one of the largest microfinance firms in India. The corporation has been in the news a lot lately for some shady business dealings but the ngo is completely separate. The mission of the organization is to eradicate poverty worldwide. No biggie, right? As of now they work in two areas—the Ultra Poor and Education but are looking to expand into disaster relief. That’s where I come in. I am working with the executive director, Sanjay, on the preliminary research needed to develop the new program. If all goes well with a grant we are waiting on, that means a lot of trips into the field to talk to the people who are affected most by floods and cyclones. How are they affected by natural disasters? What are the disaster preparedness plans in place? Are they getting the services they need? Etc. For now though I am doing a lot of reading about the topic, especially in Andhra Pradesh (the coastal state that Hyderabad is in), where cyclones and related flooding can be a big problem. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The most exciting part about my job so far is that the office is located in the SKS Microfinance building, which for Hyderabadi standards, is like a skyscraper. I have a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">security badge</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, I take an </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">elevator</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> to my </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">floor, </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and I even have my own </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">cubicle</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">! I’ve never worked in such a corporate environment before, which is exciting and new for now but I’m sure will wear off in a matter of days. My first day there was so intimidating, I was nervous to even get up and use the bathroom. I sat at my cubicle all day reading and taking notes, and everyone kind of ignored me because they didn’t know what I was doing there. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next day things got a little better when I was invited to eat lunch with the crew. This was an experience in and of itself. The top floor of the building is the cafeteria for all 6 floors below it. The room is packed and loud—very reminiscent of middle school lunch-time. For what cost me less than a dollar I go this huge metal tray with a piece of naan, rice, and four little bowls of different vegetables and sauces, and oh yea, no silverware. I spotted the ngo people across the room and had to weave my way in and out of the other tables to get there. Absolutely everybody in my close radius was watching me. I’ve come to get used to the stares but at that very moment--being the only white girl in a huge room of strangers on my second day of a new job I am already intimidated by-- at the moment, I started to sweat. I pictured myself tripping and getting food all over my clothes, like what happens in the movies. Anyways, I made it to the table ok and ate lunch with some of my coworkers. Everyone eats with their hands, correction, hand (you only eat with your right hand here because the left one is supposed to be used in the bathroom). They seem to have a lot of fun at lunch- they talk and laugh and share each other’s food from home and all of their hands get messy but it’s of course completely normal. Since then I went with some of the education people on two site visits and am feeling much more comfortable at the office. I can tell already that this is the type of internship where I will have to initiate my own deadlines, the specific research to focus on, and even friends within the office.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for Hyderabad, my first impression of it is BUSY. My house is located off of a main road that is always clogged with tons of traffic. There is a lot of pollution, a lot of traffic, and a lot of honking. Any trip outside of the house feels exhausting because it can wear you down quickly. So far it strikes me as a place with different shopping/commercial areas, packed with people, and connected by traffic-y high ways. I have found some unique coffee shops and hang out spots but as a whole, I am not in love with this city yet. I’m trying to understand what it’s all about, where its’ heart is, like for Charleston I would say low-country culture and the beach. For Hyderabad, I am still searching.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-24694952591255859032010-11-08T02:19:00.000-08:002010-11-14T00:48:06.105-08:00Greetings from Hyderabad!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have made it to India and I am loving it. The group and I spent the last week in Mumbai (Bombay) and just moved into our home in Hyderabad a few days ago. Warning: Before you embark on this blog post, I have got a lot to cover so I apologize now for the long-windedness.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First on Mumbai, or as I have been calling it, “Nap Tour Mumbai.” We arrived in the city, after a sleepless five hour flight, at 4am and after a short break, toured the city. We saw the famous Victoria train station (this is where Jamal and Latika meet again in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Slumdog Millionaire</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">), a Jain temple, the Hanging Gardens, and Gandhi’s house. Somehow I managed (along with most other members of my group) to fall asleep in everyone of these places along with every car ride that lasted more than 30 seconds. That afternoon we met with Goul, a businessman who is the head of the chamber of commerce for the Indo-Israel Federation. What he really does I am not sure, but the meeting itself was an interesting commentary on Indian culture. He was a very friendly man, brought his wife into the office, served us tea, and referred to us as “the children.” The whole meeting served as a networking tool for everyone involved.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Goul, my program director, and the tour guide spent a majority of the time talking each other up and exchanging names and phone numbers for future business. Goul was so hospitable and friendly that it almost felt insincere. I have been assured though that all hospitality comes from a very genuine place. I think the meeting showed that a lot of Indian business is done this way, with face-to-face connections being vital. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That night our tour guide, Ralphy, invited us to his Rotary Club’s Dewali celebration (the Hindu New Year and celebration of light). Ralphy and his wife Yael served as our guides for our time in Mumbai, they are Indian Jews and some of the most warm, generous people I have ever met. Ralphy owns a software company and both he and Yael run Jewish-themed tours of Mumbai. He is a big guy with an even bigger laugh, and embodies the definition of a “people person.” He treated us as his family for the five days—inviting me to stay at his vacation home in the country, bringing the group to a family wedding (more on this in a bit), even entreating the Lifers with his personal drivers.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anways, back to Dewali. The party took place in a banquet hall packed with Rotary members dressed in traditional clothing to celebrate the holiday. We were escorted to our seats and after being presented on stage as guests of honor, we watched a dance/ fashion show that the women of the Rotary Club organized.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I then ate an inordinate amount of food (what was I supposed to do, there was a long wall lined with various vegetarian Indian dishes, in other words, my heaven) and tried to learn some dance moves from some of the women. We talked to one for awhile, who invited the whole group over for lunch later that week.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day 2 Ralphy took us on a tour of the Jewish Community in Ali Bag, a smaller village an hour outside of Mumbai, reachable by boat. Nap Tour Mumbai continued, just about every one of us fell asleep. Although I am not so religious it was really interesting to see a small Jewish community in a place I would never have expected one. I’m a little cloudy on the story but apparently a boat of Jews ship wrecked and the seven remaining survivors founded the community there, which is currently around 20-30 people. We saw their synagogue and were once again treated like celebrities—the president of the synagogue came to greet us, along with the secretary and his entire family. They brought us this cream-soda-like beverage to drink, made in a Jewish-owned factory (later we walked past the “factory” which was more like a small plaster building resembling a house more so than my notion of a factory). Back to city that afternoon and Nap Tour Mumbai quickly resumed. We went to Friday night services with Ralphy and Yael at an Iraqi-Indian synagogue. It was a beautiful building with bright blue paint and white trim. The services were conducted all in Hebrew with Ralphy’s son leading the prayers as opposed to a rabbi. The girls were forced to sit on the balcony above the ground floor so I admittedly spent a good part of the short service chatting. That night some fellow Lifers and I shared one of those meter high pitchers at the famous Leopold’s Café, which is known for its mention in the book Shantaram as well as the fact that it was a target for the bombings in 2008.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We had Saturday off, toured Sunday morning, and then went to a Jewish Indian wedding Sunday night. The only way I can describe it is absolutely insane. The ceremony itself was very casual, you couldn’t hear anything and people were walking in and out of the synagogue to get tea and snacks outside. The party on the other hand, felt like how I can only imagine the Oscars feel. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The entrance itself was a long runway, lit with different purples and pinks, with purple carpeting below and billowy tents above. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The room was this huge outdoor area packed with tables in the center and surrounded by food along the perimeter (including a falafel AND ice cream stand). There was endless food and drinks (although it was established early on at the bar the we were drinking a lot faster than our Indian counterparts) and music. We heard a lot of American country music in the beginning, which felt a little funny, but is definitely considered a status thing. The more western you appear in terms of culture and language, the wealthier you are. By the end we were dancing wedding-crashers-style with the bride and groom. </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RxWjjGVzUasxvWYQ9US_B2AHn7YgP4exNwt7eKYpV48y3VOaTN07XFSJu6NzVm5S51X5SJ0ctF4ccB8NSiUlWC9PR0QI8gvUvR2wkJKP1xsFW_9Z0LaGaS425pKdzYt4q48QSQgttV2P/s1600/IMG_7762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RxWjjGVzUasxvWYQ9US_B2AHn7YgP4exNwt7eKYpV48y3VOaTN07XFSJu6NzVm5S51X5SJ0ctF4ccB8NSiUlWC9PR0QI8gvUvR2wkJKP1xsFW_9Z0LaGaS425pKdzYt4q48QSQgttV2P/s320/IMG_7762.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nurit and I enjoying our first Indian meal</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Touring with Ralphy and Yael in Mumbai we were able to see a really authentic, unique slice of Indian life and culture. It was nice to gain insight into the lives of the middle/upper middle class living in the city as opposed to learning soley about the vast injustice and poverty, which admittedly, we did not learn enough about. As for first impressions of Mumbai, it is exactly like what people say about it: lots of people, lots of noise, lots of sound, lots of color all at once. The city is very beautiful in a kind of dilapidated way. The street our hostel was on, for example, was lined with old buildings marked by peeling paint and cracks, but still filled with an abundance of color and life. We stayed for the most part in a touristy part of the city called Colaba, so I don’t have a great understanding of the city as a whole, which people say you can only start getting used to after 2 months. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After touring a bit on Monday morning we hopped on an afternoon bus for our 14 hour journey to Hyderabad. The suggested mode of traveling is via plane or train but because of the Dewali holiday, tickets were sold out and so bus it was. Every person we told about the bus, both visitors and natives, were shocked and I now know why. First of all, there was no bathroom on board. I learned quickly to use the restroom during every break we got, and more often than not, that meant squatting behind a tree somewhere (sorry if that’s TMI). Second, the seats on board were allowed to recline so far that I had to sit diagonally on my chair so my knees weren’t pressing too hard into the one in front of me. Third, several Hindi movies with blaring speakers werepoised right over my head. The icing on the cake though was the driving. Not only are the roads not great to begin with but also our driver was absolutely bat crazy. We were darting in and out of traffic, swerving out of the way of cars only to get caught behind another just to haul on the breaks and horn at the same time. I am told this is somewhat typical. Falling in and out of sleep with the lights of incoming traffic flashing before me was, for lack of a better word, trippy.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But to stop being a negative-nancy, time on the bus passed more quickly than I thought. We arrived in Hyderabad before I knew it when Venkatt, out country director, literally had to board the bus to tell us to get off. We were taken to our home in an area of the city called Begamput, thus beginning the portion of the program I like to call “Real World Hyderabad.” Our house is awesome- it is the second floor of a four story building owned by a family of doctors called the Bakshis. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The parents live on the top floor and their children (along with their families) live on the floors below. We have three bedrooms for the seven of us, each with an attached bathroom. The den, living room, and dining room are all very spacious and were pre-furnished with couches and a dining room set. We spent our first night in the house ordering in and celebrating Nurit’s birthday with cake and present. For the first time since we’ve been together on this trip it truly felt like family.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjTeayQpiziFzhrGBCjdw5LOEMVolYvxpyh768CXX-SFPxMpMg_fTw3GokujHCHw3FTYHixfcUwSpp_gRRRAotTf4mlr1BAGscx9yK1l64XvK8iQnixJ4F34CGj1ebFN6C71JGlhgTVKk/s1600/IMG_7926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjTeayQpiziFzhrGBCjdw5LOEMVolYvxpyh768CXX-SFPxMpMg_fTw3GokujHCHw3FTYHixfcUwSpp_gRRRAotTf4mlr1BAGscx9yK1l64XvK8iQnixJ4F34CGj1ebFN6C71JGlhgTVKk/s320/IMG_7926.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My bedroom that share with Abby</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirpjR1AzeZu3ap1LLYhbhY74iXVPbkvkYe0RXw9w0aCXPhxA8eRWM5CccYcI5e-iG6kNg2WyWdJVXw4cMr2bToKmrOyz-fXHcgsEy2zyOCHCjXkZOB7_WS_6UZaM8lbiBESHwtchrA2E2l/s1600/IMG_7929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirpjR1AzeZu3ap1LLYhbhY74iXVPbkvkYe0RXw9w0aCXPhxA8eRWM5CccYcI5e-iG6kNg2WyWdJVXw4cMr2bToKmrOyz-fXHcgsEy2zyOCHCjXkZOB7_WS_6UZaM8lbiBESHwtchrA2E2l/s320/IMG_7929.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Phil hanging out in the living room</span></td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyways, I think my hand is starting to cramp now so more on Hyderabad to come!</span><o:p></o:p></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-84587473066469438542010-10-26T15:48:00.000-07:002010-11-14T00:48:38.784-08:00One for the Books<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shalom! Greetings from the holy land. I’m writing one last installation before Life 3 ships off tomorrow to India (yay!). This past week since Kibbutz Lotan has been busy-busy. We spent a few days in the North of Israel by Tiberias, a small city on the Kineret (a fresh water lake that connects to the Jordan River), learning about some of the first communities that settled on the land. It was absolutely beautiful up there--very green and lush-- and we had a relaxed, group-bonding few days. We came back to Jerusalem for a few intense days of orientation followed by our first free weekend. Here it goes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The weekend began when Abby and I caught a last-minute ride with Noa, our program director, from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. Considering we were both leaving bags in the area we had to scramble to separate our India clothes from the stuff that was staying behind. After good conversation on the ride there Noa dropped us off in the middle of the city and directed us to the busses we needed to take. Abby and I grabbed some falafel for dinner and when we started to separate (we were headed to different friends’ houses) all of a sudden I felt like a child separated from my mother. It was almost amusing how strange (and kind of scary) it felt to really be alone for the first time. I made it to the Central Bus Station fine though, where my friend Anna picked me up. I spent the night at her place—this roomy house in an everyday Tel Aviv neighborhood. She lives with 10 other people who are doing another service-learning year in Israel called Tikkun Olam. I met the whole group when that night they threw a party. We sat on their wrap around balcony in perfect weather until late at night eating homemade cake and drinking Arack (this Israeli liquor that tastes like licorice). In the morning Anna and I walked to local bakery and split a handful of mushroom, potato, and cheese bareckas… yumm! It was great to be with a friend from home and strange to see her in an entirely different context. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I then took the train with Abby to meet up with Itamar, an Israeli friend of hers that she met doing Birthright. Itamar’s adorable dad picked us up at the train station in Ashdod and took us to their house where we stayed for the weekend. Not only was their house beautiful—tile floors, winding steps, and a huge garden— they were also so welcoming and accommodating, that Itamar’s father literally offered us the pants he was wearing. We were given separate rooms, towels, a washing machine to use, a closet of clothes to wear, and asked if we needed “to douche” (I’m not sure if this was a language barrier slip or what). After some homemade lunch, Itamar took us to a park where we met up with some of his friends who took us off-roading on their motorcycles. It was only a little scary because my motorcyclist didn’t speak much English and I couldn’t remember the words for “slow down” or “I’m scared.” Abby and I didn’t learn until later that this activity is strongly discouraged… woops. His friends brought a little backpackers’ stove and made coffee. Sitting on a picnic table in the middle of the Israeli woods drinking black coffee at sunset was definitely one of those “Is this real life?” moments. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We returned home where Itamar’s mother made us a fantastic Shabbat dinner. It was interesting to see how an Israeli family celebrates the holiday. It was very relaxed and much more focused on just eating together and enjoying each other’s company rather than the prayers and the religion (for example, the challah consisted of sliced bread in a plastic grocery bag). We ate a delicious meal followed by coffee and homemade pastries in the garden for dessert. That night Itamar took us to a club in the middle of the kibbutz that he manages. We hung out in the “VIP” area for a lot of the night which, practically speaking, meant we sat on couches outside trying to figure out how to eat watermelon seeds. Our VIP status translated into free drinks though, so no complains here. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After another homemade breakfast in the morning Abby and I, along with Itamar’s friend Alone, went to the beach in Ashdod. It was a gorgeous sunny day, spent mostly sun bathing and trying to learn how to surf (and by trying I mean failing). Alone’s mother made us a delicious lunch in their beachside home (complete with a view of the ocean from the roof and huge open windows). Afterwards we returned to our host’s house for a relaxing evening of homemade cookies and “The Biggest Loser” reruns.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So if I had to sum up this weekend in any way I would say: Epic. It was delicious and relaxing and unpredictable all at once. I’ve been back in Jeru for a few days now for the last few days of orientation and leaving on a jetplane as of tomorrow afternoon. I’ll write soon with news from Mumbai! Until then, Namaste.</span></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-77334760462120072402010-10-16T07:07:00.000-07:002010-12-10T04:37:35.334-08:00Some of the "Deets" (ie details)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey everyone. So I have finally gotten a little less jet lagged and a little more settled so here goes an update.</span><br />
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</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I arrived in Tel Aviv on Friday and stayed with close family friends, Cliff and Laura Savern and their two girls Jamie and Jill in Ra’anana, until Tuesday. They were amazing—Cliff helped me buy a cell phone, Laura took me out to several delicious meals, Jamie lent me here fashioista nail polish, Jill introduced me to the illustrious “Milky” (a chocolate pudding snack pack with whipped cream on top), and they snuck around me in the mornings when I slept in their living room until 1pm. On Tuesday morning Cliff drove me to a hostel in downtown Jerusalem where I met my group for a day of icebreakers, paperwork, and preliminary seminars.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some of the specifics: The group consists of 7 people—4 girls and 3 guys (better odds than I though) including one Israeli and one Brazilian. While I’ve only known everyone for a couple of days I am looking forward to getting to know them better. Everyone comes from a diverse background (Israeli army, a masters in counseling, and tracking monkeys in Nicaragua… just to name a few) and is very passionate/excited about the next 9 months. A pic of my Life-mates below on our second day together. On the couch (from l to r): Nurit, Abby, Phil, Gabe. On the floor: Amy, Alex, me</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHCvxcDS6ZeyfP9WpcG9JQI7ak9lHJIu9BDEhvipm4JXhg9clWycO2acPFhDXeTtsVZk3HbQfap_iwMEKlhkB6SGJTZiafpjqamINcCQp_b2taeIFkiC-Zle-lk_leeuxzwBPNasw5pZ9/s1600/IMG_7645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHCvxcDS6ZeyfP9WpcG9JQI7ak9lHJIu9BDEhvipm4JXhg9clWycO2acPFhDXeTtsVZk3HbQfap_iwMEKlhkB6SGJTZiafpjqamINcCQp_b2taeIFkiC-Zle-lk_leeuxzwBPNasw5pZ9/s320/IMG_7645.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for the schedule, we are going to travel around Israel for the next two weeks seeing different parts of the country--going to preparatory seminars, lectures, and classes. Right now we are in Kibbutz in the South of the country called Lotan. It is a community of about 50 people (plus students, volunteers, and tourists) founded in 1983. They live in a socialistic setting with equal salaries, jobs around the kibbutz, and a general attitude of community first. They consider themselves an “intentional community” and an eco-village so they have all of these interesting ways of living to make the place a little Green (in both senses of the word) oasis in the desert. Most of their buildings are made of recycled trash covered with a mud/clay mixture. They compost everything, make their own fertilizer, use solar power, have an organic garden, use their own natural water purifying system, and all of their mud structures are painted with flowers and trees or other hippy-like designs. The best part by far though is the solar oven—a box painted black on the inside with a mirror perched diagonally above it. They used it to bake cookies! Basically, I’m in love.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In general though, it kind of feels like a little bit of a stepford community; there are no streets or cars, and perfectly manicured lawns, and everyone is always talking about community and support. I cannot imagine ever living full-time in such a small, insular place but I can see how it would be a nice place to grow up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> On Friday night we went to their Shabbat services followed by a communal dinner where everyone on the whole kibbutz ate together. Afterwards all of the kids played on the front lawn and the people my age sat and talked. At 11 the kibbutz’s pub opened which was certainly an experience. I was drinking Goldstar (the Israeli version of Budweiser) with people from all over the world, on a dance floor made of tires, listening to Gypsy techno, all in the middle of the desert. That one goes down in the books. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We leave Lotan tomorrow for some time in the Northern part of the country and then back in Jerusalem for the weekend. It’s nice to have some time to get to know everyone but I am definitely ready to get to India already…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So with that said, I thought I would leave you with a list of sorts. Who doesn’t love lists? This week’s theme goes off the idea of culture shock and getting used to a culture a little different from the one you are used to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Israeli Culture I am Struggling With</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. Realizing that everyone isn’t in a fight. Considering I can’t understand most Hebrew I try to gauge social situations by body language. Unfortunately that is proving to be a little difficult with Israelis because they always seem angry with each other. When two strangers are talking they tend to keep a stern look on their face. They speak quickly, with a certain brusqueness in their voices. For example, an exchange at a coffee shop: Barrista asks a question. Customer answers. Barrisata asks. Customer answers. Barrista asks. Customer answers. Money exchanged. Barrista mumbles something. Exchange over. No smiling, no laughing. Half the time it seems like people are arguing when really they are just ordering a coffee.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. Reading and talking. The extent of my Hebrew vocabulary is about 20 words, 30 tops. I am trying hard to pick up the language and some of it comes back to me once I am reminded of the word again. It </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">should</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> be relieving that even if I can’t understand everything, at least I can read it. Wrong. All posters, signs, and store fronts are written without the vowels. For non-Hebrew speakers, the vowels are pretty much a pronunciation guide that after about first grade, most people don’t need to use anymore. So after struggling to read the name of a store or a street sign I will say it out loud only to discover I have completely botched the name.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Israeli Culture I Have Not Struggled (nor will ever) With</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1.</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THE FOOD. Cheeses and vegetables and pita oh my! Israeli food is the best. Period.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2.</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The lifestyle in general. I just love how people are always out on the streets talking and shopping and just enjoying themselves. It much more social than anything I can think of in the US. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyways, I’m off for now. Love you all and pictures to come soon!</span></div>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050195802993250950.post-58687362310672004742010-10-10T08:41:00.000-07:002010-11-14T00:49:43.646-08:00Fievel and Me<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Greeting, welcome to my first ever blog post. For the next nine months I will be interning at non-profits in Jerusalem, Israel and Hyderabad, India (one month in Israel, four in India, then back to Israel for the remaining four) and will be using this medium to share with you all of my experiences, thoughts, feelings, beliefs, vendettas, and personal rantings about the trip.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Let me begin by giving you a little history as to the name of this blog and my purpose for creating it. First of all, I hope you can gather from the blog's name a certain connection with the timeless childhood film, "An American Tail: Fievel Goes West." It is the story of a cartoon mouse, Fievel </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mouse</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">kevitz, who immigrates from Russia to the United States with his family to escape persecution from the Russian cats (I'm hoping you get the analogy). Anyways, the title of my blog really has nothing to do with the Jewish mouse other then the fact that I was looking for a creative blog name and this was the best I could think of. However, when sharing the prospective name with my parents, they told me a Kutler family classic I had almost forgotten. When my brother was a young boy he loved Fievel. He had to watch the movie all the time. Around the same time as Ben’s Fivel obsession, Sears was selling an oversized stuffed animal version of the mouse, complete with beret and tunic. My parents tried to get the stuffed animal as a surprise for my brother but the Sears near their house was sold out. My dad ended up going to several stores and then finally acquiring the mouse at a Sears nearly an hour away in northern Baltimore. After working tirelessly to get the toy they revealed it to my brother, who to their dismay, looked at it for a moment and said, “What is it?”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So in honor or my parents, who have worked hard to give my brother and me everything we have dreamed of-- from stuffed animals to a year abroad in India and Israel-- this blog is dedicated to you. Thank you. I hope to explore Israel and India with the same energy and zest for knowledge as Fievel did when he arrived in America.</span></span></div></span></span>RKutlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03343996957690791282noreply@blogger.com5