Our Cairo Correspondent Iman Ali is not only a hard-at-work scholar, but a true traveler at heart. She recently penned this short poem “Precious Moments” which embodies the notion of experiential travel. We’re sharing it with you in hopes that you beat the Winter blues, and get started on planning your next trip in 2013.

Precious moments.
Ever changing instances
Which flash before my eyes,
Like fleeting shooting stars
Illuminating the night sky,
Weave in and out on
This winding path
That has become my life.
Ephemeral experiences
Which penetrate the soul,
Evanescence capable of
Causing great despair,
Sending waves of hurt
That crash into my core,
Have shaped who I’ve become.
And yet a peculiar consolation
Complements this transient
Way of life. Clarity amidst
The chaos, and the sad goodbyes.
Apprehension no longer
A state of mind. Learning
To embrace the moment
For all that it can be, brings me
Closer to that eternal kind of ecstasy.
Putting faith in the wind has
Become my way to serenity. 

Iman Ali is currently pursuing her graduate studies at the American University in Cairo, with a concentration in Women and Gender Studies in Middle East and North Africa. She has always had an interest in metaphysics and spirituality. She is planning to travel a lot within the next couple of years to embark on a journey of self-growth, healing, and enlightenment. She plans on using her collective knowledge of psychology, women’s studies, and holistic healing to start her own private NGO and help empower women everywhere.

I’m a movie lover. Black-and-white comedies, action thrillers, and even historical documentaries excite me. During my summers in India, a hot sluggish weeknight is often the perfect excuse for my cousins to skip homework and take their American-born cousin to the air-conditioned movie theater downtown. Bollywood as well as “Tollywood” or Telugu movies are favorites of mine, not simply owing to my Indian heritage but because of certain aspects that distinguish them from most Western films. The blending of genres, broad appeal and catchy song-and-dance numbers all add to the high entertainment value and uniqueness of Indian film. However, one underlying part of the cinema industry in India is bothersome to me: the role of the heroine. Women in India are generally regarded with a level of respect, but the portrayal of women in Indian film or media is a scheme of exclusivity, frequently holding actresses to an unnatural standard of beauty and limiting those who do not fit the criteria.

Looking in the mirror, I see myself as a young girl with dark brown eyes, black hair and medium brown skin, the seemingly typical characteristics of any Indian girl my age. Long afternoon practices for spring track and field and hours spent in the outdoor swimming pool caused my skin to darken around my sophomore of high school from a light tan to a dark shade of brown. While in America, I completely overlooked this difference in skin tone. If anything, getting a good tan was a positive change, one that indicated I was receiving a healthy dose of sunshine. After all, many women strive to achieve similar tans by spending hundreds of dollars on artificial methods such as cosmetic products and tanning beds.

Hindustan Unilever Limited’s newest skin-lightening product as advertised on their Facebook Page

My trip to India (the summer before my junior year of high school) altered my perception of dark skin forever. When my family and I arrived at the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport in Hyderabad, my grandparents and relatives were all there to greet us after four years of being apart. My grandmother held me by my shoulders and scrutinized my face. Instead of commenting as she usually did about my height or how skinny I was, she said, “You got so dark!” Her face twisted to form a grimace as she nodded at my mother disapprovingly. My mother then proceeded to explain to her why I had become so dark as though she was pleading guilty to a crime before a judge in court. “We need to fix that,” my aunt remarked. By “that,” she meant my skin color; how she planned on “fixing” it, I was about to find out.

Since my cousins had school during the day while I was in India, I often watched television or, unsurprisingly, movies to keep myself busy. Ever since my grandmother pointed out my darker skin tone, I began to notice a peculiarity in Indian movies and television that I had never noticed before. In the past, I used to admire and ogle at the graceful moves and sweet smiles of Indian heroines. Their fiery characters and practiced confidence was a source of inspiration for me. When I began to notice that every single actress that played a leading role in my favorite Indian films was oddly pale-skinned, I suddenly felt disconnected. The heroines I saw on the big screen looked nothing like me or any other Indian girl I knew personally.

In the famous Hindi movie, Main Hoon Na, the hero, played by actor Shahrukh Khan, sings to the heroine, played by Sushmita Sen, and extolls her as a “gori gori,” which translates to “fair maiden” and is synonymous with referring to a woman as “gorgeous” or “beautiful.” Often, song lyrics refer to the heroine as being white as the moon, thereby praising the woman’s fairness. Indeed, the actresses who play the role of the heroine in Indian films often have skin more pale than that of regular Caucasian women. The quintessential Indian actress, Aishwarya Rai not only has light skin but also has brown hair and green-blue eyes, physical traits that are certainly not normally attributed to people of Indian origin. During song-and-dance numbers within a movie, a light-skinned heroine is often shown dancing up front and center while all the dancers in the background are of a darker skin tone, making the contrast even greater and sending a strong message of what is valued by the cinema industry.

For a long time, I was unable to grasp the reason behind the habitual dominance of light-skinned actresses in this modern age. It seemed as though aspects of colonialism or overarching concepts of the caste system were still lingering, yet to be fully expunged from Indian society. Nonetheless, the effects of this corporal distinction between light and dark, propagated by the media, are extensive. Nearly every Indian woman, not just those in my family, are trying to make themselves more “fair” by utilizing everything from Fair & Lovely creams to expensive and hazardous skin treatments. As ridiculous as it may seem, fairness is very important to the future and status of an Indian woman and even has an influence on whether or not she will eventually be able to marry someone of a particular social or economic class.

Aishwarya Rai Bachan’s controversial digitally-lightened cover on the December 2010 issue of Elle India.

Indian families commonly use traditional beauty secrets for fairness that are passed down from generation to generation. To my own surprise, these simple home remedies, imparted to me by my grandmother, actually worked. Restoring the skin to its former lighter color requires weeks of treatment and plenty of diligence, but I learned that the transformation is in fact possible. Several techniques include forcefully scrubbing the body with a mixture of besan, or gram flour, lemon juice and yogurt, consuming abnormal amounts of pomegranate seeds and massaging the skin with oil. After being pressured to attempt some of these beauty routines, I found that my skin had indeed become lighter after a period of just one month. Still, fair skin is not particularly conducive or maintainable in a setting as hot and sweltering as the sunbathed streets of South India. A single afternoon playing cricket on the rooftop terrace led the melanin in my epidermis to kick in once more, immediately darkening my skin.

Besan flour is a common ingredient used to exfoliate the skin.

Although I do not deny the beauty of fair-skinned women, I am not fond of the obvious preference by Indian directors and the media to choose lighter skinned women, ignoring the fact that most of these women are not truly representative of the average brown-skinned Indian woman. Many actresses like the popular Katrina Kaif, who was born to an English mother and remains a British citizen, are not even fully Indian. As a result, Indian women are pressured to fit models that are fundamentally unattainable. In truth, the directors and producers who pick these actresses just cater to the tastes of the people and so the disfavor for darker skin can be categorized as a type of social stigma. Although I wish this color bias in film would go away, I realize that the prejudice is deeply rooted in Indian society and the power to change must come from a more open-minded and accepting younger generation that is unafraid to challenge the preconceived notions in place.

Thanks to the hard work of my grandmother and aunts, I was several shades lighter in skin color when my family and I returned home. For weeks, I continued to obsess over my skin color, trying to preserve my lighter skin tone. But while watching television here in America, I found no signs of this cultural bias towards fair skin. In its place, I saw commercials for tanning lotions advertised as healthy moisturizers that promote a “sun-kissed” look. Faced with mixed societal messages, I realized that I would never feel beautiful as long as I conformed to antiquated ideals of beauty under the gaze of society. In my frustration, I learned that feeling beautiful comes from embracing and appreciating the skin tone that nature has given me. It is a shame that most of the pressure on young girls to change something so fundamental to who they are, the color of their skin, comes from within their own families. We must empower young woman to dismiss these messages, as I did, and wear their skin with pride.

Monika Masanam is a humanitarian with a strong passion for women’s rights and healthcare. Born in Michigan, Monika now attends Rutgers University as a Presidential Scholar and is studying Biotechnology. In past years, she has worked with Mercy Corps, Kiwanis, UNICEF and hospitals both locally and in India, making strides in global health campaigns such as The Eliminate Project. She plans on conducting biomedical research this summer and continuing to make lasting contributions to the world by becoming a physician.

As a Norwegian I had great expectations for the USA, especially New York. Based on all the information I had from the Internet, movies, literature, and tourist guides the portrait of New York in my mind was that the City was one of the most amazing places in the world, filled with a particular energy, only found in New York City.

When I arrived, I believed that my expectations would be confirmed. I would experience perhaps the most urban place on earth. I also believed that I would meet a widely diverse population with a background from all over the world. In such an environment I expected that people are left to their own luck and abilities.

After living here for about two months, I have discovered that my assumptions can be true, but real life can be more complex and exciting than ones initially expects. New York has at least two faces, one of wealth, glamour and talent, and another of misery and toil.

New York is a city very different from home country. Norway has a population of five million. Oslo, the capital and largest city, has a population of about half a million which is far less than Manhattan. The ample resources of oil have provided Norway with an enormous wealth per capita. It is among the few countries in the world without government debt and with huge surpluses on the federal budget. The country has the worlds largest pension fund, totalling about $ 500 billion, invested abroad. Even though the wealth per capita is high, the private wealth is not extreme due to high taxation and a small population which limits business opportunities. Norwegians are said to be the last true lovers of nature and outdoors activities in the developed part of the world. This is due to our proud history of great adventurers conquering the North- and South pole, mountains and other extreme remote areas of the world. In combination with beautiful nature with woods, mountains and among the worlds longest coastline with thousands of small islands and fjords, my country is a fantastic place for sailing, fishing, hunting, skiing, hiking etc all year. We are a small country with a small population that shares many commonalities.

In New York, however, I have experienced that the differences are extreme in this city. You can walk down a street and you can experience tremendous wealth and well-organized conditions. On the next block the neighborhood can be poor and dirty. You can leave the glamorous world of the department stores on Fifth ave. and be on the subway after walking ten steps. In this “new world” you can be approached by a woman speaking up in the train, begging for money to support her children. Outside expensive restaurants you can see people digging for food in the garbage bins while the limos are picking up well fed guests in theirs designer wear at the main entrance, leaving for the Upper east side or fashionable suburbs. The contrast of these two worlds  is startling.

An interesting observation I have made is the mentality when it comes to money and commercial talent. In America spending has priority before saving.  And When consumer spending is low the economy goes into recession. In Norway the shops are closed by law on Sundays. Commercials on TV were first allowed around 1990, and the volume is low and strictly regulated compared to the US and particularly New York. The “shop for the fun of it” mentality is not as great in Norway  as in the US. I believe that in New York there is always someone after my money. There is an offer on each corner and the creativity of each hawker to get me to make a purchase  is constant and enormous.

Politics in the U.S. is very different from my Norwegian experience. The Norwegian politicians are relatively calm when debating. American presidential candidates are aggressive and accusing each other of lying to the people. Being aggressive is considered equal to quality and ability. Norwegian politicians enjoy low respect from the people, while American politicians belong to the upper class in this society. My trip to Washington DC showed me that former presidents and leading politicians are worshiped as the heroes of the nation.

In my society the energy is moving steady and slowly, but in New York  the energy rises to a  “boiling” point of color, diversity and life. You feel the intensity 24 hours a day when crossing Time square or the other busy streets of Manhattan.. Frank Sinatra was right when he sang – “New York, the city which never sleeps”. There are opportunities for work, shopping, eating and entertainment around the clock, 365 days a year in this place.

New York offers among the worlds the best museums of art, performing artists, fashion, scholars, food, talent in general, innovation and entrepreneurship. You can be both inspired and disrupted in such an extreme environment. I now have gotten a glimpse into the atmosphere in New York and the American society, I believe that I have learned a lot about New York and myself.

New York is a place of great diversities on a wide scale from extremely good to very bad. All these diversities are the strengths and the weakness of this metropolis.. My original picture of New York as an amazing place is true, particularly if you are young and open minded and capable of exploring its opportunities. If you in addition can afford the good life in the city there may be no place which is more exciting.

Coming from a homogeneous, small, affluent and well organized society such as Norway, my view and understanding of our complex world has increased through my experiences in New York. New York is evidence of the possibility harmony, prosperity, opportunity and development regardless of race, sex and religion. Through this large scale project New York gives hope and inspiration to the less developed parts of the worlds. New York is in itself a “globalized world”.

Peter Jan Svarstad is from Oslo the capital of Norway. He graduated from Haig school earlier this year. At the present moment he is studying Philosophy, Human Rights and Business English in New York. Peter is strongly engaged with the scout movement holding several leadership positions, and has been integral in building up his scout group and encouraging collaboration among sea scouts. Peter is a member of the Norwegian conservative party. His interests include politics, society, history and outdoor life. Annually he is spending about a month enjoying the outdoor life. Peter exercises different sports, such as sailing, skiing and fencing. After finishing his studies in New York, he has been drafted four military service in Norway. After military duty he is planning to begin his studies at the Norwegian School of Economics.

Ajumma and Agasshi: Lessons on Culturally Sensitive Photography

Photography is a dangerous sport.  The convenience of iphone cameras, and rapid access to wifi and social media platforms means that many of us can discretely snap or upload images of anonymous strangers while we travel, usually with little thought to the subject’s privacy or personal space.  With the immediacy of twitter and apps such as Instagram, we can distribute street photos in a snap, without any thought to how this image may be culturally inappropriate or perhaps degrading to the local people.  While living in Korea, I have spent a substantial amount of time getting in people’s faces, aggressively seeking raw photo opportunities, and hoping to not get caught. I love photography, and I go to fierce lengths to secure the most absurd and unusual scenes.  I have been reprimanded for taking photos of American military tanks.  I have been scolded for taking photos in a Korean sauna.  Along with my artistic freedom to point and shoot at anything I find visually interesting, I must also consider whether or not I am respecting the people and places I photograph.  Here I have outlined some of the ethical and social implications of street/travel photography in South Korea.

Military Snaps

South Korea is officially still at war with North Korea, and as a result of this, constant military activity can still be seen taking place in and around Seoul.  For example, Kwanghwamun, an older part of Seoul lined with temples and historical monuments, is also a hub for a number of US military tanks, Korean soldiers, and bullet-proof vested officers marching and standing guard at all of the national embassies located in the area.  By American law (and perhaps Korean law also), civilians are not permitted to take photos of American military equipment in active duty, so it is important to keep this in mind if you find yourself setting up your camera tripod in front of a military canon.  Also, if you enter an American military base in Korean, you will likely be warned that you are breaching the law if you take photos (so my friends have informed me).

Children

Surprisingly, in Korea, people don’t mind if I politely photograph their children.  If a Korean child is perched on his mother’s lap in a bunny suit, the mother with often politely allow strangers to tug at the child’s cheeks, or snap a picture.  I find this very unusual, as in Australia (my home country) people may have criminal charges pressed against them for taking pictures of other people’s children in public. The Australian public has legitimate and not-so-legitimate fears regarding street photography and paedophilia, and the assumption that anyone with a digital or wide-lense camera is a paedophile has become a sensitive talking point among street photographers in western countries.  In Korea, however photography of children is never considered dangerous or related to any criminal behavior.  That said, I only take photos of children when I feel like a have established some form of verbal permission or eye-contact with the parents.

Intoxicated Men

Korea is arguably the number one country in the world for the amount of alcohol consumed, and Jinro Soju (a Korean brand of rice wine) is the highest selling alcoholic beverage in the entire world.  Korea’s drinking culture is dynamic.  This presents the travel photographer with a diverse array of artistic inspiration, as every night of the week in Korea you can witness salary men stumbling clumsily like zombies through the crowded streets of Seoul.  I have witnessed staggering old grandfathers side kick pedestrians, old men falling asleep vertically against trees, naked salary men asleep in parks, and salary men peeing inside and outside coffee shops on their way home, oblivious to the coffee drinkers and staff watching them.  It is not unusual for foreigners to take pictures of these alarming scenes and upload them online, however, I understand that capturing images of these individuals is obviously invasive and it also questions some of the basic ethics of street photography. I stumbled across a blog recently in Korea where foreign residents could submit their photos of drunk Koreans who have passed out in an intoxicated state on the street.  When I first viewed the site, I was rather amused, but when I continued to click through the images, I realized that this is harmful to Koreans and also depicts foreigner photographers badly as well.

Hostesses/Prostitutes

Obviously, after spending some time in Seoul you might notice that there are quite a significant number of  hostess bars and places for ‘massages’ in Korea.  This provides some interest for foreigners in Korea (to put it mildly), as many countries outside of East Asia lack a unique form of ‘hostessing culture’.  One of the things that many new people in Korea do not realize is that there is a substantial difference between a ‘hostess’ and a ‘prostitute’, so we should not make any generalizations about women who are working in these particular bars or singing rooms in Korea, because many times these women are strictly paid only for pouring drinks or making light conversation.  Out of respect for these girls, you should probably not photograph these women unless they have agreed to being photographed, and even then, be aware that publishing these photographs could potentially affect their education or their future profession, as internet search engines do have a way of damaging people’s careers in the modern era.

Korean Bathhouse/Sauna

This might sound like common sense, but if you are bathing naked with hundreds of other Koreans in a Korean bathhouse, you should perhaps leave your camera in the locker.  Taking photos of naked people (of any nationality) scrubbing their inner thighs is just not kind.  I do like to take photos of myself in my neon sauna uniform, with a towel wrapped around my head, but this is done very stealthily, after I have patrolled the area to establish I will most certainly not get caught.  I take all Korean sauna photos very very discretely, because I am concerned about getting fined or accused of sexual harrassment.  Neither of these scenarios have played out as yet, but I feel that it is always better to err on the side of caution when there are naked people around.

Subway Commutes

I admit that I do take a lot of photos of innocent people on the subway without their permission, mostly because I am fascinated by their appearance or I am slightly curious about their behavior.  Taking photos of anonymous individuals riding the subway to and from work is most likely breaching the ethics of street photography, particularly as Koreans are especially sensitive about maintaining their privacy in public spaces.  So if I really feel so inclined to photograph the girl on the subway carrying three small dogs in tiny suits, I know that I have to use an editing application to blur out the face of my subject before I carelessly upload this picture onto any social media platform.  I did get in trouble once for uploading a picture I took on the subway of a girl who was wearing the most disturbing hello kitty attire, as I had neglected to adequately disguise her identity.

Gym/Fitness Club

My Korean friends like to take photos of themselves working out in the gym.  I find this a little odd.  When I lived in Australia three years ago, one of the rules of my local gym stated that all members were prohibited from carrying their phones inside the gym.  This provision may have changed in my absence, but the policy at the time was enacted to try to protect individuals from being sneakily photographed by other gym members, to protect personal privacy.  In Korean gyms, however, there is no such prohibition, and anyone can take photos of themselves using any kind gym equipment.  In a number of Korean gyms I have witnessed Korean men pressed up against the mirrors, snapping pictures of themselves flexing, and lifting their shirts up.  Nobody gets upset about it.

Couples

Korean couples are very photogenic, and not always for the right reasons.  Young Korean couples (not all, but a visible proportion) are renowned for wearing matching backpacks, matching t-shirts, matching underwear (indeed…), and matching winter beanies.  This can be somewhat of a novelty, but it can also be a bit mind-boggling when you are confronted with some of the more unattractive color/fabric combinations.  A boy and girl in matching brown and orange velour tracksuits?  Really?  The urge to get in there and take a photo is irresistible, however, you have to be strategic about this, and I find myself invasively snapping photos of these couples from behind, rather than getting caught waving my camera in front of them to get their neon matching couple sneakers in the shot.  Also, if you are waiting for the subway and trying to take the photo from behind, be aware that the couple can probably see you taking the photo in the reflection of the glass barriers.

The Homeless as Art

It is unfortunate that in some parts of Seoul, such as in Yeoungdungpo and Seoul Station, you can see so many homeless people struggling to survive, sometimes amongst some very high-end department stores, such as Times Square.  This is one of the sadder aspects of Korea’s rapid development, and an expansive cross-section of society was displaced physically and socially in Korea’s move away from an agricultural-based economy, and many Koreans also found themselves unemployed after the 1997 Asian economic crisis.  While some subway stations or open markets are filled with beggars and homeless people, which foreign photographers often photograph because they consider it ‘arty’, I have never felt compelled to photograph these people because I was never sure of how to photograph them sincerely, in a manner which was not degrading or critical of their existence.  I don’t agree that taking photos of homeless people constitutes ‘street art’, and I don’t agree that it is tasteful (in most situations, where the homeless person is not aware they are being snapped) to photograph homeless people and claim it as ‘one’s art’.

Plastic Surgery Patients

Almost every day on the subway or inside shopping malls in Seoul I see post-op patients with their heads hidden under bandages like mummified cats after they have undergone cosmetic surgery procedures.  Seoul is, after all, the plastic surgery capital of the world.  I do find it a little odd that these patients would want to venture out in public with their thick bandages and dark sunglasses after they have had their jaws rewired and noses reset.  I’d personally be taking painkillers and staying in bed, but I suppose Korea is fast-paced and people don’t like to rest here.   Of course, when there is a large pack of bandaged mummies wandering through the department store, I do feel tempted to take a photo, but I know that it would be very improper of me to do so, so I put the camera down.

Self-Camera (Selca 셀카):

If you like taking photos of yourself, Korea is the place to be.  In fact, you are encouraged to angle your camera above your head in public spaces, angle your chin down, and push your nose towards the camera to create ‘ulzzang 얼짱’, the ideal ‘best’ Korean face.  Every day in Seoul Korean girls (and occasionally guys) can be seen angling their smart phones above their heads, in every subway stop, subway mirror, coffee shop, street, park bench, and department store.  In other countries it may be considered rude to start rampantly taking photos on public transport or in small public spaces, but in Korea, self-camera photos are permitted in almost every  public space.

Ethical summations

While I do feel conflicted about some of the photos I take in Korea, I keep in mind that my photos are not about shaming the individual, and I do not intend to necessarily promote a political message through my photography.  The ethics of photography are most certainly grounded in culture and cultural relativism has a huge impact on what we perceive is an appropriate or inappropriate photo subject.  Taking photos of certain subjects across certain cultures varies greatly, as is the case with the sensitivity (or lack thereof) surrounding children in street photography.  A private moment that we photograph in another person’s country may not be an honest or holistic representation of this culture.  Taking one sneaky photo of a domestic public dispute may seem amusing now, but there may be repercussions if you share that around.  Considering, for example, the fact that Koreans and foreign residents occasionally upload pictures or videos of strangers on the subway without their permission, which can then incite a massive internet shaming.  This individual is found and isolated and they may be publicly humiliated for the rest of their life (for example, a girl who let her dog poop on the subway but didn’t realize someone was filming it and uploading it on a public forum, which later led her to become infamous in South Korea).  Street photography should be honest, but ideally I do not want to exploit whoever or whatever I am shooting.

 

Luigina Webb is originally Australian but has studied abroad in Israel, the US, and South Korea, where she now works as an interpreter in a Korean trading company. She has traveled to over thirty countries. Luigina owns a large collection of Korean traditional hats and headdresses sourced from all over Korea. You can check out her blog at www.luiginakorea.com/

From the Foreign to the Familiar: Found in Translation

When I moved to Japan one month after graduating from college with a degree in Japanese, I didn’t really know how to speak the language very well. This was back before the internet and in the town where I went to school there were few chances to converse with native speakers, so I had very little real experience in the spoken language outside of the classroom and listening to cassette tapes two hours a week in the language lab.

Once I got to Japan, it became clear very quickly that what it took to get good grades in school had little in common with what I needed to know in the real world. I could read the signs in the train station,but anything beyond a simple conversation confounded me. My halting attempts at speaking Japanese were almost inevitably met with a reply in slightly less halting English. It just seemed easier to make do with someone else’s poor English than forge ahead with my own poor Japanese.

I worked hard to improve my Japanese skills and over time I repeatedly came across words or concepts that I had come to understand, but couldn’t really render into English smoothly or succinctly. I came to realize that cultural fluency involves more than just vocabulary and grammar and that the real knowing of another language and culture isn’t something that is accurately measured in any kind of traditional examination or test.

Photo by torisan 3500

Japanese is considered a difficult language to learn. The grammar is very different from most other languages. There are three (or four, depending on whether or not you count the alphabet) writing systems to learn and one of those has about 2,000 characters you need to know for adult literacy. There are myriad levels of politeness that shift depending on context. And even if you could find a one to one correspondence in words, the way people express themselves in Japanese is so different from the way most Westerners converse that you would find yourself communicating less effectively than you might expect you would.

I’ve chosen some Japanese words that I have found useful, delightful or just plain difficult to render in clear and succinct English. At home we use some of these words regularly even when we’re speaking English because they convey exactly what we mean in a quick, convenient way.

 Yoroshiku

Yoroshiku is one of the most basic and most often used words in Japanese. It’s also one of the hardest to explain in English. It has a flavor of asking for someone’s favor or good graces in either a general long-term way or for a specific task. It is also used to send your regards to someone via another person. We rarely in English come straight out and say “Please be good to me,” or “Please take care of me and treat me well,” but that acknowledgement of and request for another’s favor is a core component of social interaction in Japan. In a culture that stresses interdependence, it is necessary to have a way to explicitly acknowledge the interconnectedness of individuals and to remind people that you are counting on them and requesting their favor. You might expect it to somehow sound pushy, but it doesn’t. It’s just part of common politeness.

How to bow and pray at a Shinto shrine. photo by cucchiaio

 Natsukashii

Natsukashii is an adjective that describes the fond feeling you get when something reminds you of someone or something you enjoyed in the past. It often gets translated as “nostalgic”, but for me natsukashii is something you remember with a smile, while nostalgic sounds like a harkening back to the old days, not necessarily my own. I think the term nostalgia is more often used for broader cultural phenomena while natsukashii is always personal. I don’t think I’d ever say “Wow. That makes me feel nostalgic,” but if a friend mentions a fun time we had together in the past or if I see a photo of my daughter in her school uniform on her first day of school, I would certainly say “Natsukashii.” There is a certain strain of sentimentality in Japanese culture that is quite sweet. Natsukashii is a part of that.

Monozukuri

As a translator, the term monozukuri always causes me problems. It literally means “the making of things” but it encompasses aspects of craftsmanship, meticulousness, pride in the production process and an affinity for the creation of goods that are carefully considered and of the highest possible quality. Monozukuri also contains a sense of pride in a job well done and an affinity for vocation akin to a calling. It’s not just folks making things for a pay check. It’s people engaging in work that gives their working lives meaning.

A mechanized tea-serving doll from the 19th century.

Meiwaku

The English translations of meiwaku are usually rendered as “annoyance,” “disturbance” or “a bother.” All of these sounds trifling in English, but in Japan meiwaku is a big deal. I believe in Japan the Golden Rule that children are taught is not “do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” but “meiwaku o kakenai” “don’t cause trouble for other people.” People raised in Japanese culture are ingrained with a sensitivity to how their words and actions affect others. In some situations this inhibits spontaneity, but it’s really nice to live in a culture where people instinctively have a high level of consideration for others.

Sawayaka

The Japanese language has some great adjectives and sawayaka is one of those. Dictionaries will tell you it means “refreshing” but sawayaka doesn’t really mean quenching, novel or out of the ordinary. It feels clean, fresh, clear and bright and often is used to described wholesome, healthy and eager young people or products that impart a feeling that is crisp and fresh like a white canvas sail unfurling in the breeze of a bright blue summer sky. I think the sound of it combined with the meaning make it a very attractive word.

Blue sky, white clouds, fresh-faced young woman—everything about this photo is sawayaka

Tekitô

At the end of a busy day I often get a text from my daughter asking what’s for dinner. As often as not I don’t have any definitive answer, just some vague ideas about what’s in the fridge. “Oh, that’s okay. We can just do tekitô,” is usually how she replies. A dictionary will tell you tekitô means suitable, appropriate, adequate or sufficient, but in common conversational usage it means something like “make do” or even “wing it.” Japanese culture has an affinity for precision and a focus on detail, so doing things tekitô is not considered in a particularly positive light in formal situation, but in situations involving friends or family it’s a handy way to say you’ll take care or something (including yourself) and they don’t need to worry about the details of how you’ll get it done.

Language shapes our realities and our realities are dictated by the perceptions shaped and shared within our cultures. This is why I am fascinated with words that are hard to translate. When you learn a different language and culture, you discover ways to verbalize concepts that don’t exist independently in your native culture and this helps you see the world in a new light. Sometimes this phenomenon opens you up to new ways of thinking and other times it feels like you have found a kindred spirit when that thing you have always felt without a way to describe it is finally given a name.

Less than a week after landing in Tokyo I moved to Kyoto, where I discovered they speak a dialect that, at the time, seemed like it had nothing in common with the Japanese I had studied for four years of college. For example, instead of arigato they said ookini and the polite suffix -san was now -han. Verbs conjugated differently and I started to feel like someone was playing a really bad joke on me since this language sounded nothing like what I thought Japanese was supposed to be. With time and effort I learned both standard Japanese and the local dialect as well and along the way began the process of creating my own new identity in a foreign language and culture.

Pam Ikegami lived in Japan for twelve years as an adventurer, student, wife, mom, translator and teacher. Ever grateful for all the lessons Japan has taught her, she is now a teacher of Japanese language and culture in the US. Some of her happiest and proudest moments are spent with her students, many of whom go on to study, work and live in Japan.

They threw it into my arms. “Here! You can hold it,” Fabiola, the midwife, said to me loudly as the doctor continued to joke about how nervous I looked. The newborn baby looked fragile and pink as she lay uncomfortably in my tight grasp. Her mother extended her head slightly but quickly got distracted by the surgical procedure that the gynecologist was about to perform. Fabiola quietly started to wave her hands in the air in motions that may have seemed random to any bystander. She explained to the father with a smile, “This is a Japanese form of energy healing. It’s called Reiki. It will calm her.”  We had both actually just become certified practitioners that Saturday. I stood in the corner of the room in awe.

Rana teaching women self defense during class.

The thoughtful process I was having after this experience abruptly ended due to the fast pace of my day. After the procedure had ended, I rushed over to the main building of the clinic to teach a self-defense class. Women from various rural communities all around San Miguel De Allende, Mexico came to this building to attend the course. They all participated in CASA’s public health program. The women filed into the large space that was often rented out for revenue. Bright smiles decorated their faces and loud chatter filled the grand room. I asked them to form five lines in the hall. Their excitement could be felt in the air. Like the youth I taught in NYC and in San Miguel, they giggled when I urged them to kiyap louder with every kick or punch.

A Stretching and Yoga class to promote health and wellness.

After class, one woman approached me. Her pregnant belly made it difficult for her to walk, but her smile still stretched from ear to ear. We chatted for a while about our backgrounds and cultures. Soon enough, her sister, Janette, came to join in on our conversation as the other women drifted into a small room to join a Zumba lesson that CASA hosted every week. In comparison, her lips were clenched together in a serious manner and two little children followed closely behind her. “We’re going to need those skills you know,” she interrupted abruptly. Janette then went on to tell me how her sister had been in an abusive relationship for eight years. At this point my heart dropped, and I also wanted to embrace her. As we said our goodbyes that day, she urged me never to forget her. “My name is Estrella,” she said. “You can remember me every time you look at the stars.” I told her I would come back.

Later that day when I returned to the clinic, the doctor, Manuela and I sat in the consultation room waiting for a patient. “Were you scared when you watched the birth this morning?” she asked me. We had the opportunity to discuss my encounter with Estrella, focusing on the effects her abusive relationship may have had on her pregnancy. She explained that what was needed was legislation to protect women and a society that empowered them because violence did not only take place in homes.

Rana and the team.

When Manuela worked in a public hospital, she became a witness of the violence perpetuated against female patients. Doctors overused C-sections in order to make more money. Some forced sterilization on many women because they saw mothers who were constantly pregnant as careless. One young lady once told Manuela that she did not want to come in for post-natal care because her doctor treated her poorly. Manuela said to me, “Many doctors view these women as culprits and burdens on society, but in reality these women are victims. They simply do not have knowledge of their own rights.”

As she spoke of her experience, I was somehow forced back to my experience from that morning. The mother was in obvious pain but the sight of her baby put a miraculous smile on her face. The mistreatment of doctors, structural violence and societal burdens have no right to take that smile away.

Rana Abdelhamid is a human rights activist with a strong passion for women’s rights and healthcare. Born and raised in NYC to two Egyptian parents, she was able to find a platform to express her activism through Amnesty International. For the past three summers Rana has been running a self-defense and empowerment program for young girls in her community. She is currently studying International Politics and Economics at Middlebury College and hopes to one day make a lasting contribution to the world through female empowerment.

Ajumma and Agasshi: Gangnam Style Viewer Tips

Korean Magazine reports “PSY SHOCK”, following the
surprising international success of ‘Gangnam Style’

“Ehhhhh Sexxyyy Laaddddyyy”.  By now, exposure to PSY’s Kpop/international youtube hit ‘Gangnam Style’ has extended beyond the point of a ‘niche novelty’.  It is simply impossible to avoid seeing ‘Gangnam Style’ on TV, on facebook, or hearing it in a mall or a taxi.  Looking deeper beyond the horse dance, many people outside of Korea are questioning what this Korean song might actually mean.  As an Australian who lives in Korea, I have been asked to shed a little light on what the possible themes or cultural background behind ‘Gangnam Style’ might be.  It is not easy to bring something fresh to an internet world that is already saturated with ‘Gangnam Style critiques’ that have been composed in every country and in every language around the globe.  However, I hope to perhaps elaborate on a couple of small points as to how Gangnam Style is stylistically or culturally grounded in Korean themes, and how it might be reflecting some of the social issues in modern Seoul life.  Regardless of my own personal speculation and my loose contextualization, I would not encourage anybody to view ‘Gangnam Style’ too deeply or cynically.  It is, after all, a catchy horse dance with a hypnotic beat.  Let’s start dancing.

GS Tip One: PSY Style

Firstly, one important fact that you should know before deconstructing Gangnam Style is that PSY has never been an average Korean working dude.  Most Koreans are aware that PSY’s father is a wealthy President of a very successful company in Korea.  Perhaps as a result of this, PSY feels more free and confident to sing outlandish and occasionally sexually suggestive (by Korean standards) lyrics because he grew up in a very wealthy atmosphere (most likely in Gangnam) and he was quite famous before his musical debut. PSY was informally known around the party districts as ‘the King of Nightclubs’ in the Gangnam area, as he was famous for big drinking and dancing.  In contrast to most Kpop idol stars who are recruited and trained by giant Entertainment Corporations from 13 or 14 years of age, PSY came to Kpop quite late in the game, and he debuted around the age of 25, which is a vintage age to debut, by Kpop standards.  Now, at 34 years of age, he is considered to be a dancing calcified trilobite by Kpop standards.  PSY’s personal experiences have perhaps influenced his musical themes, as he is one of the few Korean idols signed under a Kpop corporation to exclusively write and choreograph his own music.

Cartoon oddly contrasting PSY with North Korean leader Kim Jong Un

GS Tip Two: Gangnam Geography

Just to be very clear in definition, in Korean language, ‘Gangnam 강남’ literally translates as ‘South of the River’ in Korean.  Gang means river. Nam means South.  Seoul is separated in the middle by a giant river stretching from East to West.  It is called the Han River.  Property South of the Han River (including the Gangnam district) is generally much more expensive than property North of the River.  This is due to the fact that the Southern parts of Seoul developed a little later than the North, and a property boom took place South of the river around twenty years ago.  Seoul’s financial district is also located South of the River.  So in terms of housing, if someone lives in Gangnam, there is an implication that that person must be wealthy, come from a wealthy family, and they potentially live in a very expensive apartment.  That is obviously not always the case, however a number of my male and female Korean friends have joked that they would prefer to find a marriage partner from the Gangnam area (I don’t actually think they are joking…).

Map of Seoul, depicting Gangnam’s southern location

GS Tip Three: Articulating the ‘Oppa’

No one has directly explained what an ‘Oppan/Oppa’ is yet… so I think I should fill you in.

During the Chorus, PSY exclaims;

“O! O! O! O! Oppan Gangnam Style…”

An ‘Oppa’ is not an object or place, but is rather PSY referring to himself.  In Korea, a girl may refer to her older brother or any male who is older than herself (but not too much older) as her ‘Oppa’.  Oppan Gangnam Style may be loosely translated as ‘This older male is Gangnam Style’ (with PSY referring to himself in the first person).  There is no accurate translation for ‘Oppa’ in English.  Keep in mind that only women can use the term ‘Oppa’.  No Korean dude would be caught dead calling another dude ‘Oppa’.

Luigina and her Korean homestay sister making their
‘Gangnam Style’ parody video

GS Tip Four: One Shot of Coffee

PSY boasts in the song that he is the type of guy who ‘One-shots his coffee before it even cools down’.  Many non-Koreans may be wondering why it is such a big deal to drink a shot of coffee.  In Seoul, coffee is a big thing.  There are hundreds of coffee shops lining the streets of Gangnam.  It is almost impossible to walk a block without passing three to five coffee shops crammed next to and on top of each other.  Koreans, at least from my personal observations, attach some status to the idea of sitting in a cafe and drinking coffee, unlike in my native Australia, where people usually buy take-out coffee and consider it to be a wake-up beverage.  In Korea, couples can spend hours upon hours sitting in coffee shops and gazing coyly over at each other.  Korea has a severely couple-oriented culture, and I mostly sit alone in Korean coffee shops, staring spitefully at these incredibly romantic Korean couples sitting next to each other and texting love poetry.

One other interesting point to note is that coffee in Korea is much more expensive than a lot of food in Korea.  For example, in Seoul I usually spend about 4 to 5,000 Korean won on lunch, but maybe 6,000 won on coffee.  For this reason, coffee is still considered to be somewhat of a luxury in Seoul, as it is considered to be seriously overpriced and for people who aren’t pinching their pennies.

GS Tip Five: Rich and Showy, or Poor and Showy

Gangnam is often criticized and stereotyped in Korea as the more arrogant, capitalist-focused, and perhaps less traditional part of Seoul.  The real original residents of Gangnam may have been farmers, who became millionaires overnight when a property boom ignited in the Gangnam region in the late 80s and early 90s.  The original image of Gangnam was not of sophistication, but of a new class of wealthy individuals who sprung from a lower, perhaps agricultural class of people.  Those first original property holders probably don’t have the time or the interest these days to wonder freely boasting that they are ‘from Gangnam’, but there are certainly a large number of Seoulites who travel to Gangnam from less glitzy parts of Seoul who attempt to schlepp some luxury products around and boast loudly that they are ‘from Gangnam’.  Alternatively, a young person may try to find the oldest and tiniest two-square-meter ‘apartment’ in Gangnam at an exorbitant price just to drop into conversation that they ‘live in Gangnam’ (they will probably never let you visit their apartment, however, just to keep some mystery about their economic circumstances).  You know when you are sitting among the real deal when you sit in a Gangnam coffee shop, and you look over to see a group of 60-year old women dripping with excessive jewellery, clutching the most difficult to find Birkin and Hermes bags, sporting fur jackets, and possibly dark designer glasses.  This is ‘real Gangnam’, and these may be the original wives of those first men who profited from the property boom when Gangnam originally became the shiny and unlikely embodiment of Western-style capitalism in Korea.

The visual paradoxes in ‘Gangnam Style’ are plentiful and reflect the differences between the slick appearance and the hard reality of so-called ‘Gangnam-style’. The opening scene depicts PSY being fanned by a beautiful woman and we assume that he is residing at a luxury holiday resort, only to realize that he is actually sitting on a deck chair positioned in an inner-city children’s playground when the camera pans out.  We see PSY rapping with a disco ball spinning above his head, but we quickly realize that he is not in a nightclub, but rather inside a bus surrounded by discoing Korean grandmothers.

GS Tip Six: Gangnam Yoga

One memorable scene in ‘Gangnam Style’ is when PSY leans over and screams at the angling rumps of Korean women partaking in an outdoor yoga class.  Yoga as a women’s exercise trend peaked in Australia and Europe years ago, and these days Yoga has been surpassed in most countries by Pilates, Pole Dancing, Spin, Body Balance, and other exercise fads in Western countries.  In Korea, however, and especially in Gangnam, there has been a recent spike in interest in ‘sexy body line’ yoga for women, and it has now been appropriated as a hobby for upper class women, with luxurious and often exclusive yoga clubs opening up in the Gangnam area with excessive membership fees.  As such, yoga in Korea is not considered so much a ‘hobbie’, but perhaps an extension of the status symbol afforded to Gangnam women by luxury brands and expensive coffees.

GS Tip Seven: Mafia

There is still an underlying assumption in Korea that men with tattooed arms and backs are members of the socially feared 조폭 Korean mafia.  In Gangnam Style, when PSY is sitting in the Korean bathhouse with his supposedly ‘high class Gangnam friends’, it is apparent that these are not in truth ‘high class Gangnam citizens’, but are in fact Korean gangsters, with their broad physiques and heavily tattooed bodies.  For Koreans, it would be apparent how ridiculous this bathhouse scene appears, especially because historically, tattooed men in Korea were refused entry to Korean bathhouses.  We are left to ponder why is a supposedly ‘high-class Gangnam guy’ sweating it out in the sauna with these questionable mafia members?

PSY bathing with Korean gangsters

GS Tip Eight: Dark Glasses

PSY is now recognized globally for his taste in dark sunglasses, but sunglasses are not really as commonly worn in Korea as they are in other countries.  Twenty or thirty years ago in Korea, it would have been very difficult find Koreans walking on the street wearing sunglasses.  In Australia, dark sunglasses have a functional purpose, as the Australian sun can be harsh and can impair vision when driving.  However, in Korea, sunglasses are NOT employed for any functional purpose, but rather are worn as an accessory to exude a new economic confidence by the younger generation (and sometimes by older women on vacation and occasionally the odd old Korean man channelling a 70s disco mogul).  Dark glasses in Korea are often worn by young men inside Korean coffee shops staring blankly at their ipads, hoping that other Koreans are watching them.  In Gangnam, from my personal observations, dark glasses are often worn indoors for the purpose of posing, not unlike characters you might witness on the streets of London or Sydney.  There is no practical function here at all. So when PSY wears his dark glasses inside the sauna or bus it is certainly for the amusement of his Korean audience, because when a Korean guy wears dark glasses in Gangnam there is an assumption that; “This arrogant dude thinks he’s famous”.

GS Tip Nine: Age Difference

PSY as a ‘Korean rapper’ differs in many ways to most renowned American rappers.  While an aging Snoop Dogg grinds against a busty 20 year old in an American hip hop music video, PSY glances longingly from a distance at his Gangnam Style ‘romantic interest’ in a subway station.  PSY’s romantic interest in the music video is the famous 21-year-old Korean idol star known as 현아 ‘Hyuna’, from popular Korean girl group ‘4minute’.  The romantic/dance pairing of Hyuna and PSY would be somewhat unexpected for Koreans, as in Korean culture, large age gaps between romantic couples are generally socially uncommon and frowned upon, and it is highly unlikely that a beautiful idol like Hyuna’s 딱내스타일 ‘personal style’ would equate with a chunky rotund grown man such as PSY. It almost feels as though PSY could be Hyuna’s father or jolly Uncle, making it even more absurd for Koreans to admire their comic dance sequence in the music video.

Everyone from Israel to Brazil can interpret ‘Gangnam
Style’ in their own personal way

Gangnam Style Summation:

Gangnam Style, as a Korean language song, and with its paunchy Uncle-like protagonist, has been an unexpected hit.  This hit is certainly a move in the right direction for Kpop, as it veers away from the overwhelming beauty-plus-beat Korean pop that is usually exported abroad.  While ‘Gangnam Style’ may potentially convey some subtle points on a new and possibly dangerous level of materialism that has transfixed the youth of Korea, the song itself was written for enjoyment, and probably not as a deep social commentary.  If a message was to be construed from the exciting frivolity of ‘Gangnam Style’, it might be that young Koreans are living far beyond their means, seduced by an incomplete promise of fame and fortune in Gangnam.  The symbolism of PSY on the merry-go-round hints at an overwhelmingly materialistic sect of society that will inevitably get stuck going around and around in the futile pursuit of wealth and glamour.

Luigina Webb is originally Australian but has studied abroad in Israel, the US, and South Korea, where she now works as an interpreter in a Korean trading company. She has traveled to over thirty countries. Luigina owns a large collection of Korean traditional hats and headdresses sourced from all over Korea. You can check out her blog at http://www.luiginakorea.com/

Caravansarai: More Than Carpet Shopping in Turkey

Every traveler aches to possess the same freedom: to experience the unknown and to thrive in it— if not survive through it! Spiritual wanderers like Siddhartha seeking enlightenment and legendary heroes like the Roman poet Vergil’s fated hero Aeneas embarking on a tortuous journey to found Rome, and the “real guys” the ones who didn’t know the earth was round and floated out to sea—They were like our modern-day astronauts. I envy the sense of adventure that Marco Polo (b.1254-d.1324) and  Ibn Battuta (b. 1304 – d.1368/69) must have felt, navigating deserts and oceans on end, resting in caravansarais along the Silk Road. The world is smaller than it was during their time, and while the sites we visit like the forum in Rome don’t resemble the citadels of activity they once were, what survives possesses an inherent beauty that continues to captivate. One of the active cross-roads of the Silk Road lies between Cappadocia and Konya, the location of my first visit to central Turkey!

At the time I accompanied a colleague researching for her thesis on the Sufi philosopher and poet Mevlana, also known as Rumi, and the whirling dervishes. My mental prep for the trip involved reading a luscious page-turner. My name is Red by the contemporary Turkish novelist Orhan Pamuk is a murder mystery about Ottoman court painters during the sixteenth century. Beyond my coursework in Islamic art, I didn’t prepare much because my colleague planned each day. My favorite visits included the Ataturk Musezi (the house museum of the father of modern-day Turkey) and Les Arts Turcs, an arts organization in Istanbul, where we met the artist standing with my friend in the photo below.

One day we bathed in a gorgeous and  famous Ottoman hamam. A bit awkwardly, I received a bikini wax in a quasi-public space from a woman with the curves of an ancient fertility statuette. She wore nothing but a bikini bottom. Not my usual routine but pleasant enough! Afterward she lathered some soap while I lay on a giant marble slab and stared up at the starlike lights on the ceiling. Rinsed off with water poured from a metal jug, I dried and ran scented oils through my hair. My friend and I donned robes and sat for tea in a beautiful wood-paneled area. Had we wanted a massage or mani-pedi, we could have spent a lot more time there! Later we soaked up hamam-fashion at the museum, where accoutrement for the ritual tradition of bathing in Turkey is on view.

Pictured above are custom embroidered linens and late 19th century Ottoman sandals, made from wood and mother of pearl inla

A typical experience for two female travel companions walking down the streets in Konya involves young men approaching them on every street, eager to give unofficial tours around the city. Initially put off by this form of public harassment, my girlfriend and I resolved to turn a seemingly inconvenient and otherwise uncomfortable predicament into our advantage.

Firstly, two foreign women wandering alone in a conservative country sometimes warrants a voluntary male to escort them. While many young people wear more European clothes in Istanbul, in Konya (an old Seljuq capital) they are especially proud of their religion and rules for traditional apparel and appropriate behavior are followed. Secondly, most suit-wearing guys we met were working as carpet sellers who hoped we would follow them to patronize their shops. It was an educational experience for me particularly because of my background in textile studies, and I love carpets!

Thirdly, we spent a longer period in Konya than most visitors, and had planned our visit during the off-season, which allowed our relationships with locals to blossom into friendships that would last beyond the trip. When it came to trusting perfect strangers, we learned how to screen our new friends quickly, and ensure that each other felt comfortable with them through initial conversations. We avoided guys who were pushy, stared a lot, those who invaded our personal space or had questionable motives. We learned to provide our phone numbers rarely, if at all. Sounds silly but it’s important to be able to read people to make decent friends abroad quickly! And exit strategies were necessary in case new friends became disagreeable company. One of the absolute nicest perks about making local friends is getting to visit the most interesting parts of a city.  One evening in Konya, we enjoyed a spectacular view atop a hill scaled in our new friend’s car. We ate etliekmek, or Turkish pizza in a restaurant and watched women expertly roll the dough on squat stools just outside.

Speaking of company, what a blessing to have an experienced traveling companion to help maintain my sanity when plans go off course. For example, the feeling of being lost or misguided is unpleasant, but happens frequently while traveling. Just when I need someone to go with the flow and choose to smile instead of frown, they rise to the occasion. Unplanned expenses, like a flight reschedule(!), can be particularly upsetting. On my most recent trip to Istanbul I traveled with an Iranian friend, and this is exactly what happened. Somehow he kept a cool head about everything. In fact, he managed to make me feel happy that I had six more hours to enjoy Turkey because I missed my flight. By saying things like ”Now we get to visit that restaurant we liked again and try another dish!” or “Don’t worry, I don’t mind the wait,” he made me feel better. I’ll admit that understanding the language would have helped. It’s laughable now how impossibly difficult it was for me to communicate in Turkish to make the simplest inquiry. I relied on many kind Turkish people who gave me directions with their hands or assisted me in restaurants to order when English translations or pictures weren’t on the menu, and all I could do in response was smile and say, “Teshakor!” (= Thank you!)

While bargaining in Istanbul’s grand bazaar  for a small, sand-colored kilim I was met with an argument from an elderly carpet dealer who told me he had to fly to Philadelphia for his leg surgery, lamenting the lower standard of local care and the cost of the trip. Didn’t I think the carpet was worth what he asked?! Fearful of offending him or even of appearing ungrateful for healthcare in the U.S., I settled on a higher price. In retrospect, I would have not been pressured in the least. I learned a lot since that first trip, including the fact that some carpets for the souvenir market in Turkey are actually made more cheaply in China, and it is sometimes impossible to identify something special from a fake, whether a carpet is made of silk or a silk-like fiber, for example in the pile carpet above.

At this point I’ve also learned to be less alarmed (or charmed!) by the things people say in the market, and especially regarding purchases. This is essential for travelers who like to shop but don’t want to get ripped off or make a mistake. Carpet dealers in Turkey make it nearly impossible for you to “just look,” and they’re very skilled! I’ve learned a little mantra for myself in situations when I feel stressed which is “Let. It. Go.” If I like the carpet and the price, that’s great. If I can get it home, that’s great too. If not, there will be plenty more in the next shop- no matter what the dealers say!

On one of these visits to a vacant carpet museum in Konya, the veritable age of the fabric on display struck me as so beautiful that I had to ask myself why. Someone had gingerly sewn every ragged and scraggly bit to a blank canvas in order to display the original geometric and floral pattern, still recognizable beneath the dust of time. Debates persist over the significance of the dense vegetal and geometric patterns that prevail throughout the history of art of Islamic lands. In addition to symbolism and images of figures or characters from epic poems and stories, what attracts me to Islamic art isn’t always the context or narrative expressed so much as the color, repetition, geometry and floral patterning.

I think the mind enjoys designs on an old carpet like pieces of a puzzle, in unexpected color combinations, lines and shapes, the result of someone else’s decisions centuries prior. It’s easy to imagine a pattern continuing beyond edges and through interruptions (like moth holes and the erosion of wool dyed with a certain element.) The design transcends its placement on a torn piece of fabric and from the context of the hands of the person who created it to something infinite, continuous and ever-present. It possesses aspects of its intended attractiveness in addition to the mystery of age.

I let my mind wander to the time of the Silk Road, and the experience of artisans and merchants from diverse walks of life settling in caravansarais. About a days journey each apart, they constituted a vast network stretching across Europe and Asia. Plain and square architectural structures, caravansarais have large courtyards surrounded by a perimeter space for cargo, animals, booths and lodgings above.  Massive and heavily decorated portals accommodated camels laden with goods. There’s hardly a modern equivalent as symbolic of an age of travel as the caravansarai and none that functions in the same way. I wonder if somehow sharing the space for a brief period (of about three days at a time) encouraged the travelers within to learn to trust strangers more quickly or at least learn to enjoy one another’s company more. And I wonder what it would be like if the travelers that I imagine inhabiting the caravansarai were women instead of men, which seems more likely. Recently while working at the The Metropolitan Museum of Art, I struck up a conversation with a young couple visiting from Turkey. When the man learned about my interest in Rumi, he asked if I’d ever read “The 40 Rules of Love” by contemporary Turkish writer Elif Shafak. Since my first visits to Turkey, I’ve learned a bit more about the award-winning female novelist whose fascinating TED talk on storytelling called “The Politics of Fiction” can be found at this link. Beautiful and eloquent, Shafak shares her international upbringing, female mentorship, the challenge of writing fiction as a Turkish woman including a trial she faced because of something a character in her book uttered, and the threat of identity politics that multicultural writers experience.  She uses the image of the circle, and movement of the whirling dervish, to express her views on how people must open their hearts and minds beyond what they know to live more fully and healthily in society and in the world. She strives for her work to be both “local and universal.”

Shafak is speaking like a traveler, open to new experiences while both invigorated and challenged by the necessary risks involved including learning to trust others and oneself.  For me travel is also about the chance to truly rest and be in a new place. As for how I might have fared along the Silk Road in its hay-day, I wouldn’t have enjoyed moving farther and farther away from what I love and know best including my family, friends and culture. Maybe the ideal time to be a traveler is now, while it is possible to hold onto the best of both worlds no matter where I am.

As a final thought on making friends in Turkey, below is a Sufi poem quoted by the celebrated female writer Elif Shafak at the close of her TED talk:

Colleen is an art and design professional living in New York City. A Pennsylvania native, Colleen has studied in Italy and in Thailand as a Fulbright Fellow. Her column Caravansarai celebrates the traveler’s impulse to shop, decorate, and view art. Named after the palatial inns along the Silk Road, Caravansarai explores exotic marketplaces, creative fora, gardens, and museums.

Another Paris: France Remembers the Shoah

When visitors arrive in Paris, they often come with a checklist of museums to visit: the Musée d’Orsay, the Centre Pompidou, the almighty Louvre. For the tourist who makes a rare visit to Paris, maybe just once in a lifetime, the individual and temporary exhibits in these institutions don’t usually matter so much. What matters are the flagship artistic monuments: Mona Lisa, the Thinker, and the van Gogh collection. Science and history museums are sidelined for their artistic kin. Trips to the Cité des Sciences and the Musée Carnavalet are reserved for long stays in the city or for locals themselves. But there’s one temporary exhibition at the Hotel de Ville this autumn that deserves a closer look, even if it’s not housed in a real museum.

Titled “They Were Children” (“C’étaient des enfants”), the exhibit at the city hall of Paris unravels the painful history of the deportation and murder of French Jews during the Second World War.

To a foreigner, perhaps a North American foreigner especially, an exhibit on the Holocaust does not seem particularly different, current, or interesting. We’ve seen Holocaust museums before. European tourism bureaus already cater to history buffs of the Second World War and Holocaust memorials have long been established throughout Europe. France alone contains more than 40 different exhibits and museums on the genocide of the Jews. But “They Were Children” is different, and its story’s fundamental difference has been the source of great controversy and deep division in France since the war.

Exhibition poster stretching across the side of the Hotel de Ville. The mayor’s office has heavily advertised the controversial exhibition.

In brief, “They Were Children” is the most public and prominent effort of the French government to recognize the nation’s own responsibility in the genocide. Called the Shoah here, French schoolchildren and adults have long conceived of the Holocaust as a European catastrophe, a terrible event which the Republic was not able to stop. The history revealed in the exhibit, however, tells a different and much more difficult story of the French collaboration in the systematic deportation and extermination of Jews, Romanis, and other groups unfavorable to the German Nazi regime. The exhibit recasts what was always considered a foreign sin as a national sin.

Detailed in the exhibit, the history of the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup and subsequent deportations is short and violent. Between July 16 and 17, 1942, the French police rounded up 12,884 Jews in occupied Paris under the orders of the German authorities. Of these, 4,115 were children. Pulling them from their homes, the French police locked them in the Véledrome d’Hiver (the Vel’ d’Hiv), a winter stadium for cycling in southwestern Paris. In late July and August, adults were deported to Auschwitz and children were sent to Drancy, just northeast of Paris, until being deported to Auschwitz themselves in late August 1942. Of the 12,884 deported to Auschwitz, about 600 adults and 200 children survived.

“Exhibit visitors learn about the French collaboration in the deportation of Jews during Nazi occupation.”

“They Were Children” makes these facts available and undeniable to the public for the first time in French history. And it is remarkable to think that the exhibit itself almost never happened. Since the Vichy regime had ordered evidence of the roundup to be destroyed, historians had little evidence from the police administration to display to the public until now. It would never have been possible to tell this story if not for a chance discovery made two years ago of police documents, which provided physical evidence for what was always known but willfully forgotten and ignored. In the small exhibit, personal items from victims are displayed alongside their yellow star “Juif” badges. Countless photographs framed austerely in white haunt the walls with the faces and souls that were destroyed. What is most harrowing to witness at the Hotel de Ville is how the executive orders from the Vichy regime’s police sit beside the poems and letters of the same children and parents the regime helped to kill.

“A few years ago, [the exhibit] would not have been possible,” Charles Tremil, a Parisian historian responsible for the exhibit said in the New York Times. In addition to the lack of tangible evidence, there was a lack of political will for decades for the state to delve back into the terrors of the Second World War. As Scott Sayare wrote for the Times, the first time the French government publicly acknowledged national responsibility for the deportation and extermination of the Jews was in 1995, when President Jacques Chirac addressed France’s “collective wrongdoing.” Chirac’s own mentor, President François Mitterrand, refused to make such a statement during his administration and said in 1992 that there should be no “accounting from the public” on national responsibility for crimes committed during the war. In July, when the exhibit opened on the 70th anniversary of the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup, current French President François Hollande said that “The truth is that the crime was committed in France, by France.”

Exhibit visitors learn about the French collaboration in the deportation of Jews during Nazi occupation.”

To an outsider, “They Were Children” provides a window into both the difficult history of the Holocaust in France and the difficult political dynamic of national guilt and sin. When I walked into the Hotel de Ville with a French friend, I felt that I was learning someone else’s history–the history of France and Europe–and not my own. I had bought into the belief that the Holocaust was a European catastrophe for which my nation, the United States, could not bear responsibility. But on walking out of the exhibit, it is hard to maintain that conviction. Just as French visitors began to acknowledge their country’s partial responsibility for the catastrophe, I began to come to terms with my own country’s terrible mistakes during the Second World War.

In the buildup to the war, Congress repeatedly refused to loosen immigration restrictions to allow more immigrants and refugees from Europe to land on our shores. Especially true for Eastern Europeans, these policies disproportionately affected European Jews who sought to flee the impending calamity. As historian David Wyman writes, even while there was great moral concern in the United States for what the Nazi regime might bring, “the United States and its Allies were willing to attempt almost nothing to save the Jews.”

While a visit to the Hotel de Ville to witness “They Were Children” is not a joyous or entertaining checkbox on the tourist’s list of museums to visit in Paris, it is a deeply meaningful and moving experience. Museums are often sterile and stagnate. They display fragments of history, culture, and science preserved in airtight glass cases and selected by the political elite. But “They Were Children” is bold. By bravely resurrecting a chapter of French history that few want to discuss, “They Were Children” succeeds in encouraging national reflection on the Second World War. In doing this, it invites an even larger dialogue on national history, memory, and responsibility for French and foreigners alike.

“They Were Children: The Deportation and Rescue of Jewish Children in Paris” (“C’étaient des enfants: Déportation et sauvetage des enfants juifs à Paris) is free and open to the public at the Hotel de Ville until October 27, 2012. It is open every day from 10 AM to 7 PM and is hosted by the Marie de Paris. The exhibit is only in French.

Anthony Chase is interested in the ‘democracy of everyday,’ the ways in which individuals perform and perceive the social contract in daily life. He is also interested in Islam, minority rights, and diversity. Originally from Michigan, Anthony currently works for a French development organization and lives in Paris.

Two Bowls of Rice: The Other Side of a Smile

When I walk down the street, I don’t smile anymore. Instead, I wear a stoic expression, keep my eyes looking straight ahead and my hands in my pockets in an effort to keep my surroundings at a distance. I  know that I appear rude, stand-offish and downright mean looking. It wasn’t always this way. In my past life living in the U.S.A., I happily smiled and nodded fellow runners, walkers and bikers as we passed each other on the street., cheerfully waved to my neighbors and generally kept a relaxed, welcoming expression on my face. When I moved to S.E. Asia, I kept that expression on my face and I humored the locals who would laugh, stare and openly point at the silly foreign girl with her reusable bag she brought to the market, who would gaily walk to her destination despite the heat and stumble over the language determinedly. I would smile and politely shake my head when a tuk tuk driver or moto driver asked me for the umpteenth time if I wanted a ride and would even go as far to give them a spoken response, which always resulted in them following me even farther. As a foreigner, it is amusing and, dare I say, flattering, the amount of attention we receive in Asia simply because of our appearance; back in our respective countries we are just another face in the crowd, but in Asia, our fair skin, sharp noses and tall frames make us stand out. And because I stand out, lots of attention is showered on me from excited children practicing their English to tuk tuk and moto drivers hoping to make a couple bucks and people who simply pause and take a moment to look at me.  Eventually though, the attention became more annoying than amusing and the smile slipped from my face.

Tuk Tuk, anyone?

I really didn’t want it to reach this point and I realize I’m making the choice to not be friendly, but unless you have never been to Cambodia before, you don’t know what it is like to constantly be harangued because you stand out. This is especially true in the capital city of Phnom Penh; the second you step out the door acts as an invite for tuk tuk and moto drivers to constantly pull up beside you and ask if you want a ride, repeatedly, despite having already said no politely the first time and despite the fact they just saw you say no to the previous person who asked. Or to have people stare at you like you’re on display at the zoo, when really you’re just walking down the street to go to the store and buy some soap. Or to have people point and laugh at you for something seemingly mundane, like doing for a jog.  The attention by no means has malicious undertones, but it is inherently frustrating for someone, such as myself, coming from a culture that frowns upon staring and bothering strangers.

Personally, I have found myself even more frustrated by the total disregard for the word “no”, whether in English or the respective country’s language.  It’s not just a one-time-only annoyance, something every foreigner living abroad has to suffer through before it eventually settles.  This especially applies to the tuk tuk and moto drivers prowling the streets.  Instead, your polite “no’s and shakes of your head will be continually ignored and every single day you will be asked by the same drivers, interspersed with new ones.  That is why I started ignoring them; it just got too much to walk down the street constantly saying “no, no, no” and having my polite rebuttals hit a wall, a very thick wall.

After a while…you start to see things differently.

In conjunction with the lack of respect of “no”, there seems to be no concept of when enough is enough. Not only do the tuk tuk and moto drivers ignore your negative responses, but they continually ask, every day. Not only do people stare at you, but the same people stare every single day, as if overnight you grew an extra limb. The attention can be daunting and can start to seem like a curse. Everyday you have to venture outside your door knowing that attention will be showered on you, against your will. It’s a lot to stomach, especially someone like myself who is quite shy, and that is why I chose to start ignoring people rather than acknowledging their attempts at getting my attention.

The longer you live in a country of choice, the less “foreign” it feels and the it begins to feel  like “home”, yet you are constantly reminded of your foreignness and that, at the end of the day, you  are not a local and will never be treated as such. It seems that no matter what we do, learn the language, dress appropriately, or leave our flashing cameras at home, we are still branded as tourists; as temporary visitors that warrant staring and constant heckling.  Is it fair to get  upset? It seems the one thing that can’t be shed as easily as a camera or learned like a language is the deep undertones of what is considered right and wrong in our own culture. Both parties are trying to impose their own cultural values and ideals on the other and no matter how hard the other side pushes back it always ends the same; in a stalemate.

I was reminded of this not too long ago when I was doing some I consider a mundane routine: going for a morning run. Apparently though, to the parking attendant who worked at the stadium where I go running, seeing a foreign woman running was an occurrence that warranted attention. The first day he mocked my running form and followed me, I gave him a polite smile and shake of the head that I thought would indicate that I thought what he was doing was silly, but stupid. The second day it happened, I gave him a disapproving look. The third day it happened, I ignored him. But that wasn’t enough; for 3 weeks I endured this man following me and harassing me while I was running. I ignored him as best I could, but eventually, I snapped and I yelled at him aggressively in Khmer.  Afterwards, I ran the rest of the way home crying and felt so utterly defeated; I couldn’t answer the question of what his intentions were. Was he trying to make me laugh? Or was he trying to make others laugh at my expense? Were his intentions malicious? Or was he just trying to play around? I started to develop a “us” versus “them” mentality and I cursed myself for even nursing such thoughts as, “Why do I have to put up with this, why can’t they change?” How do you find that balance between doing the things that are “normal” for you and trying your best to understand and immerse yourself in another culture?

Some days it’s a challenge not to feel like a spectacle.

Perhaps, our cultural upbringing really does play more a role in our everyday lives than we want to admit and maybe we can never truly let them go like they are balloons our 5 year old self is clinging tightly to, afraid the wind might steal our treasured prize.  Yet, there’s always that moment when you contemplate what it would be like to let go and watch the balloons float away into the never ending azure sky; you cling tightly to the balloons into that moment and you cling so hard that your fingernails dig into your palms, but the pain fades away as one by one you uncurl your fingers.

Jess Watson has a passion for travel and an eye for adventure. Once upon a time she didn’t think she’d be writing about her travels, but in the summer of 2010 she had an epiphany and threw away the excuses and the self-doubt and packed up her bags to go live and teach in Bangkok, Thailand. That was the first time she listened to her heart, and she’s been doing so ever since. Over a year and a half later, and Jess has listened to her instinct and lived and taught in Thailand, Myanmar(Burma) and Cambodia, her current home and traveled extensively, both on and off the beaten track. Jess believes in raw travel, the kind where your brand-new pants get dirty, you find yourself in a nameless village where no on speaks English and your eyes are sore from seeing too much. Check out her personal blog, www.journeyingjess.wordpress.com and follow her on twitter, @journeyingjess.

This year I coached lacrosse at a boarding school in England. Sports here are much different than in America. There are very few organized sports leagues for children and adults, and the few clubs that exist are pretty costly. In school, many participate in sports, but the seasonal ones are separated by gender: Men play rugby, women play lacrosse; men play football, women play netball; men play cricket, women play rounders. Besides being separate from boys, girls just don’t seem to want to participate in sports, and don’t understand why they should. Growing up playing sports my whole life, they shaped my identity, empowered, and inspired me. They pushed me to question gender norms, write my thesis on female athlete representation, and seek a job empowering other young girls through sport. But I found that few girls in England shared my passion and felt instead disempowered by sport. These girls are constantly worried about being sweaty, looking unkempt, becoming “too strong” and therefore, “too butch.” On my team most of the girls showed up to practice with their hair down with generous amounts of makeup applied to their faces. When I asked one of my star players, Connie, why this was she responded, “Well, I didn’t really wear it last year, before I came here, but here everyone wears it, so you kind of have to.” This quote exemplifies the importance of appearance in their society. While this is congruous with American society, it doesn’t exactly match the female athlete society in America. From my experience, many female athletes in the US don’t wear make-up while they play their sport because they either feel that, a) it will just come off or smudge or, b) that they don’t need it. Sport, for women in England, is like any other daily event; it’s another chance to show off one’s beauty and appearance, and not necessarily a time to build strength and skill.

For these reasons, women’s sports are never watched, let alone televised, and there is little advertising that caters towards female athletes instead of female “fitties” (who practice Zumba, yoga, job etc). In fact, I have been told that around 80% of all female Britons do not even own a sports bra, and my own team certainly reflected this statistic.

This is why I was nervous for London 2012.

Like everyone living in the UK, and especially working as a PE teacher and coach, the Olympic games were the most anticipated event of the year. The country couldn’t seem to be more excited for the Games with countdowns on the news, new Olympic signage all over town and merchandise at every street corner in London. Virtual tours of the park were online, pubs bought new TV screens and every newspaper had something new to say about the Games every single day. But naturally, because of my experience coaching and living in this country, I was worried that the women would be shut out, that I wouldn’t see advertisement for female sports and athletes, and that the advertisements I did see would be demeaning and disempowering.

After all, before the games had started I had heard about an Australian 8-time Olympic Medalist called “fat” by the Melbourne Sun; I had heard that the two Saudi Arabian female athletes have their own page on twitter, #prostituteoftheolympics; and I had heard that the Japanese women’s soccer team, Australian women’s basketball and Australian women’s soccer teams were going to fly economy, while their less successful male counterparts were going to fly business.

I expected to be disappointed by England, but over the next few weeks I was pleasantly surprised. In London 2012, for the first time there are female representatives from all 204 participating countries, more female than male athletes in the United States, and a higher proportion of female athletes than ever before (44%). There are women competing from Iraq and Saudi Arabia, and women’s boxing, and women’s track cycling have been added to the games. When the Games started there were billboards, TV programs and articles all featuring UK athletes, male and female; there were interviews, commercials, and magazines proud to show off their female talent. There were TV shorts that focused solely on the female athletes’ accomplishments rather than their family life, emotional troubles, or appearance. While there were certainly some oversexualizing and feminizing articles in the media, I was generally pleased with the media that genuinely wanted to celebrate the accomplishments of its athletes.

The Crowd in Hyde Park

For example, when Jessica Ennis won the gold for the Heptathlon for the UK, almost every major newspaper in London had her on the cover. One was entitled, “Six Pack,” (Sun) with a picture of Ennis’ abs on the cover. While this photo and title do focus on Ennis’ appearance, it is not in a derogatory way because it emphasizes her muscularity rather than sexual appeal, and plays on the fact that the UK won six medals that weekend. By Brits she is known as the Poster Girl for the Olympic Games, and while she was only one of six athletes to win a medal that weekend, she was on virtually every cover. Citizenship, rather than gender, seemed to be the only thing that mattered during the Games. A win is a win, is a win, seemed to be the mentality, rather than a beauty, a body, a face.

Further, the BBC has the greatest contributor to the equality of the games in the UK. They show no commercials, and therefore promote no gender biases so commonly present in this form of media. Every single event is available to watch whether you have cable or not, and on their menu the sports are not listed in terms of gender. It is merely swimming, and football, not men’s swimming, women’s swimming, men’s football and women’s football, respectively. In this way, the dominant network not only equalizes but unites the genders in the Games. I love the Olympics for its ability to unite a world, simultaneously inspiring national pride and competition, and finally it seemed that this year, at least in England, women and men would unite, too.

Watching the Olympics in a social environment in the UK, however, was a completely different experience to analyzing the media surrounding it. In fact, it was the exact opposite. During the Games, one of my British (girl) friends commented, “Did you see her arm fat?” and another, “she as an OK body– for a girls’ swimmer,” and another, “she looks absolutely terrible.” I even counted one of my friend’s comments to the television while watching women’s events and there was one positive comment for every two negative comments. And these were not unique experiences; a senior UK Athletics official was recorded calling Jessica Ennis “fat” and “carrying too much weight.” (She’s 5’5” and weighs 126 pounds.) While on the one hand the Britons couldn’t seem to be prouder of their athletes, they couldn’t shake their appearance-based nature and had forgotten the other part of their identity they needed to be proud of— strong, resilient, independent femininity, in addition to the medals themselves. While these women were all in their mid-20’s, I could picture the girls on my lacrosse team making similar comments, searching out the for “prettiest” athletes, and the “prettiest” sports.

While one might think it fascinating how these encounters work in contrast to American stereotypes of Brits, one could argue that they don’t at all. American cartoons such as the Simpsons and Family Guy are most telling of the British stereotypes we have; usually the characters have bad teeth, big noses and chins, and very pale skin. Interestingly, these personifications are almost always male. The female Brit is usually posh and pretty (Mom in Parent Trap, Eliza Doolittle, Ms. Kensington in Austin Powers) unless she is a villain in a movie. Therefore Americans, too, reemphasize this appearance-oriented female society just as the Brits themselves.

Jessica Ennis is an example of a Brit who personifies the struggle between female athlete and pretty female athlete. While she managed to stay resilient when confronted about her “fat” comment, she still plays into the same female UK pressures remarking that she “never leaves the house without eyeliner and mascara and wears full makeup to compete.” She battles one insecurity with another, therefore negating her attempts to debunk female athlete stereotypes.

The Olympics are centered on the human form and its abilities, so it is inevitable that body types, muscles, and weight will all be discussed. However, as these athletes are unequivocally the best in the world, these different forms should be celebrated, not critiqued. The question we need to consider is not, ‘who are we to judge these athletes’ bodies,’ but ‘why are we to judge these athletes’ bodies?’ Why do we let men’s teams travel business and the women in economy? Why should Leisel Jones receive more press about her body than her achievements? Why does Ennis feel she needs to wear makeup before leaving the house? These are the questions that beckon us to think about the nature of our societies that allow these inequalities to exist and be perpetuated.

On the one hand the UK, and specifically the BBC, made significant strides surrounding the media of female athletes, but on the other hand it seemed that the very people who support these athletes are still stuck in an over-feminizing bubble that not only reflects but creates the society they live in. I was generally pleased by the UK coverage but simultaneously devastated by my friends’ comments. I finally understood why my lacrosse girls wore makeup, their hair down, and felt the way they did about their appearance. The media attempted to depict its athletes fairly, but for the first time in my life, it seemed, the media wasn’t the central problem, it was the people. My thesis concludes that the media normalizes negative notions of femininity, and that without a fair media women’s achievements will always be belittled. But from this experience I realized that it is not just the media that normalizes. It is us, the people under the media, the regular people with no real political, economical or media power that perpetuate these stereotypes just as much as, if not more than the media because of our social power. I finally understood that blaming the media is sometimes too easy, and that we have to look underneath. We have to examine ourselves, our families, our schools, our actions. And lastly, we have to empower and educate individually, one girl, boy, man, or woman at a time before the makeup will come off, before women can ride business class, too, and most importantly, before female athletes just become athletes.

That said, regardless of the media, the social context, or critique, the Olympics this year were mesmerizing for any UK citizen. The Games’ mission was to “inspire a generation,” and they certainly did as demonstrated by extra funding in schools and new sports clubs formed this summer. While at times I was disappointed by my friends’ appearance-centric comments, I can’t say that I wasn’t moved by their patriotism. I sat next to my friends, quietly watching on the couch as they jumped for Victoria Pendleton’s bicycling, hooted for Ennis’ heptathlon events, sat frozen for Helen Glover and Heather Stanning’s rowing. After each event they jumped up and down, cheered and most certainly cried for these gold-medal victories they couldn’t believe, and couldn’t digest. They felt they had won the medals themselves because they felt the same bursting pride as the athletes, the same love for their country. By the end of the events their passion became contagious, and I found myself also screaming for Mo Farah and biting my nails for Andy Murray. I had lived in the UK for over eleven months complaining about female sports, female attitude toward sport and the media, but it wasn’t until watching the Olympics and cheering with my friends that I realized I too, had my own British pride, and I too, truly loved this country.

Sarah Warner graduated from Vassar College in 2011 majoring in American Cultures with a minor in Hispanic Studies. She played lacrosse all four years and studied abroad in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Sarah concentrated in Sociology and Education and wrote her thesis on Female Athlete representation in the media from 1972-2010. This past year she coached Lacrosse, Sailing and Physical Education at a boarding school in England, but is now working in Cypress Hills as a College Counselor. Sarah is originally from Ipswich, Massachusetts but currently lives in the Lower East Side.

Ajumma and Agasshi: Hello Princess!!

In Seoul: A pink bedroom of a Korean Princess.

Living in South Korea as a foreign woman, I almost always feel as though I am living a double life.  When I first flew from Australia to Seoul three years ago, I fully expected that my life would revolve around become immersed in Korean language classes, learning Taekwondo, and mixing with Korean people.  This all seemed very straight-forward. Until I arrived, and  I soon realized that due to my being female, I had to accept a more close-mouthed and less aggressive persona than what I would in my native Australia.  To get as much out of my Korean experience as possible, I would have to behave the way that Korean women were taught to behave: to respect men, to not question men, to behave coyly in front of men, and to not act as though I were smarter than any man.  This was a tough blow to my feminist ego, and I knew I would have to appear subservient, while maintaining my inherent opinions on the inside.  I was not ready to be the Korean Princess that my Korean company and peers so badly wanted me to be.

Groomed for Princess-dom

My gradual assimilation into Korean culture has been a steep and harrowing process, and I have felt strongly conflicted about what has happened to me over time.  Before arriving in Korea I had studied in the US, Australia, and Israel, and I had traveled to many corners of the world.  I had never felt pressured or obliged to alter my behaviour or appearance so significantly until I lived in Korea, and I have sacrificed as much of my Australian values as I am willing to sacrifice, to make my life and relationships in Korean run more smoothly.  Specifically, I have found that I am treated as a delicate Princess in Korea, more than I would in any other country.  While I inherently know that I am no Princess (in fact, far from it), I tend to go along with this implied-Princess-label, instead of asserting my independence or power as an individual.  While Korean culture is constantly grooming me to accept this more subdued and dependent Princess-role, internally I know that this is just role playing, and I am internally refusing to abdicate my opinions or independence.

Korean Princesses taking self-photos in coffee-shop bathroom.

Korean Social Climate

It is true that not every girl in Korea is forced to cover her opinions and act coy all the time.  There are Korean women who don’t care about their weight, who voice their opinions loudly, smoke, and use slang.  But these women are most often marginalized in Korean society, as society prefers Korean girls to be shy, delicate, and mild.  Korean girls are taught by the media and by their family members from a young age that appearance and mannerisms are extremely important for a woman to achieve status in Korean society.  This cultural climate has ushered in an era of the Korean Princess, and has also spawned the (slightly offensive) term 공주병 gongju byung, aka ‘Princess Sydrome’, where a cross-section of young Korean women in their teens and early to mid-20s have been strongly conditioned to believe that they are reserved certain privileges in society because of their beauty and girlish attributes.  I work together with many strong, intelligent, and witty Korean women, but we all sadly accept that we are judged by our appearance and our gender before the quality of our work is assessed.

Beauty above Talent

I have to be frank here.  Australia has many beautiful girls, but I am not one of them.  I have always known that my intelligence will always be steps ahead of my appearance.  I’m no beauty.  In Korea, however, a smart girl counts for peanuts.  I know plenty of smart women in Korea.  They work their guts out, and their salaries rarely match the salaries of Korean men doing the same jobs.  In Korea, a woman’s beauty is almost always praised above a woman’s intelligence.  This sad reality became even more clear to me recently when the Korean Olympic team returned to Seoul from London.  The Korean female Taekwondo champion Hwang Kyung-Seon walked through Incheon airport with her gold medal and nobody seemed to care.  She was the only Korean to win gold in Korea’s national sport of Taekwondo at the London Olympics, and yet the Korean media has barely paid her any attention.  Compare this with the Korean rhythmic gymnast Son Yeon-Jae, who finished in 5th place in her competition, but was given hundreds of presents and hounded by the Korean press when she returned to Korea.  Pictures of Son Yeon-Jae blanketed the Korean media for two weeks, and she was interviewed by almost every broadcasting station and signed numerous sponsorship deals to feature in commercials across the country.  I did find it unsettling that very little attention was being paid to the Taekwondo gold medalist, while so much attention was being directed towards the 5th-placing rhythmic gymnast, however, my Korean friends later clarified this situation by commenting that; “The Taekwondo gold medalist is not beautiful, so Koreans are not interested”.

Photo-editing tools for Princesses: Flowers plus Bows.

The Korean Princess in Korean Dramas

Sometimes I feel like I have been given a role in a Korean drama.  I often feel like my role in Korean companies is more decorative than substantial, like I am a  peripheral character in a Korean soap opera.  Korean dramas and movies do not generally depict strong Korean women making life choices for themselves. Female characters in Korean dramas are often painted as;

… ‘poor victims of strange and unlikely love triangles involving incredibly wealthy men…’.

Typically, while the Korean female character dreams of her wealthy ideal man, she must not directly communicate her intentions to him.  She must hide, pause, appear shy, and wait for him to seduce her, as her social rank is much inferior to his.  These are mannerisms that I also feel pressured to adopt in Korea, if I am to successfully date a Korean man or successfully contribute to a Korean company.  If there were stronger images of independent women in Korean society, then maybe people wouldn’t point and stare when I eat by myself or travel alone.  The idea of a woman doing things by herself and for herself is still not fully embraced in Korea.

Princess Methods for charming Korean men

Along with learning the Korean language and Korean pronunciation, I have adopted a slightly more feminine tone of voice while living in Seoul.  Many girls in Korea (including myself) utilize a language/behavioural tool known as “Aegyo”.  In Korea, Aegyo 애교is a combination of cute behaviour and a child-like tone of voice that Korean women employ to try and appear more charming and attractive to Korean men, and occasionally to people who are older than them.  This word has no perfect translation in English, and I feel that the reason why it is difficult to translate is because Western women do not have the know-how or skills to employ this effective ‘Aegyo function’.

When I sit in a cafe with my Korean friends, and one of them receives a phone call from their boyfriend, her voice suddenly changes and she starts making ‘cooing’, ‘whimpering’ and sometimes even ‘meowing’ sounds at the same time.  These noises, combined with highly rhetorical questions such as; “Boyfriend, aren’t I beautiful?” constitutes ‘Aegyo’. When my parents heard me employing these baby-like ‘Aegyo’ noises on the phone to my then-Korean boyfriend, my parents thought I was in pain, or reverting to some infant-like state.  My parents were suitably embarrassed and shocked that a grown woman be making such obscene sounds.  While I do feel uncomfortable with the idea that grown women are employing child-like noises and puppy-esque facial expressions to bend the whims of men, it must be quite powerful, as many Korean women seem to manage their boyfriends quite effectively after employing the ‘Aegyo function’.

Princess Staples: Headbands and giant teddy bears.

The Elevated Princess on the Dating Trail

In my native Australia, dating was always fairly relaxed and I almost always payed dutch when I went on a date.  In Korea, however, women are given quite a lot of power over the way that dating is conducted.  My Korean friend Heeyeon expects any guy she dates to organize the first date, pick a relatively high-quality pasta restaurant, and the man is most certainly expected to pay for the date.  To date Korean men in Korea, I am always told by friends that I need to employ ‘내숭’ Naesung, which is where the girl apparently acts naive and shy, even if she is neither of those things.  As part of society’s goal for me to become a true Korean princess, I find that acting shy and uninitiated is one of the trickiest tasks when interacting with Koreans.  I am almost 28-years-old, so to pretend that I am going on a date for the first time, or pretending I have never let a boy hold my hand before feels rather absurd, not to mention unbelievable.  When I did not do well on a recent blind-date in Seoul recently, my female friends again scolded me by instructing; “You need to act more shy.  Don’t mention your opinions”.

The Extreme Case

In the extreme case, Princess Syndrome can cause the breakdown of friendships.  Last year, I had to unfortunately cut all ties with one of my Korean female friends who caused large-scale devastation when her Princess-mentality grew out of control.  This Korean friend (lets call her ‘Yoona’), briefly dated a German colleague of mine, and over the course of the month that they dated, she repeatedly pressured my German colleague to buy her Tiffany’s jewelry, pay for her groceries, and take her on a holiday to Germany.  When my German colleague suggested that Yoona occasionally pay for a coffee or a meal on a date, Yoona became angry and protested that; “Only losers ask the girl to pay on a date”.  As I got sucked into the middle of this ‘awkward romance’, I realized that while my German colleague had a fairly liberal attitude towards dating, Yoona’s princess-like-demands were getting out of control.  Perhaps the most astounding scenario occurred when Yoona met Mr. German for a casual date, only two weeks into their new relationship, and she led him down a side street to a luxury hair salon.  She sat down in a seat and told him she wanted a haircut.  She asked the German to put his credit card down to pay for the haircut.  With a shocked expression, he begrudgingly put down the card.  But Yoona was not yet satisfied.  She begged him to pay for a manicure too.  The German realized that this date was not really a date, so much as a trap.  Again, he paid for the manicure, and realized that while he barely knew Yoona, he was already suddenly supporting all her lifestyle expenses.

Material Concerns

In Korea, after Christmas, White Day (after Valentine’s Day, when boys give candy and presents to girls), and birthdays, my Korean female friends all exchange messages to compare what presents they have received from their boyfriends.  I also receive messages from my female friends about what presents I have received from boys on these ‘special occasions’.  Part of me feels that these inquiries are too invasive, and I feel slightly unclean when I have to provide detailed notes at the request of other Korean females about what gifts I may or may not have received from a boyfriend.  It feels as though our ‘group of princesses’ are defining our so-called ‘romantic relationships’ in terms of what luxury products we can collect on these days.  When I told my Korean friends that I don’t expect a luxurious Christmas present from a boy I am dating, my best friend gaped and cried; “But how will you know he likes you?”.  I think I can personally get a better impression of a man’s intentions from his behaviour and mannerisms, rather than how many gifts he is giving, but my female Korean friends do not agree.  They seem to be happily collecting quite a lot of Chanel bags, wallets, and Prada sunglasses with each passing relationship.  Needless to say, after the German and Yoona parted ways, Yoona started asking me to introduce more men to her, which made me quite uncomfortable, leading to Yoona and I parting ways as friends.

Typical Cosmetics Advertisement in Korea (courtesy of Etude House)

Pastel Princess

In Australia, women are presented as ideally active or independent, or even sexual.  In Korea, the opposite image of women is presented in the media and in society.  When I first arrived in Korea, I was very comfortable wearing sneakers and jeans, with no make-up, and shaggy un-straightened hair.  This was how I lived in the US and in Australia.  However, in Korea, I discovered that my boss and my (now ex) Korean boyfriend did not appreciate my ‘comfortable/active aesthetic’, and they indirectly (and sometimes directly) encouraged me to wear heels, pastel-coloured dresses, pink blush, and my hair pinned in a bun.   Since I partly moved to Korea to learn Taekwondo, become more independent, and more active, I felt that my dainty 1950s-style-headband and lacy beige dress did not quite match or reflect my lifestyle or personality, but everyone seemed so pleased with this transformation.  My (now ex) Korean boyfriend even insisted that I attend ‘compulsory’ weekly visits to a beauty salon in the upmarket Gangnam area in Seoul, as he wanted me to have a “smoother, younger complexion”.  This ‘princess-grooming’ was infringing upon my own personal aesthetic and my desire to be an individual, but it was easier to accept these changes to my appearance than to further encounter more criticisms about my presentation and my old sneakers.

Delicate Pastels and Photo-shopped Bows: Korean Princess Style.

Broadening Spaces for Women

While my ability to express myself is evidently curbed and restricted in Korea due to my gender, I am not sure about how long I am willing to tone down my persona to fit into the Korean feminine ideal.  In most parts of Western Europe or in the US I don’t feel so compelled to watch my weight or wear make-up, but in Korea I do feel that I am being judged very severely based on my body shape and on how well I can apply BB cream (famous Korean foundation).  That said, these are concessions I am prepared to make to live comfortably among Korean people, and to gain social and professional recognition in this society.  While I have experimented with pushing the boundaries and trying to communicate in a more direct manner in Korea, as a woman, this has usually caused me more trouble and has awarded less results than choosing to act in a more indirect and shy manner.   The closer I move towards my Korean Princess-role, the further away I get from my independent Australian identity, and managing these two conflicting public personas will always be an ideological battle for me.

Luigina Webb is originally Australian but has studied abroad in Israel, the US, and South Korea, where she now works as an interpreter in a Korean trading company. She has traveled to over thirty countries. Luigina owns a large collection of Korean traditional hats and headdresses sourced from all over Korea. You can check out her blog at http://www.luiginakorea.com/

traversing hi/stories: Progress and the Mother-Daughter Relationship

On my mother’s fifty-sixth birthday, I called her from Indonesia to wish her a happy birthday.  “Oh, You remembered!”  Her flattered response made it seem like I never remember her birthday.  In the same call, I told her that I had received and accepted a fellowship that would keep me in Indonesia for one more year.  My news is met with silence.  I couldn’t tell if she was taking time to gather her thoughts, or if the long-distance call had been dropped.

“Mom?”

“That’s my birthday present?” She jumped back into the conversation with this passive-aggressive sense of humor that I’ve never known what to do with.  “Call me back when you have better news.”

As I hung up the phone, the image of my family at dinner in New York came to mind.  My older sister had sent me the picture over her cell phone earlier that day with a caption that read, “We miss you!”  All of a sudden, an overwhelming sense of sadness came over me as I realized that I was likely missing my mother’s fifty-seventh birthday too.

From her Blackberry, my sister sends a picture of my family of four at my mother’s birthday dinner. Source: Mandy Peng

Back at school later that week, I met with one of my co-teachers to discuss a unique semester-long study fellowship opportunity in the U.S. that I wanted her to consider.  Ibu Ary (Ibu, literally ‘mother,’ is a respectful prefix used to address married women or female teachers in Indonesia) was superior in her English skills, and one of the most dedicated and passionate educational leaders in her community. The formal pedagogical and leadership training would have strengthened her work capacity given her passion and tenacity.

But my attempted encouragement was immediately met with a polite decline.  Under the impression that she was being modest in the presence of other colleagues, I left a copy of the printed application on her desk and asked her to give it a second thought.  But she kindly explains, “Ibu Jessica, thank you for thinking of me.  But as the youngest daughter in my family, I must take care of my mother.  I will not leave her in Kupang alone.”  The firmness in her voice was anything but submissive, especially not to her mother’s wishes.  If her mother had it her way, Ibu Ary would have been married with children by now like all seven of her older siblings.  Instead, Ibu Ary’s penchant to resist societal pressures of marriage and the western discourse of progress was filled with courage and pride.

My mother and I at the top of the ancient temples of Borobudur in Central Java.

Common in most mother-daughter relationships, I spent many of my younger years embarrassed of my mother.  But aside from the generational gap between us, there was also a cultural clash that stemmed from our immigrant experiences.  When my family first immigrated to the United States in 1998, all I wanted was to be invisible under the Western eye.  While it took some time to learn English at the age of nine, understanding how to survive the fourth grade was intrinsic.  The first problem I learned about myself was my lunch.  While all the American kids had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Lunchables, I was eating rice balls prepared by my mother.  I often wondered how she expected me to participate in the world of competitive lunch exchanges with such unwanted commodities.

My lunches soon disappeared.  I would secretly throw them out on my way to the bus stop.  Once, careless on my part, my mother found rotten leftovers in my backpack.  That evening, while we both understood the issue was more complicated than the ethics of wasting food, that’s what we fought about.  Not a single part of my nine-year-old self wanted to defend the real motives behind my actions.  In some ways, I understood the painlessness in saying, “It was not you but me,” rather than “It was the you in me.”  And as cafeteria lunches became available for purchase the next year, I found myself picking up a five-dollar bill from the kitchen counter every morning before heading out to the bus stop.

This sense of embarrassment slowly manifested into more palpable attempts to break away from my mother.  In middle and high school, I rebelled through my evolving aesthetics.  Despite my mother’s objections, I insisted on colored contacts, body piercings, and short shorts, all of which had presumably represented Western beauty in my subconscious.  I also stopped speaking Mandarin altogether–a self-silencing mechanism within my house where we exclusively used our native language.  As a professor in college once noted to me, my rebellion was very much ingrained in an ironic psychological effect of the colonial project, where in which we see our own mothers as backwards, irrational and non-modern.  Perhaps even more ironic is the role my mother played (and continues to play) in helping me carry out on my rebellions.  She was there holding my shaky index finger as I learned to put in my contacts, there to hold my hand as I got my ears pierced, and there at the mall helping me try on new clothes, even though the sight of me in them made her cringe.

Nowadays, the project that my mother supports me to pursue is the one where I leaver her behind.  As I have grown a vast interest in international politics and education, she has watched me cross borders to places that had never crossed her mind, the same way her mother did when she left Taiwan fifteen years ago.  Now at the age of ninety-two, my grandmother sees her daughter once a year, and her granddaughter once every two to three years.  Despite an emphasis in Taiwanese culture to care for one’s elderly parents, women in my family have followed a pattern of leaving their mothers behind in the name of progress. That is, as daughters, we grow up to pursue opportunities that presumably better our lives, even if they pull us away from the very person who got us there. Perhaps what is hardest to cope with are those phone calls of good news and bad news.  It is the simultaneous joy and sadness that comes with telling my mother that I was awarded a fellowship grant, but at the expense of missing another one of her birthdays.  Growing up, I watched my mother do the same.  Once a week, she would get me on the phone with grandma and cry as she watched her mother and her daughter distantly interact over the phone.  This sheds light on the paradox of progress.  There lacks an infrastructure that supports the emotional burden that comes when a daughter leaves her mother.  More often than not, it is left as an unspoken sadness.

As it turned out, Ibu Ary was recognized for her hard work.  Two days before my departure from Kupang, Ibu Ary left first. She was selected to represent the entire providence of Nusa Tenggara Timur at a weeklong national education conference in Bali.  At the airport, I was standing on the mother side of the departure barricades for the first time.  Feelings of pride, loneliness, excitement and fear all settled into a sense of numbness as we said goodbye.  And as Ibu Ary faded out of sight, her mother and I walked back to the car hand in hand.  The sincerity in her grip reminded me that pursuits of better and more progressive lives take all forms.  Women in my family seek and honor mobility, whereas for Ibu Ary, that honor comes from her dedication to her mother, her church and remaining within her community.  I was happy to know that Ibu Ary would reunite with her mother in just one week, right around the time I would get back to New York to see mine.

Ibu Ary and my family in our tenth grade English classroom at SMA Mercusuar Kupang.

Jessica Peng is a traveling educator with research interests in Southeast Asian colonial history, and its legacies on political, educational and social landscapes. Upon receiving her B.A. in International Studies from Vassar College, Jessica first moved to Indonesia as a Fulbright grantee. This fall, Jessica will return to Indonesia to continue teaching at the university level as a Maguire Fellow. She has lived in five countries and speaks five languages.

Another Paris: A Travel Doctrine

I’ve traveled more than some – I’ve traveled less than some. I didn’t start traveling across oceans until the end of high school, and so prior to landing at London-Heathrow airport with my mother at age 18, all of my travel time had been logged on family vacations across North America. In journeys both near and far, I’ve learned a few things about traveling, about myself, and about my values when traveling. I’ve compiled a few of them here as ten observations or rules. Together, they form a sort of ‘travel doctrine.’

1. The game is not called “Who Can See the Most Countries,” and it’s also not a game.

When I was 18 and my passport first arrived before my first transatlantic trip, I looked at all of the empty pages and decided wanted to visit as many countries as quickly as I possibly could. I bought into the game that awards players for being able to say things like “Why, yes, I’ve been to Romania,” at dinner parties when you really only spent the day in Bucharest between flights.

I still believe that it’s good to see as much as possible when traveling, but I’ve discovered that “as much as possible” isn’t defined by national borders. “As much as possible” is about diving into the new environment around you and learning history, culture, geography, and tradition. So don’t get caught up in the idea that a well-traveled person is a person whose passport is chock-full of customs stamps from every continent. The number of stamps, countries, or continents doesn’t matter as much as what you do in those places and what you learn.

I discovered this just last year, actually, when I spent half of my summer in Beirut, Lebanon. When I had planned my trip to Lebanon months prior, I thought I would try to visit Syria for a couple weekends.  But as the Arab Spring spread to Homs, Daraa, and Damascus, it became impossible and unwise to cross the border. Instead of spending time in Syria, I stayed in Lebanon the whole summer and traveled constantly within the country.

By the time I left Lebanon, I had visited every single sizable city in the country, numerous tiny ones, and had walked through most of the capital. I had taken buses north and south along the coast and up into the Lebanon mountains and down into the Bekaa Valley. I had visited the same cities multiple times and read a history of Beirut. I’m incredibly grateful that I was able to get to know the country, its different regions, and its different histories so well in a short amount of time, and I know that this wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t stayed within Lebanon. Since then, I seem to constantly met Lebanese expats and it’s extremely meaningful to be able to tell them that I know where the city is that they came from, or that I went to their old town’s winery, or that I know about the different neighborhoods within Beirut.  This wouldn’t have been the case if I had decided to keep country-hopping in the Levant and treated Lebanon as a single box to mark on a check list. I’m so glad I didn’t.

My host family in La Marsa, Tunisia: Mabrooka, myself, Najwa
Photo Credit: David Herschorn

 2. Intern, study, volunteer.

I’ve done very little vacation traveling in the past four years, yet I’ve spent more time traveling in the past four years than in the previous eight. College does that. Take time now to travel and see the world or the state next to you, but try traveling for dual purposes. Work and fun. Study and fun. Look for internships, study abroad programs, or fellowships in the city you always wanted to spend a summer in. Volunteer your time once you arrive. All of these options help to give you a firm footing in your new locale. An internship might cover your housing expenses, a study abroad program might teach you about the history of your new temporary home, and volunteering might provide meals and contacts. Unless you’re stuck with a large group of students from your home university, these opportunities also help you to integrate socially into your new environment. And often, they give you the ability and desire to stay somewhere for a longer period of time.

Jbeil (Byblos), Lebanon was one of the places I was able to spend more time in because I wasn’t country-hopping in the Levant.

3. Quit being a vegetarian.

Yes, you might be on year-4 of your totally vegan, totally local, and totally organic diet, but it might be time to loosen up. Consider eating meat. Maybe just fish. Maybe just yogurt. I’ve known plenty of people who gave up their elective diet when traveling and none of them have said they regretted it. Being open to meat and other animal products allows you to discover even more about a new environment around you. It’s also more polite and sensitive to local contexts. If you’re invited into someone’s home–personally, I don’t care if it’s in Oklahoma or in Afghanistan–try to do you eat what’s on your plate. Someone probably made it special for you.

Now, it’s true that it can be a bit of a different situation for religious diets or severe allergies. Through traveling with friends, I’ve noticed that it’s usually easy enough to ‘get off the hook’ and for hosts to be understanding if you do explain that your abstention is for religious reasons. This is particularly true if you’re traveling in a region where a major religion forbids certain food choices, like within the Islamic world or in South Asia. Finally, if you have a severe allergy, such as an intolerance of gluten, travel in many regions of the world is simply not going to be easy, but it’s always a start to explain directly but apologetically that you become very sick when you eat certain things.

When I arrived in Tunisia in 2009 for a language program and moved in with a lovely host family in La Marsa, I tried not to break my vegetarian diet. But this grew awkward at the dinner table when everyone but me would take some chicken to put atop of their couscous and I would take only vegetables. I felt that I had created a strange wall between myself and the people I wanted to grow close to. So I compromised. I decided that I would eat meat moderately and (generally) only at home. I felt closer to my host family after the decision and I learned a lot more about Tunisian cuisine because of it. Since then, I’ve approached all travel the same way and never regretted it.

Learning to enjoy pulled bull’s tail in Madrid.

4. Travel with people who have the same budget as you.

Few things are more frustrating than traveling with someone who has very different ideas about money and how to spend it. I’ve been on both sides of the situation. I’ve been the travel buddy who wants to eat out and pay for temporary museum exhibits and I’ve been the travel companion who wants to keep every meal under 2 Euro.

There isn’t a right way or a wrong way to travel between the two, but if you’re going to have a good time, see what you want to see, and spend what you want to spend, then pay attention to your travel buddy’s budget before departing. Be specific about what you can actually afford and what you want to do. One way to safeguard from overspending is to book as much of your housing in advance as possible and plan your general itinerary as much as possible. This will give you a baseline idea about how affordable the trip is going to be. Also, know when to splurge and when not to. You don’t have to go clubbing every night in Berlin, and so save up for when do you go out. If you’re on the poorer end of the relationship, it’s ok to let your friend pay for your croissant or your museum entry, but know that this is not sustainable for a budget or a friendship for a 2-week trip. It’s also ok to split up for the day or the weekend when one person can afford a side trip and the other can’t. Not all traveling has to be done in pairs or groups.

On Gibraltar. Our similar budgets make traveling together easier for my sister and I.

5. If you’re an American, don’t wear the Canadian flag.

After George W. Bush was reelected in 2004, traveling internationally seemed to get even more frustrating than after we started the Iraq War. People always seemed to think that all American supported Bush and were eager to start wars to secure oil. I know Americans who started pinning Canadian flags to their backpacks and would claim to be from Canada. “The foreigners will never know,” they told me. “We probably sound the same to them.” That’s true. Unless you have a Southern or a Brooklyn accent, it’s probably easy enough to conceal your citizenship as vaguely North American. But how is that really constructive?

Whether in the Bush era or Obama era, it’s important to be who you are. You may or may not be particularly proud of your government’s foreign policy, but consider traveling a chance to show foreigners that some of us are pretty cool and pretty respectful of other countries and other cultures. People know that the United States is incredibly diverse and although you might get ‘American’ comments here and there, from my experience, people are usually interested to hear what an American in the flesh, and how they actually think. Do your country a favor and give us a good name.

6. Traveling does not mean looking like a nomad.

Basically, if you’re not backpacking through Death Valley, you shouldn’t look like you are. A lot of people seem to abandon all sense of fashion decency when they hit the tarmac and begin wear things that they would never wear at home. They stop bathing regularly and they stop shaving altogether. They wear sandals to every occasion and sometimes pair these with socks (ok, I’ve done this — it can be quite nice). And they wear parkas eight sizes too large. So bring your razor, your real shoes, and your real jacket. Your travel buddies will thank you.

7. Put the camera away sometimes.

I hadn’t traveled internationally with a digital camera until May of this year. After my digital camera was stolen years ago in the States and I just didn’t buy another one, I started traveling either completely camera-less or with a old school manual 35mm film camera. (I would sometimes be that annoying friend asking companions to take photos of me and email them to me.) I made a very conscious decision not to buy and bring another digital camera on trips. I had seen myself and others spend vacations and journeys stuck behind a camera in the most amazing places in the world. I felt that the way people use digital cameras–click, click, click until you get a decent shot–wasn’t conducive to actually witnessing a place. I didn’t want to travel just so I could put pictures on Facebook. I wanted to travel to see, experience, and soak in new surroundings.

Nowadays, I’m less dogmatic and less anti-camera. When traveling now, I bring both my film camera and a used digital camera a friend gave me in this spring. But I don’t take them with me all the time. If I want to take pictures, I’ll go out for the day with my camera and take pictures. But if I want to experience and see something with my own eyes and not through the fog of a camera lens, I leave the camera at home, or in my bag. I’d encourage other travelers to rethink their picture-taking activities, too, in order to make sure that you’re traveling to experience and to see and not just to squint behind a machine.

8. Welcome visitors.

If you’re abroad for more than a couple months, you will probably start getting emails from friends who are wondering if they can sleep on your couch for a couple days. Say yes. While hosting someone can often be stressful (Are they having a good time? What do they eat? How will I have time to give them tours and work?), it’s worth it.

 Hosting visitors allows you to see the city or area that you’ve grown accustomed to through fresh eyes. Hosting visitors will give you the push you needed to go back to the Louvre, to search for the best gelato, or go swimming in the Mediterranean. Hosting is also just the nice thing to do. After sleeping on the couches of countless different friends, I can appreciate how pleasant and helpful it is to stay with someone in a new, foreign place. A free couch is also hard to beat.

At the same time, you need to be realistic and upfront about your commitments. If you work full time in an internship or job or are studying abroad, tell your visitors that you can’t be a tour guide, but you’re still happy to host them. Even if you can’t be their travel buddy, people are still happy to stay with someone they know in a foreign city.

9. Don’t say “I like this” or “This is really nice” unless you want it really, really bad.

While in foreign countries, I’ve made the mistake of audibly observing that an object in my host’s home is quite nice. Everything from a vase to an Orthodox icon of Christ to a giant collection of couscous steamers. On multiple occasions this has resulted in the host insisting that I take the object home. “It’s a gift,” she says. “We want you to take it to remember your time here,” he insists. This kind of situation can never end well. Whatever you do, you screw up.

By saying, “No, no, I really can’t take it,” you’re saying “Actually, no, I was lying and it’s not that cool after all.” By saying “Really? Thanks, I’d love to take it,” you’re saying “Thank you for giving me your family heirloom–I’ll try not to crush it in my luggage.”

The best thing to do is not to avoid complementing all together, but complement more strategically. Complement clothing (if they insist you should take it, just say “It looks better on you”) and complement unmovable objects (“You have a lovely veranda” is a personal favorite). Also, because generosity is important to acknowledge, know that sometimes it’s ok to take the object home as long as it is not, in fact, a family heirloom or a veranda. When people give me gifts and I accept, I usually make a big point to let them know later on how much I still like the set of books or the couscous steamers (yes, that happened). If at all possible, I send a picture. Regardless of what happens, always be gracious.

Using the steamers and pans for a Tunisian stew and couscous recipe, all gifts from my Tunisian host family.

10. It’s ok to be a tourist.

By living in Paris I’ve unfortunately absorbed the ‘detest of tourists’ disease. Tourists, with their parkas (like I said, please wear real clothing when traveling) always seem to be in the way in on the sidewalk. They always crowd the cafes. They always talk as though they are yelling in the Metro.

But the truth is that tourists are doing something right. They have this deep appreciation for what they’re witnessing around them. In Paris, many of them traveled across an ocean just to climb the Eiffel Tower, eat a crepe in Montmartre, and be disappointed in the size of the Mona Lisa. Locals rarely appreciate the city like that. To tourists, Paris is the City of Light. To many Parisians, Paris is the City of damp subway tunnels, high rent bills, and queues at the bakery. What I mean to say here is that it’s ok to be a tourist. It’s good. Go to the iconic destinations of the city that you’re visiting. Don’t let the fact that it’s a stereotype to pose like you’re holding up the Tower of Pisa in a picture stop you from posing like that. Get excited about traveling. And for the longer-term travelers like me, we should reclaim the enthusiasm of tourists and better appreciate the places where we’re living.

There are legitimate reasons for why touristy places are famous.

I hosted some guests recently who asked me to take them to interesting places in Paris that aren’t touristy. I was extremely enthusiastic to show them another side of Paris (after all, these columns are called “Another Paris”) and I took them to great local parks, immigrant neighborhoods, and religious centers. But I strongly encouraged them to see the touristy places, too. The Louvre is world famous because, well, it should be world famous, and Versailles is packed with tourists because it’s staggeringly gorgeous. Someone shouldn’t avoid these merely because ‘that’s what everyone else sees.’ What I’ve learned is that ‘touristy’ and ‘local’ do not need to be in conflict. The city, town, or country has two parts. It has the part that is famous and the part that is not. And only when they are taken together can the traveler begin to understand why people move there, and why people stay there.

Anthony Chase is interested in the ‘democracy of everyday,’ the ways in which individuals perform and perceive the social contract in daily life. He is also interested in Islam, minority rights, and diversity. Originally from Michigan, Anthony currently works for a French development organization and lives in Paris.

After an exciting first month and a half in Uganda, landmarks are looking familiar. I can finally feel comfortable navigating my way through many of the busy streets of Kampala. As an intern for a jewelry non-profit, Musana Jewelry, I can’t direct you to the local hotspots, like the beautiful Baha’i temple or Bubbles, the go-to expat bar, but I can tell you which wholesale hardware store on which back alley sells the best quality exacto knives.

Ugandan Beads: Photo Credit Natalie Maynor

Most mzungus (“foreigners”) in Kampala aren’t hoping to learn the difference between the stationary district, the electronics district and the fabric district, but this has been one of my most rewarding experiences in Uganda. My urban treasure hunts introduce me to new people, interesting vocabulary and corners of the city not frequently seen by visitors. Initially, the city was overwhelmingly large; bustling with vendors and hawkers. Now, we now see faces of friends and guides we recognize throughout downtown Kampala.
These trips into Kampala are the combined efforts of myself and the organization’s in-country director, Melissa, and sometimes our Ugandan manager, Luta. When it is just me and Melissa, as it often is, we have lost all shame in asking question after question until we understand where we are being directed or what kind of tool we are being told we need to purchase. We quickly learned that Ugandans do not like to disappoint you, so even if they do not know the location of the street you are looking for, they will still try to point you in some direction. After asking three people for directions to the same place that is supposedly right around the corner and each one points you in a different direction, you know that kindness got in the way of their ability to be truly helpful.

Nakasero Market: Photo Credit StephaneR

We wander through Nakasero, the neighborhood in the center of the city, asking for directions and sharing printed photos of the items we’re searching for, crossing our fingers that what we need can be found. Most of our hunt takes place in the general vicinity of the old taxi park, a vast sea of white and blue vans slowly creeping in and out of the park as they drop off passengers and fill up with new ones. The taxi park is a hubbub of idling taxi drivers shooting the breeze or playing checkers, women selling mangoes and the day’s tabloids, and young men pushing everything from watches to Fanta. We have come affectionately to call this area the “Enkwaawa” (or “armpit”) of Kampala: just take a deep breath and enter the fray.

The sprawling mass of a taxi park in the middle of Kampala.

Encircling the taxi park are decrepit-looking old buildings that house electronics and clothing stores, fast food restaurants, and most important to us, bead supply shops. On the southern end of the park is a maze of markets selling shoes, fabric, jeans, and other clothes, and on the northeastern end you find Kiembe Lane, one of our frequent destinations. What looks like an alley is actually a street whose first half is lined with fabric and sewing shops which eventually morphs into stores selling electronics and bathroom and kitchen tiles. In this little corner of Nakasero we find needles, embroidery thread, fabric, snap clasps, and the soft-spoken woman who puts the snap clasps on our new leather bracelets. We could easily spend hours wandering through the fabric and sewing shops looking at the colorful patterns and imagining how we could use all of the craft supplies for sale.

The woman who puts the snaps on our bracelets.

Most days it isn’t an option to wander aimlessly, so we’ve slowly made local friends who are happy to provide some guidance. Margaret, the woman in charge of the cords at our favorite sewing shop, refers us elsewhere if she doesn’t have what we’re looking for, and she has even taken special orders for when her daughter travels to Dubai to pick up supplies. I’m pretty sure that wearing our Uganda Cranes jersey on the first day we met Margaret have endeared us to her for life.

Just across from Margaret is the shop of our friend Edward who sells curtains. As it seems many Ugandans are more than happy to do, Edward takes the time to chaperone us around the neighborhood and translate for shop owners even when he doesn’t know where to find what we are searching for. I wish we weren’t so impressed by this generous use of time, but I remain pleasantly surprised each time someone offers to show us the way. I have a hard time imagining New Yorkers deviating from their commutes to accompany visitors to their destination.

Of course, some of the help we receive isn’t completely selfless, but we’ve concluded that what we don’t know can’t hurt us. While I don’t like getting ripped off by a boda-boda driver who wants to charge me four times what a local would pay, if we are still getting a good deal on our bulk order of hole punchers and our guide is receiving a cut of the deal for having brought us to a store, that’s fine by me. He saved us hours in time spent searching and led us to places we never would have found on our own. We still argue for the best price possible, but padding that price just a tad is worthwhile for the time we save by having a market tour guide.

Margaret and I in the door of her shop.

The most important guide we’ve had in Kampala yet is Henry, a young man who lives in Entebbe, studied business in school, and now works at his aunt’s hardware store in Nakasaero. We arrived at his shop one day looking for a hole punching tool, and now he’s the first person we call on our hour long taxi ride to the big city. For most visits, we let him know what’s on our to-buy list, and by the time we’ve made it to the Enkwaawa of Kampala, he already has a list of two or three places to check out. We have a business card lady, a postcard guy, a rubber stamp guy, a whole punch lady, and an engraving man all thanks to Henry. Honestly, I’m not sure what we would have done without him – just how far behind schedule would we be?

Melissa with her delicious local meal at Peace Restaurant

If you are going to have a successful treasure hunt, you are going to need provisions, so we are very pleased to have discovered Peace Restaurant. Just around the corner from where we do the majority of our shopping, Peace serves traditional Ugandan food that tastes surprisingly delicious. Uganda isn’t known for its cuisine, so I have quickly tired of the carb-heavy staples. Matooke (cooked banana), potatoes, rice and pasta can only be prepared so many ways. Peace puts a little twist on many traditional dishes and makes tasty passion fruit juice, so we have become regular customers. Their groundnut sauce, a peanut based sauce usually served at Ugandan meals, is green instead of purple because they include spinach, and Melissa and I can’t get enough.
A trip to Peace often also includes a visit to Steven, a leather artisan whose workshop is right next door. Steven makes beautiful bags, belts, holsters, and other leather products, all in the small space of many Americans’ walk-in closets. As complete newbies to leather work, we have learned more from Steven showing us around his shop than he probably realizes. He graciously puts up with our never-ending questions about what kind of tools he uses, where he finds them, how they work, and would he mind showing us? Far too often we discover that his know-how and tools were learned and special ordered in Eastern Europe, but we have been lucky enough to run across more items than we expected in our journeys through Kampala.

Beautiful leather belts at Steven’s leather workshop.

One constant throughout all of our searching is haggling prices down from the mzungu price to what we hope is the African price. Shop owners often insist they aren’t giving you the mzungu price, but after learning a few times how inflated a price we paid for a product, I am a highly skeptical shopper. While haggling is fun, it can also be exhausting. Errands take twice as long as you think they should, and you feel like you are constantly battling to receive a fair price. A non-negotiable price tag is appreciated these days.

I have learned multiple tactics, including telling stories, pretending to walk away, avoiding eye contact, singing songs, feigning disinterest, and most importantly: never giving up. Haggling is often about which side can hold out the longest. Once you argue for long enough and want to get on your boda already, our new trick is singing. With a children’s song about school fees memorized in Luganda, everyone from boda drivers to roasted peanut sellers can’t resist our performance and eventually agree to our price.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, every once in a while someone is interested in supporting Musana’s goal of local women’s empowerment, and they give us a great deal or something free of cost. With such an interactive shopping experience, it’s worth telling our story and creating connections with suppliers, because you never know who will be sympathetic or just interested in laughing about the differences between Americans and Ugandans. Most recently, the owner of a tile store was more than happy to give us tiles for free and enthusiastically took our business cards with the promise to spread the word to all of her friends. Now there’s another friendly face in the hardware district for the exchange of a wave and a hello when we pass through the neighborhood.
With time and familiarity, “Enkwaawa of Kampala” is said with increasing love and affection. Lost less frequently and asking fewer questions, we look forward to our urban treasure hunts and the hours spent discovering new corners of the city and the people that inhabit it. If this is something you’d like to investigate on your upcoming trip to the Pearl of Africa, then be sure to get in touch. And who knows: as we get to know Kampala better, maybe we’ll even have a moment to check out that new hotspot and act like real mzungus for a change.

As the summer intern for Musana Jewelry, Meredith is spending three months in Lugazi, Uganda working with forty women from the community on jewelry design and production. She has discovered a friendly, wonderfully warm, and artistic country with a bustling capital city that is an adventure to explore. To learn more about her travels, also check out her pieces on The Daily Muse.

From the Foreign to the Familiar

What Bob Should Know: Insights on Moving to  Japan

“I am freakin’ out. It is one week before departure. Quick! Write more articles so I can feel ready”
That was the Facebook message I got from Bob, a friend and former student who is moving to Japan this week to start a teaching  job.

Bob is freaking out about moving to Japan.

Bob knows some things about Japan in an academic way. He studied the language for a few years and took a culture class. He plays lots of video games. He has read about shoes, names and hugging. He has enough familiarity with Japan to know that he is getting himself into something vastly different from the life he currently knows. And now, with one week until take off, he is feeling a little anxious. So Bob, this one’s for you.

You are going to Japan for work, so your  experience is going to be different from that of a tourist. Foreign tourists, particularly Western ones, can make all kinds of innocent social gaffes and they will be forgiven. New entrants to the working world also get some leeway, but are expected to pay attention and figure out the rules, which are rarely explicitly explained in full. One thing of the first things you need to be prepared to do is give a short self-introduction speech, preferably in Japanese, when you start work. You don’t get to be the new guy without attracting some attention.You will be brought to meet the principal of the school where you work and will also be introduced to the full faculty, as well as to the student body. Your intro should include the typical “nice to meet you” greeting, your name, where you are from, a mention of a hobby or interest and end with a few sentences to the effect of “I know I don’t know anything but I will work hard to learn, so please bear with me and teach me.” The self introduction is not a time to publicize your skills or how awesome you are, it is to identify you as a new member of the group who is willing to learn how to adapt and to also give a few pieces of personal information that others can use as conversational catalysts. Keep it short, simple and humble.

The Board Game “Sorry” in Japan

The last time I saw you, you told me, “I feel like I’m just going to be bowing and apologizing to everyone for everything all the time.” That’s actually a good start. There is a lot of bowing and apologizing in Japan. Apologies in Japan are social lubricant, not an admission of guilt or wrong doing. So be prepared to do a lot of bowing and apologizing. When you enter a room where there’s a meeting or conversation in progress, you apologize saying “shitsurei shimasu.” Same thing when you leave the room or leave work at the end of the day before others have gone home. If someone does something nice for you, like bringing you a cup of tea or moving over to make room for you to sit on the train, you say “sumimasen”, which is like a combination of “excuse me” and “I’m sorry.” The golden rule in Japan is Do Not Cause Inconvenience to Others. Anything you do that requires someone else to make an effort to accommodate you calls for some level of apology.

If you want to feel like you’re doing things right and are not, as Dave Barry puts it in Dave Barry Does Japan some large, loud water buffalo tromping and pooping all over the exquisitely tended garden of Japanese society, you should always be looking for ways you can make other peoples’ lives easier or make them feel better. This includes things like not running your washing machine at night so the noise doesn’t disturb your neighbors, offering to help out with a team or club at school before you are asked and, of course, giving up your seat on public transportation to others less hearty than yourself. Like it or not, you will be seen as a representative of your culture. You will also get many, many things wrong. That is how you will learn. Don’t let the shame of making a mistake prevent you from learning the lesson. And keep in mind the old Japanese proverb, “To ask is a moment’s shame. To not ask (and remain ignorant) is an eternal one.”

There is an easy trap to fall into if you are a young foreigner living in Japan. With the number of questions you get asked about yourself and the attention you attract just from being young and foreign, it’s easy to think that you are truly fascinating and all you need to do is talk about yourself and everyone will be happy and entertained. Or maybe you just keep talking to kill the moments of silence, which seem less awkward to Japanese people than they feel to many foreigners. If you wait for Japanese people to offer up similar information about themselves without ever asking questions, you’ll spend all of your time talking about yourself and can very well miss that the person you have been blabbering at about your cat or your high school sports career is a fascinating and accomplished person in their own right. Learn to ask the right questions. Ones that can’t be answered with a simple yes or no. Ask for help or advice about social customs you don’t understand. People will rarely correct you and will feel that it’s rude to tell you you are doing something the wrong way. Instead let them help you by asking for their advice. It’s your job to ask, not their job to tell you first.

Be on time and always dress up more than you think you need to. In Japan on time means five to ten minutes early and fully prepped and ready to go when starting time comes. The trains run on time. Work starts on time. People even show up to parties on time. We both grew up in a part of the country where dressing up pretty much means wearing something that is not a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. I felt perpetually under-dressed in Japan, even when I tried to do it right. I was invited one weekend by my university’s English Speaking Society to judge an English speech competition. I wore an ironed blouse and khakis, figuring that would be fine for a Saturday afternoon event that required me to ride the train for three hours to get there and back. About midway through the afternoon, in the ladies room, one of my school’s students came out of the stall in her navy blue suit and heels and said, “Oh. I’m sorry no one told you this was a formal event.” This was probably the only time I was blatantly called out on dressing too casually, but certainly not the only time I did it. Appearance can be just as important as performance. Don’t worry that you will be overdressed. I can guarantee you, you won’t be.

This would be overdressing. Someone thought it would be cute for me to be dressed up like a maiko. I didn’t think so.

The more people compliment your Japanese skills, the less impressive they probably are. You are going to learn very quickly that if you are able to spit out about five Japanese phrases people will rush to praise your proficiency. They will also do the same if you manage to move a piece of food from your plate to your mouth using chopsticks without dropping everything in your lap. Don’t believe the hype. The proper response to all this praise for your skills is “I still have a lot to learn.” This is the proper response if you have been there one week or twenty years. You will likely then be told you are more Japanese than many Japanese people. Don’t believe that either. You aren’t and you never will be.

Life will be easier for you if you are an omnivore and willing to eat things even if you have no idea what they are. Some foods will be new and strange, like natto (fermented soy beans). Wait and watch how other people eat it if you aren’t sure how. The first time I ordered cold soba I had no idea how the noodles on a bamboo mat and the small bowl of cold broth worked together. Pour the broth over the noodles? What do I do with that little plate of sesame seeds, scallions and wasabi? Turns out you stir the items on the little plate into the cold broth and pick up a mouthful of noodles with chopsticks and dunk them into the broth before eating them. It’s delicious, if not necessarily intuitive. And there may well be times when you eat a familiar food in a familiar way, only to discover you are doing it wrong. How was I supposed to know when a friend’s grandmother served us grapes that you are meant to spit out the seeds and the skin? I knew when everyone gave me a funny look and I saw what they had delicately put back on their plates. Oops. These things happen and you’ll feel better if you can laugh about them.

Some foods, like these sperm sacs of codfish, maybe a challenge to navigate. Photo: LonleePlanet

Be prepared to be bone-crushingly lonely at times. Leaving your family and friends and moving to the other side of the world is a tough thing to do. Sure the internet and Skype make it less isolating than it used to be, but those things can also remind you of what you are missing in real time.  Japanese language and culture are hard to learn. You might find yourself having days or even weeks when your progress with the language feels so slow and you’re so tired of people looking at you that you don’t even want to go out and deal with the guy who sells you beer at the convenience store. Push through it. You will come out the other side. Find a skill or hobby you would like to learn and join a group that does that. You can’t really learn about Japan without becoming part of a group.

Why not take up Kite making? (Photo Credit: Japanese Workshop San Francisco)

You are going to be a different person after this year. If you use your time wisely, you will come out smarter, kinder, more perceptive and with a deeper appreciation for things you used to think were simple. If you shut down because it’s too hard, you will come back bitter and bone-headed. Most of all, keep in mind that you are going there to be useful to others. You are, like me, a shy person who has chosen to be a teacher. You make yourself get up and face a room full of people every work day, whether you feel like it or not.

This path chose you as much as you chose it. Keep your eyes and ears open and walk it.

Pam Ikegami lived in Japan for twelve years as an adventurer, student, wife, mom, translator and teacher. Ever grateful for all the lessons Japan has taught her, she is now a teacher of Japanese language and culture in the US. Some of her happiest and proudest moments are spent with her students, many of whom go on to study, work and live in Japan.

Kindle, Coal, Cauldrons, & Kettles

Un Huevo de Finca: A Culture Around Energy

Photo Credit: Beehind Thyme Garden & Wares

So I was in love.

My life and the state of my being floated in a glass filled to the brim with tap water. The storyteller, a huevo de finca – a fresh egg from a nearby farm.

I stand silently suspicious, hands and legs spread apart, as she gently hovers a “fresh” egg slowly over my body. Beginning over my chest, in slow, circular motions la limpia follows the extensions of my arms all the way out to my fingertips, then back to my core, down my thighs to my feet, then back up to my head. My body grows light, and my mind opens.

Energy. It’s something that can’t be created, nor destroyed; it’s just there. Everything is made of it. It’s everywhere. What struck me as a great surprise was the significance it holds for a people. Even more so, the power it holds in professing the state of human health.

After five minutes or so, she cracks the egg into a tall, clean glass of tap water. The yoke quickly settles to the bottom of the glass, maintaining it perfectly oval structure. Out of its orbit, a single stream of the “egg white” erupts towards the brim of the glass and suddenly, about three-quarter the way up, stops in a small, gentle bubble. Side to side, the water sways gently from the initial disturbance. The yoke and the stream of “egg white” remain in place. My eyes widen and anxiety builds as the water becomes clear: I was going to learn something new about myself.

There are many, many different factors to consider when reading a “limpia.” Photo Credit: Misobueno.com

This process is known as “La Limpia,” or in English, literally “The Cleaning.” Outside of the MD’s office, it’s one of the most trusted methods of diagnostics in much of Latin America. It’s a process that relies on the body’s natural energy, its aura, to tell the state of the body, the mind, and the soul.

In January of this year, I ventured to Ecuador in study of the Spanish language and to immerse myself in the exquisite Ecuadorian culture. On the way, I found a great interest and fascination in medicina tradicional – traditional medicine. My mind opened and I was left with a strong feeling of enlightenment. After conversing with a number of locals, I began to uncover what one could describe as a great battle between the old and the new.

My month long stay centered around two classes at the Andean School for Latin American Studies  in Quito, a home stay with the most delightful host family in the country, and numerous side adventures and explorations of nearby – and often not so nearby – communities and marketplaces.

My host mom (right), aunts and I en route to a cultural adventure in Píllaro, Ecuador.

I first got a whiff of the great emphasis and power of natural energy during a day trip to El Mitad Del Mundo (The Middle of the World), a museum built on the equator, where I was introduced to the cuy (pronounced kwee). Cuyes, tiny South American guinea pigs, are highly respected animals known for their spiritual strength. It’s widely believed that the animals are good luck, and stand to protect people due to their high sensitivity to energy. For this, in a number of indigenous communities, cuyes are kept in the home to detect the dangers of negative energy.

As we enter the dark, small hut in the open-air museum, the guide points to a small, penned area in the corner. In it, thirteen light brown, fluffy little critters: cuyes. He explains that they are kept to keep those with bad energies, and thus an omen, out of the home. When faced with negative energy, or aura, the cuyes would respond in panic, making noises and fleeing away from the bearer of bad energy. This would signal to the homeowners that they needed to get rid of that person as soon as possible.

Pen of cuyes in El Mitad Del Mundo Museum in Mitad del Mundo, Ecuador. Source: Adventures and Whatnot Blog.

My initial response, and I’m now embarrassed to admit, was disbelief. Merely accepting it for it’s cultural relevance, I began to rationalize the practice in my mind, and developed a sense of sorrow for those who may have fallen victim to the cute antics of the furry critters; it must have been purely coincidental, I thought.

As the group leaves the hut, I approach the pen of cuyes and crouch down to take a closer look at the lovable creatures.  They ignore me. They continue on with their routine, picking at the wheat in their pen. Moments later, as a friend approaches, that all changes. Their calm innocence, their cuteness, is suddenly replaced by a monstrous frenzy. The cuyes kick up a storm, dashing to the far end of their pen, the larger animals climbing over the younger seeking to get further away. Something is wrong.

The sudden change in the animals’ demeanor was a terrifyingly fascinating sight to observe. It scared me, and set my mind racing: Did my friend really trigger that response? How could it be? Had we actually been in the home of an indigenous family, my friend (and by association, probably myself) would have been shunned from the home and the community.

The days following, the events at the Equator continued to puzzle my mind. What did caused the sudden fear in the cuyes? There must indeed be a reason why for thousands of years people have trusted these animals to protect them. I needed to find out more.

After numerous conversations – rather, more a combination of mediocre Spanish and a diversity of body gestures – with my host mom and aunt, and a number of Google searches, I began to see how the cuyes could react to negative aura.  I came to understand that the body naturally emits energy and magnetic vibrations into the air, creating a natural energy field. The variation of energy emitted changes with the physical and mental state of the body, the time of day, the environment, etcetera. The same way cats and dogs respond to our different mental and physical states, the cuyes respond to the sensitivity of this energy field.

There is truth behind the practices of the past. For thousands of years, those in the Andean region – as in much of the world – depended solely on these methods. Unfortunately, the same way I initially failed to fully consider the potential of the use of the cuyes, tolerating it merely for it’s cultural relevance, much of the modern world also dismisses the practices of the past, ruling them to be “old-fashioned,” uncivilized, and ineffective. This is particularly true when it comes to the world of medicine.

Modern medicine, or western medicine, more than often fails to consider the teaching of the past. In fact, its’ practitioners often downright refuse to consider utilizing any lessons and practices that the shamans, or “yachak,” utilize. This of course, is not to say that they should completely abandon their practices that have proven effective and turn to those of the past. Instead, they should explore the possibilities of integrating traditional medicine into their modern practices.

A “yachak,” (Quechuan translation for traditional doctor) conducts a limpia on a patient.

From numerous conversations with Indigenous women in the large open-air markets of Otovalo, to discussions with children and elders in Riobamba, I quickly began to see the effects of the problem – the blatant disregard and disrespect for traditional medicine – play out in Ecuador. The indigenous communities in the country hold very dear and incredibly strong ties to their ancestors, their practices, and their beliefs. This is particularly true when it comes to issues of health. As a result, the indigenous communities often shun the modern clinics and hospitals funded by the government.

An open air market in Otavalo, Ecuador. Photo © Aquib Yacoob 2012

The Ecuadorian government has made available top-of-the line modern health facilities and practitioners available – free of charge – to its indigenous population.  That’s great, however, it’s not utilized to its full potential. For the most part, the hospitals don’t alter their services to cater for the indigenous population, and the doctors don’t respect their practices, which entrenches indigenous rejection of modern medicine. Ironically, while this is happening, Ecuador’s non-indigenous population, who do heavily rely on the modern hospital system and its practices, cannot afford it, so everybody looses: A classic case of the west failing to meet the east and almost everything getting lost in between.

I did say almost everything. While in Riobamba, I learned of a few hospitals and clinics in the area that have begun to incorporate the old with the new, and not surprisingly with increasingly positive outcomes. In these clinics, before patients see the MD, they have the option of seeing a yachak, who performs “la limpia ,” diagnosing the patient before they’re seen by the doctor. Usually while burning local herbs to relax the body and mind, the yachak would hover the egg over the patients body, causing the magnetic energies within egg to react to the natural energies around the body, dissipating negative aura and cleansing the body’s energy flow of any aliments. When cracked into the glass of water, the pattern, form, clarity, and shape of the egg’s yoke and white tells the yachak, skilled in the ancient art of interpreting “la limpia,” all that’s needed to be known. By simply incorporating this step in medical facilities, these hospitals and clinics have demonstrated to the communities they serve that they indeed respect and trust the methods of their ancestors. Unsurprisingly, in these facilities, there has been a tremendous increase in the amount of patients from the indigenous communities.

Busy local Saturday market in Riobamba, Ecudaor. Photo © Aquib Yacoob 2012

Eyes wide, I stand motionless as “my yachak” begins to read the results of my limipa.  The clear, still water: a sign of good health. A firm, solid, intact yoke: a sign of confidence of where one is in the world; a sign of one who is grounded and secure both mentally and physically. The towering stream of egg white: an energetic spirit, that only of someone passionately in love. A first love, maybe.

So I was in love. What can I say? I cannot dispute the egg.

The different forms the egg yoke and white take tells different tales of the body and the mind. Source: misabueso.com

 Many thanks to Gaby Acevedo, my adoring Cultural Professor at the Andean School of Latin American Studies (ACLAS) for opening my world to “la limpia,” and numerous other forms of traditional medical practices, and for providing me with the resources I’ve used to create this article.

Further Reading:

Ecuador Hospitals mix Folk and Modern Medicine 

 Yachak’s, Villa’s and Medical Tourism 

Andean Center for Latin American Studies 

Biblioteca Digital Medicina 

Aquib Yacoob is a 19-year-old humanitarian with a strong passion for social justice and human rights. Based in Waterville, Maine, he’s a New Yorker born and raised in a small rural community in Guyana, South America. Currently a rising sophomore at Colby College, Aquib is pursuing the field of international medicine: an independent major of his making that looks at the intricacies of cultures, human rights and medicine. He’s en route to becoming a physician, with hopes of working on the ground with communities across the globe to develop culturally adapted, sustainable medical facilities and practices.

Ajumma and Agasshi: Undervalued and Overspent 

How Korean women are often depicted in the Korean media: young and shy

As an Australian woman living in Korea, many people often ask me if it is hard to live in Seoul as a foreigner.  When I initially moved to Korea three years ago, I might have answered “yes”. These days, however, after having interacted with Korean culture on a more substantial level, I feel like any social problems I may face in Korea are not related so much to my nationality or “foreignness”, so much as they are a result of my gender.  Being a woman in Korea, regardless of nationality, is quite an obstacle to achieving great social and professional respect in this country, as Korea’s long-surviving Confucius philosophy does arguably promote a strong patriarchal social structure with women subordinated to men.  While I have noticed that Korean men are delivered a lot of public freedom to smoke, drink, work, and stay out late, “nice” Korean women do not have such lenient social freedoms, and are still often criticized for smoking or staying out late in particular areas. Such entrenched public restrictions become more evident when we look at how women are vastly underrepresented in most managerial sectors in Korea.  With an upcoming Presidential Election in Korea set to take place in December 2012, and with the strongest candidate being a woman, the time is right for Korean women to start pushing for change.

A Korean woman on the subway

Underutilized Talent

Korea is brimming with women who are overeducated but underemployed, and on a broader social scale, clearly undervalued.  Of all the countries I have travelled around the world, Korea has to be one of the most developed societies that is continuing to openly and severely undervalue its highly-educated elite women, purely based on gender.  Even though Korea invests a huge amount of money in the tertiary education of women, only 60% of Korean women aged between 25 and 64 years of age have any participation in the workforce.  There are reasons for this unchanging gender-biased social situation.  One of the primary reasons for why Korean women feature less in public working life is the fact that many women in modern Korea are still expected to carry most of the weight of nurturing children, supervising house management, and taking care of extended family members.   Feminism is such an underground movement in Korea, that women can barely speak up about their modern identity crisis.

The titles of a married Korean woman might read like this:

Mother.  Wife.  House keeper.  Slave to mother-in-law.  Last but not least; Salary Woman.

The role of the Korean woman within the family unit covers an expansive list of titles and it is an extremely unrewarding juggling job.  In the year 2012, Korean women often have to manage preparing traditional foods and side dishes such as kimchi (Korean spicy cabbage), as well as washing clothes, preparing feasts for holiday events, and monitoring children’s after-school study programs.  This is no simple life, and when Korean married women struggle to balance all of these things with a career, there are always other relatives and extended family on the sidelines ready to step in and chide the female head of the house for not fulfilling all her roles.  Now that greater numbers of Korean women are starting to enter the workforce every year, the traditional roles of women are starting to shift slightly, while society is still not ready to adjust to an evolving image of women’s roles in the private sphere.

During the day many highly-educated Korean women flock to coffee
shops and department stores in Seoul.

Inside and Outside Personas

Traditionally, and even as recently as 10 or 15 years ago, Korean women were not expected to have a role outside of the home.  Company life was considered to be the kingdom of men, and even today most Korean companies feature male-dominant management boards and military-style management structures.  Women were expected to sacrifice themselves to focus on maintaining a strong and academically competitive household.  In Korea, education is of utmost importance, and the burden of maintaining children’s education standards always lies with the mother, with Korean mothers grooming and propelling their kids towards academic and social achievement.   While many women are now entering the workforce, the global recession has severely affected women’s chances of starting out in a good company, and a significant number of highly-educated and bilingual Korean women are still not being employed in Korea.

Pressure to exit the company

While Korean women can be seen present in the freshman ranks of Korean companies, there is still significant societal and company pressure for women to leave their company once they have a baby.   Maternity leave is theoretically possible in Korean companies, but in practice it is never (or rarely) taken. This means that many highly-educated Korean women work between the ages of 23 and 29, and after they get married and have a child around this stage of life, their chances of progressing up the ranks in their career decreases rapidly.  This is one of the reasons why the birthrate in Korea has dropped dramatically over the past thirty years, to an average of just 1.15 babies per woman.  Over the last five years the Ministry for Gender Equality and Family found that 53.4% of women quit their working life after marriage or after having  a baby.  Many government and research bodies have come to the realization that many of these women do not necessarily want to quit their jobs, however the patriarchal Korean working culture as well as the traditional expectation that mothers nurture babies in the home makes company life almost impossible for new Korean mothers.

A Western-style Korean wedding

Crossing over to the Husband’s Family

Aside from leaving her job, a Korean woman may also be expected to leave her own family.  Korean marriages are slightly different to stereotypical Western marriages in that Korean marriages are a bridge and contract between two families, rather than an agreement between two individuals.  The most vulnerable and powerless person in these marital transactions is usually the bride. At Korean weddings, the bride symbolically walks towards the husband’s family and bows to her new mother and father-in-law and hugs them; a gesture that demonstrates that she is leaving her own family and is accepting her duty to honor her husband’s family.  This symbolic gesture is not only for show.  In fact, from her wedding day on wards, the bride will embark on an excruciatingly intimate relationship with her in-laws, particularly with her new mother-in-law.

I have one Korean friend whose mother-in-law had a secret key to her house.  My friend didn’t know about this.  While my friend and her husband were out working during the day, her mother-in-law would slip into the house and check what was in the fridge, and whether the house had been cleaned.  Cooking is one area where Korean mother-in-laws are often especially picky.  This particular Korean Mother-in-law would mentally record what she did or did not see in the fridge and then later scold her daughter-in-law for not preparing special foods for her son.  This is just one example of how the daughter-in-law must often bow to the slightly overbearing whims of her mother-in-law.  Difficulty in managing the mother-in-law may be one of the reasons why a number of my Korean female friends dream of moving to another country, as to create some distance between themselves and their mother-in-laws.

Undertones of Gender Preference

Unlike many parts of China, the Korean government has successfully implemented measures to ensure that baby girls are valued and treated just as highly as baby boys, and as a result of this, the population numbers of men and women in Korea has evened out significantly since the 1980s.  While there is now no direct negative social stigma attached to giving birth to a daughter, there is still some underlying hidden pressure felt by Korean women to give birth to a baby boy who can carry on the family blood line.  Of course, quite a number of Korean families have no sons and boast about their beautiful and talented daughters.  However, I have met a number of women in Korea who have recently given birth to baby girls, and their mother-in-laws have expressed deep and open disappointment.  On occasion, mother-in-laws in Korea directly criticize their daughters-in-law for giving birth to only daughters, claiming that the birth mother must exhibit some form of “inadequacy” or “defect” that has resulted in their inability to produce a son.  These kinds of family dynamics still arise in Korea from time to time, and I have witnessed and felt unhappy about this gender-preference issue, as some traditional-minded Koreans still feel that the family name and history can only be carried on by a son.

Waiting to be married, the traditional way

The Holiday Season is not a Holiday

‘Chuseok’ and ‘Seollal’ are the two biggest national holidays in Korea, and they both involve travelling to the husband’s family’s house for a huge meal.  However, in Korea, Chuseok and Seollal have very narrow gender roles and these ‘celebrations’ are not considered to be relaxing holidays for married Korean women.  There is a sharp rise in divorce in Korea after these holiday seasons, partly because women experience a great deal of pressure to produce a huge quantity of food such as traditional ‘jeon’ pancakes and ‘tteokguk’ soup, as well as being expected to complete all the cleaning, while taking care of young children.  While the women barely have a moment to eat anything or enjoy these holidays, Korean men typically relax and watch TV, or fall asleep on the floor.  Every holiday season I stay with a different Korean family and witness how brutally exhausted the women look during all of the cooking and cleaning on these “special days”, and how comfortable and unconcerned the men look as they drink their rice wine and watch sport on television.  Never once have I witnessed a Korean man get up to assist his wife during a public holiday feast.

Korean women are always up on their feet, while their husbands
sit down at home

Kimchi Labor 

The Kimchi (Korean spicy cabbage) making season, known as “kimjang”, is also an extremely busy and labour-intensive time for married women in Korea.  Traditionally, around the end of November each year, all the married (and sometimes unmarried) women in the house will get together and use 100-200 heads of cabbage to create a year’s worth of the famous Korean sidedish over two days.  These days many Korean women try to avoid the kimjang season and buy their kimchi from large supermarkets. In the past, however, Korean mothers would pressure their daughter-in-laws to prepare kimchi by hand with their preferred recipe, and criticize them sharply if they bought kimchi that was not homemade.  Even though a lot of Koreans are starting to buy packaged kimchi, I have still overheard Korean men proudly boasting about how well their wives can make hand-make kimchi.  This starts to make me ponder my own kimchi-making-future, as everytime I have been on a blind date with a Korean man I have been asked how well I can cook.  Thinking about preparing 200 heads of cabbage with salt and fish sauce every November personally makes me break into a sweat.  Although once I personally experience a real kimjang season, I may change my mind.

A Korean woman in the traditional markets

Marching Onwards

The future of the modern Korean woman depends largely on how Korean society can evolve to accept the expanding role of women in the public sphere, while adapting what is expected of them in the traditional private sphere.  Of course, part of redefining women’s role in the private sphere may involve adjusting how Korean men interact and participate in the home.  Perhaps more Korean men could try their hand at cooking during Chuseok and Seollal, although for many Koreans this suggestion might seem outrageous or inconceivable, as this would mean breaking with hundreds of years of tradition.  If I one day decide to marry a Korean man, I hope that I would not experience excess pressure to expertly produce high-grade kimchi every season, and I would hope that my Korean mother-in-law would never hold a secret key to my apartment.

A traditional Korean wedding

Luigina Webb is originally Australian but has studied abroad in Israel, the US, and South Korea, where she now works as an interpreter in a Korean trading company. She has traveled to over thirty countries. Luigina owns a large collection of Korean traditional hats and headdresses sourced from all over Korea. You can check out her blog at http://www.luiginakorea.com/

In the Metro, massive posters advertise an exhibition at the Institut du Monde Arabe. Against a colorful backdrop, French words are superimposed over Arabic ones. Modernité. حداثة. Orient. الشرق. Géométrie. علم الهندسة. The poster is striking not only for its size—it is at least 20x20ft—but also for its subject. The Institut du Monde Arabe (IMA) is an institution built around the idea of an ethnic and political body known as Arabs. And in a nation that has great difficulty discussing ethnicity under the vanguard of liberté-égalité-fraternité, the sight of such a poster is a paradox.

As I travel from Metro station to Metro station, even sighting the advertisements on the street, I realize that public discourse in France on ethnicity, Islam, and diversity is even more nuanced than I first understood. I wrote first about moments in daily life in Paris when individuals are forced to recognize the diversity around them. I then wrote about how neighborhoods like my own are demarcated in space and reputation as ‘safe’ or ‘dangerous,’ owing much to their status as immigrant communities. But there also places where diversity—Islam, ‘Arabness,’ and ‘blackness’—are publicly discussed, even celebrated.

The exterior of the Institut du Monde Arabe at sunset.

I. The Institut du Monde Arabe

The Institut du Monde Arabe is one of these places. Its building stands proudly as one of the tallest in the 5th Arrondissement and tourists and locals—Arab and otherwise—fill its exhibition halls. A large chunk of the IMA’s funding is public money and its financial management is overseen by a division of the French senate. The IMA is an institution recognized and legitimized by the State.

But with public recognition comes a public message. The IMA was founded in 1980 by the governments of France and 18 Arab states. Soon, three more Arab states joined, making 21: Algeria, Bahrain, Djibouti, Egypt, Iraq, Jordan, Kuwait, Lebanon, Libya, Morocco, Mauritania, Oman, Palestine, Qatar, Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, Syria, Tunisia, the United Arab Emirates, and Yemen. All of these governments fund the museum cooperatively, in varying amounts.

Unsurprisingly, this ownership structure has meant that the museum itself is extremely political. The IMA exists in the neutral zone between the government of a former colonial oppressor and the governments of lands that were once colonized, many by France. And so the IMA must promote a vision of Arab civilization that is agreeable to all 21 Arab member states while eliding the worst of the French conquests the Near East and the Maghreb. The result of this political equation is an elegy of a golden age lost, of the wonders of Arab invention and science from the 8th Century to the 13th Century that became eclipsed by the rise of Europe.

Permanent exhibits display compasses and telescopes, geometric mosaics and Arabic translations of classical Greek philosophy. Temporary collections tend to focus on comparative art history and culture: “Historical Heritage of Algeria,” “The Orient of Saladin at the Time of the Ayyubids,” “The Morocco of Matisse,” and “European Painters in Algeria.” But besides past exhibitions called “Napoleon in Egypt” and “Orientalism Inverted: Art,” the IMA evades the larger questions of colonialism, religion, and race.

For a visitor who has more direct questions than the symbolic ones addressed in exhibits on Algerian fashion, culture, literature, and art, the IMA is disappointing. I want to ask about decolonization. I want to know about the Algerian Revolution (not War—but Revolution), I want to talk about the identity of the pieds-noirs, and I want to discuss ethnic and religious minorities in Algeria and beyond. But none of this discussion is supported in the IMA.

A friend told me that the IMA used to focus more on minorities within Arab-majority states and that it hasn’t always been so shy of political controversy. But in my sporadic visits to the museum over the past two years, I’ve witnessed little examination of minorities in the Arab world, save Maghrebi Berbers. Yet, even while the IMA presents a mostly monolithic Arab world, the institution seems to try to de-emphasize Islam. Arab and Muslim are not the same thing, placards repeat throughout the museum. The ‘Golden Age of Islam’ often morphs to a ‘Golden Age of the Arabs,’ although the museum still uses pre- and post-hijra eras to structure its collections. When Islam must be addressed, it is addressed as a historical fact and the source of inspiration for many artistic and cultural traditions. It’s not addressed as a religion itself, let alone a living one.

The Institut du Monde Arabe attracts tourists, regular ‘museum-goers,’ and Pharaonic Egypt enthusiasts. Visitors flock to see the majesty of the IMA’s architecture. Made of steel and glass, one side of the building is a grid of aperture, like the aperture of a camera, which form a new arabesque. With a spectacular view of Paris, the IMA’s rooftop terrace plays host to corporate and cultural events alike. In fact, the NGO I work with organized a conference in the hall adjoining the terrace. Located in the 5th Arrondissement, the mood is always classy and conservative at the museum.

The facade’s apertures from the interior.

II. The Institut des Cultures d’Islam

The same is not true at the Institut des Cultures d’Islam. Located in the 18th Arrondissement, the Institut des Cultures d’Islam (ICI) is situated in an immigrant neighborhood called the Goutte d’Or that few Parisians would ever call classy. I have heard the it described by many as ‘dangerous,’ like my own neighborhood, Barbès. But past the fish markets on Rue Poulet and the mobs of produce sellers, the ICI is a sanctuary of cultural exchange and learning.

In every way that the IMA is traditional and conservative, the ICI is not. It is a cultural center focused heavily the community surrounding it and its programs rely heavily on artistic expression and production from within the Muslim community in Paris. In a strange way, the ICI is about institutions being religious not about religion itself. Called #Libertés!, the current exhibition is inspirited by the Arab spring and is about freedom and the freedom to express oneself artistically and culturally. More of a program series than a formal exhibition, #Libertés! features hip-hop performances, revolutionaries from Egypt, and discussions on both graffiti and democracy.

In terms of physical space, the ICI is nondescript with flat façade on the street (Rue Leon), but once inside it opens up into a collection of rooms surrounding a courtyard on three sides. Visitors drink coffees and eat Maghrebi pastries in the courtyard between shows or lectures in the nearby galleries of the ICI. Performances—dramatic, musical, or just spiritual—take place in the courtyard on a large stage fitted for outdoor rock concerts. The atmosphere is thoughtful but it is laid-back and trendy above all.

Visitors at the Grande Mosquée’s cafe

III. The Grande Mosquée de Paris

The third space where diversity and religion are publicly discussed, and even celebrated, is the Grande Mosquée of Paris. First opened in 1926, the Grande Mosquée is the oldest mosque in the city and the most visible sign of Islam in the Paris’s built environment. Built in Moorish style, the Grande Mosquée resembles the mosques of Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria.

Fortified with a high wall, the Mosquée houses a central prayer room, gardens, a theological school (madrassa), a library, a bathhouse (hamam), and a cafe. The commercial ventures of the Mosquée balance awkwardly with the religious ones. The cafe and hamam, which charges at least 45€ for a spa-like session, are accessible from one corner of the buidling and the prayer room and madrassa are accessible from the opposite corner. (The Mosquée occupies almost an entire block.)

My friends all know the cafe and think of it as a very ‘cool’ place to go. And they’re right. The cafe is gorgeous, open, and welcoming. Little chairs and tables and squeezed under fruit trees in a triangular courtyard. There are mosaics everywhere and the archways to the interior cafe are immaculately carved in Moorish style.

The cafe’s interio

“Everyone goes there,” a friend tells me. “They want to say ‘I had coffee at the Mosquée.’” She’s right; the demographics at the cafe are nothing like those in the atrium gardens near the prayer rooms. In the cafe, nearly everyone is white and everyone seems quite wealthy. “It’s very bobo,” she says, referring to bourgeois-bohemians as we sip mint tea.

While I watch young people my age smoke shisha and eat baklawa, I realize that this one cafe at the Mosquée is not actually promoting diversity or cultural understanding. Students come to the cafe for the afternoon, professionals meet here for lunch, and friends go to the hamam together on the weekend. But at these events, cultural exchange is perceived not experienced. Islam might be publicly recognized through the shisha at the cafe, but this might be at the expense of rendering Islam as exotic. “They think they’re discovering Islam through the tea,” my friend remarks. “But it’s just so superficial.”

Baklawa and sweets at the Grande Mosquée’s cafe

I’m not sure how to interpret the other places—the Institut du Monde Arabe and the Institut des Cultures d’Islam—as centers where diversity in ethnicity and religion is recognized by the public and the State. There are bobos at the ICI, just like at the Mosquée, but in some ways they seem different. Maybe they seem different because it is so much harder to get to the ICI, which is in a ‘bad’ neighborhood, than the Mosquée, which is in the 5th, a ‘good’ neighborhood. To me, visitors to the ICI’s courtyard cafe seem more likely to learn something about Islam and Muslim minorities simply because the institute runs programs and events constantly.

Out of the three establishments, the Institut du Monde Arabe attracts the most tourists and likely the most visitors overall. (It would be a very rare sight to see a tourist at the ICI.) But, the IMA’s institutional motivations remain political and about promoting a certain politically-correct historical narrative. And the exhibits and programs remain bland. Through the IMA, the State might recognize Arab history and culture, but it still will not speak on contested colonial history and contemporary diversity.

The IMA and the cafe at the Grande Mosquée were designed for outsiders, whether French or foreign, and their messages reflect this. The IMA offers fragmented but true narratives of Arab and Islamic history and the Grande Mosquée serves couscous in a cafe that could have been transplanted from Marrakech to Paris. These things are ‘real’ and ‘authentic,’ and they are valuable for the outsider and visitor to experience, but they are also incomplete.

Away from the ‘safe’ neighborhoods and the grand boulevards, the ICI is able to address and raise some of the questions that the other two establishments have shied away from. What does it mean to be young and Muslim in France today? What are women’s rights in Islam? Is colonial history related to discrimination and racism in France today? How can communities project their own voices over the voice of the state? What does it mean to be different?

Taken together, these three cultural centers begin to shed light on Islam and ‘Arabness’ within the French context. Through hip-hop performances, art exhibitions, and mint tea, they begin to engage visitors in dialogues rarely heard beyond their walls. And for that, they’re a good start.

Anthony Chase is interested in the ‘democracy of everyday,’ the ways in which individuals perform and perceive the social contract in daily life. He is also interested in Islam, minority rights, and diversity. Originally from Michigan, Anthony currently works for a French development organization and lives in Paris.

From the Foreign to the Familiar: On Embracing Another

I am back in Japan and waiting at Umeda Station to meet a close friend for dinner. It’s the first time we have seen each other in three years. He’s an old college friend who also moved here shortly after graduation and has stayed ever since, a couple of decades. As I see him approaching from across the station a smile spreads across my face and when he gets near, reflexively I open my arms to step in for a hug. He responds in kind and remarks, “Man, I miss hugs living here.” That went well. Other times I’ve had old friends stiffen up or awkwardly respond in kind after a startled pause to this physical style of greeting.

This screen in the Hankyu Umeda Station, known as Big Man, is a popular place to meet up with friends in Osaka. Photo by jpellgen.

Hug, Bow, or Shake Hands?

Even if you grew up in an expressive environment, if you have spent a lot of time in Japan and worked to acclimate yourself to the culture, your greeting instincts become scrambled and reset. You learn that hugging Japanese friends and family makes them uncomfortable and then you become unsure of what to do when you see your foreign friends who also live there. Do you hug only if you haven’t seen them in a long time? You forget if you hug friends every time you see them or if there is some other algorithm involved. It starts to strike you as odd when you are home and you hear your friends and family ending every phone call with “Love you!”

You rarely see people hug in Japan. They don’t hug their friends, their romantic partners or their children. Certainly not in public and for many, not in private either. The casual, affectionate physical contact that is a part of American and European cultures is not really found in Japanese culture. It’s not that Japanese culture lacks affection and emotion. These things are expressed by other types of actions or are felt but never overtly expressed. It’s considered embarrassing and childish to make a showy, public display. Maybe direct expressions of affection focus too much attention on the individuals involved. At any rate, it isn’t done.

Photo by mr. hayata.

Discussions about the lack of public affection in Japan usually focus on romantic relationships and whether or not kissing or holding hands with a romantic partner is socially acceptable or taboo, but the way we express affection to family and friends is equally as important for our emotional well-being. It’s not uncommon to see couples or same-sex friends holding hands, but you rarely see couples kissing in public unless it’s late and they are drunk or teenagers. This nearly exclusive focus on the romantic discounts all other types of relationships, the kind that may very well make up the bulk of your interactions in Japan.

Relationships between Japanese and non-Japanese partners that start outside Japan will most likely see big changes when the couple goes to Japan compared to when they are abroad. Even if it seemed natural to kiss or embrace your partner in another type of setting and atmosphere, once you get to Japan it’s often hard for the Japanese partner to cast off all the social conditioning associated with home. Some individuals’ behavior changes so dramatically it almost seems like they are entirely different people, but it doesn’t necessarily mean feelings have changed. It’s something that is hard to anticipate and confusing until you realize how deeply ingrained the cultural assumptions and behaviors we are raised with really are.

Body language and coordinating outfits. Their affection is apparent even though there is some physical distance. Photo by sskenne

How many of us were told as children, “Go give your auntie a kiss!” at family gatherings? You did it because you were supposed to even if you thought it (or she) was weird and then it became a thing you always do “naturally.” If you grew up never doing that imagine how you’d feel if suddenly that become what you’re expected to do? There are a lot of ways you might react, but being open-minded and willing to try to understand other ways of connecting is a good approach. Sometimes despite all your efforts you might find another culture’s way just doesn’t fit your personal style, but you will grow and learn, about other cultures and yourself, as long as you give it an honest effort.

Embrace the Difference

A couple of months after moving from Japan back to the US my daughter, then in elementary school, came home and told me, “My friends say my hugs suck.” She spent her early childhood in Japan and hadn’t learned to hug friends, even though she was hugged at home. I would see her tense up and stiffen when her American grandfather hugged her, too. He confessed to me once when she was younger that it made him sad that she seemed so formal and foreign with him. It took her a couple of years before she finally “got” it. Even now I feel a rush of warmth when I see her step in to give her grandfather (my dad) a big hug when she sees him.

Most people with even a little awareness of Japanese culture know that Japanese people bow in greeting, as well as in apology. (Watch this parody video about bowing in apology for a laugh, just remember to take it with a grain of salt! 

Business people may also know that shaking hands in an international business setting is something that is commonly done.

I had a conversation with a Japanese college student once who told me he thought American mothers didn’t love their children as much as Japanese mothers do. Of course, I was stunned. What did he mean?! Turns out that he had been on a home-stay with an American family where the mom worked full-time and the kids, who were high school age, had to get up and make their own breakfasts in the morning. This made the mom an unloving mother because in his view a mother shows her love by getting up before everyone else in the family and making a hot breakfast and bento lunches for them. A loving Japanese mom cooks, cleans, does laundry, takes care of all domestic duties and makes sure her children attend to their school work. These actions and ways of being are demonstrations of her love and affection. I pointed out to him that from my perspective Japanese moms can seem a little cold since I seldom saw them hugging their kids or offering words of encouragement or praise. Eventually we came to an understanding that mothers in each culture love their kids as much as in the other, they just express that love in different ways.

At Japanese kindergarten with my daughter. Creating a spectacle.

Don’t Stand So Close to Me

I have a theory about why Japanese seem to be averse to physical demonstrativeness. The country is small and most of the land is mountainous and inhabitable, so the population is heavily concentrated in the Pacific urban corridors. The population density is 836 people per square mile, compared to 650 in the United Kingdom and 84 in the United States. The trains at rush hour can be so packed that you could sleep standing up because the sheer mass of humanity around you leaves no space to fall down. If you are an urban commuter you are used to spending a lot of time in physical contact with strangers. There are unspoken rules for riding a crowded rush hour train. These include not making eye contact, not holding loud conversations, not eating or drinking and no excessive volume coming from your headphones. It’s common to focus your attention on your cell phone, a book, or something else that takes your mind away from the fact that you are trapped in a crowded train car. If possible, it’s best not to stand face to face with someone. I think the situation in the packed trains can be described as a crowd of people trying to imagine they are someplace else.

Japanese homes tend to be small. The average total floor area for a Japanese residence is about 1,020 square feet, with urban apartments and condos often much smaller and homes in rural areas much larger. So it works out that spending time in close physical proximity to family and strangers is nearly unavoidable in urban Japan. I think this causes people to develop coping mechanisms that help them maintain psychological distance so things don’t become too overwhelming. A combination of a lack of physical and psychological space leaves no room for an individual to just be.  If you take every point of contact personally, you will quickly become extremely frustrated. The balance is to be found in accepting that not all contact is meant to be felt and not all emotion is overtly expressed. I’ve ridden plenty of packed trains and endured the jostling and lack of any semblance of personal space. To some extent I developed the capacity to build a mental shield in order to cope with it, but it’s really one of those things that just eats away at me and saps my energy. Eventually, I took a job with off-hour commuting times and then moved to a part of the country where I only took the train if I was going out of town. Changing yourself is sometimes the quickest way to a solution.

No eye contact. No standing face-to-face. Photo by Elijah ven der Giessen.

Pam Ikegami lived in Japan for twelve years as an adventurer, student, wife, mom, translator and teacher. Ever grateful for all the lessons Japan has taught her, she is now a teacher of Japanese language and culture in the US. Some of her happiest and proudest moments are spent with her students, many of whom go on to study, work and live in Japan.

traversing hi/stories: embodying an other(ed) Indonesia

Marked as ‘A’ on the map, Kupang, West Timor is the provincial capital of Nusa Tenggara Timur. Source: Google Maps

On a quiet Sunday morning in Kupang, Indonesia, I slip out of my house to run errands for the upcoming week.  It is my favorite time of the week to take the motorbike out, as the city abandons the streets for the churches.  The emptiness and silence makes the year-round humid heat actually bearable.  But at the bakery, big groups of families catch me after morning services.  I queue up with the adults, while the young children swoop in and out of the line, placing their faces up against the glass display to examine the colorful bite-size pastries.  When my turn comes up, I step forward to execute the order I had been practicing in my head over a dozen times… only to find that the woman behind the counter had already moved on to help the family after me.

I wait it out, trying to meet the eyes of the next available employee.  But as soon as she becomes available, she looks to serve the older man behind the family.  Then the next customer.  And the ones after him.  I physically insert myself back into the front of the line, but my interjection is unnoticed.  Like a child feeling overwhelmingly out of her comfort zone, I impatiently assert in Indonesian:

“May I have white bread?!”

A few customers peek out of the line to look at me.  The women behind the counter look too.  One of them tosses a loaf of bread on the counter without making eye contact.  I place my money down next to the cash register and walk out without waiting for the change.

A few days later, I arrive at a restaurant near school during my lunch break.  As I admire the familiar home cooked Chinese-influenced dishes that resemble my own mother’s cooking, a sense of comfort comes over me.  The owner approaches to introduce herself.  With her arms around me, she recommends her favorite dishes.  We sit together with a mountainous plate of food, as she asks me about my life and shares stories about hers.  An ethnically Chinese Indonesian from the country’s most populated island Java, this Ibu (literally “mother,” but an endearing and respectful term to call married women in Indonesia) moved to Kupang more than twenty years ago to open the restaurant with her husband.  Over the years, the family has made quite a fortune; enough so that she is able to support her 20-year-old daughter, a fashion enthusiast and avid party goer in the nation’s capital Jakarta.  Overjoyed and overstuffed after our chat, I graciously thank her for a great meal.  With a big smile, she says in English, “See you tomorrow!”

These two starkly different experiences were not isolated incidents.  I would continue to be overlooked at some stores and restaurants, while met with impeccable services and generous discounts elsewhere.  This pattern was not arbitrary, but rather one deeply embedded in the ethnic fabric of the city’s social landscape.  It had a lot to do with my perceived Chinese background.  Interactions were mildly cold at local establishments owned by indigenous Indonesians, while extremely friendly and generous at businesses owned by Ethnic Chinese.

Kupang, a hilly coastal city, has import and export industry is extensive. The commercial center, including strips of restaurants, hotels and stores are also built along the coast. Source: Aline D’Ormesson

Historically in Indonesia, Ethnic Chinese play a disproportionate role in the commercial life.  In a phenomenon that Yale Law professor Amy Chua calls market-dominant minorities in “World on Fire (2003)”, Chinese-Indonesians are “ethnic minorities who…tend under market conditions to dominate economically, often to startling extent, the ‘indigenous’ majorities around them.”  The presence of Ethnic Chinese in what is today Indonesia extends back to the early 1400′s, when they inhabited the islands of Java and Bali.  Then, throughout European colonialism, the Chinese continued to maintain some economic power.

A portrait of Chinese Indonesian tycoon Sudono Salim (Liem Sioe Liong)–one of the world wealthiest men at the time–and his wife is burned by rioters when his Jakarta house was ransacked during the May 1998 riots. Source: “Great Tycoon” by Oscar Motuloh

It wasn’t until Indonesia’s national independence in the 1940′s did explicit economic policies formally recognize Chinese dominance in the market economy.  In the 1950s and 1960s, Indonesia’s first president, Sukarno, implemented anti-Chinese and anti-Dutch nationalization policies.  But after the fall of the Soviet Union bloc and the international development shift towards globalization, Indonesia shifted towards market-oriented policies under its second president, Suharto.  Chinese-Indonesian quickly regained economic power.  According to Chua, at the fall of President Suharto’s 30-year reign in 1998, “Chinese-Indonesians, while representing only 3 percent of the population, controlled roughly 70 percent of the country’s private economy, including all of the country’s largest conglomerates.”  The fall of Suharto’s autocracy that same year was accompanied by anti-Chinese mob violence in which scores of indigenous Indonesians burned, looted, and killed anything Chinese.  The violence ultimately left two thousand people dead, many of which were non-Chinese Indonesians trapped in burning buildings.

Shops looted and goods burned on the streets of Jakarta on May 14, 1998. Source: B.J. Habibie: 72 Days as Vice President by Office of the Vice President, The Republic of Indonesia.

In response to the people’s complaints that “One race cannot control 90 percent of the economy,” the third and interim president Habibie introduced the New Deal, which intended to break up Chinese conglomerates and redistribute them to indigenous cooperatives.  But the redistribution process disastrously left Indonesia in an economic crisis.  The rice industry, for example, left tens of millions of people across Indonesia starving on an average of one meal per day.

Corruption, inefficiency and scandal became prevalent.  While the anti-Chinese and anti-market campaign continued rhetorically, indigenous officials and businessmen secretly subcontracted the work out to Chinese traders again.  Eventually, most of the wealthiest Chinese-Indonesians left the country along with $40 to $100 billion of Chinese-controlled capital.  The World Bank and IMF stepped in and urged the Indonesian government to come to an “accommodation” with the country’s Chinese business community.  To this day, this continues to be a sensitive economic issue, as the Indonesian government sits on tens of billions of industrial assets, most of which were formerly owned by Chinese tycoons.

In the high school where I taught in Kupang, students are predominantly Indigenous Indonesian. The student on my right, however, is Chinese-Indonesian. Sharon often called me “her twin,” as she recognized our cultural similarity in a classroom space where we are ethnic minorities.

Living in such a volatile ethnic-economic context, I was pushed to understand my ethnic identity much differently than I had to before.  In the past, I had “passed” my way through my travels in Asia.  While living in Ho Chi Minh City teaching English to young Vietnamese students, young children often reminded me of our similarities as they lined their arms up next to mine and told me we’re the “same-same.”  And when I traveled in South Korea and Japan with non-Asian college friends, locals looked to me to help bridge the language barrier. Even when I revealed that I am Taiwanese-American, they held a sense of camaraderie, as we recognized our overlapping national histories and mutual cultural understandings.

My classrooms in the Vietnamese context were homogeneous  students rarely made ethnic distinctions among themselves, or between themselves and I.

Now in Indonesia, the perks of passing come at the expense of having strained relationships with others.  Past the moments of frustrations where I felt belittled and mistreated, I began to disassociate from my Chinese identity.  Indeed, I was in Indonesia on a U.S. state-funded program to teach English as an American cultural ambassador.  Moreover, having been raised in Taiwan as the granddaughter of a late anti-Communist Kuomingtang revolutionist, I grew up identifying myself as “not-Chinese.”  I made the distinction of explaining to many locals in Kupang that I was “orang Taiwan-Amerika, bukan Cina-Amerika.”  That is, Taiwanese-American, not Chinese-American.

But overtime, I realized that the small details did not matter.  As an ethnically Chinese, culturally Taiwanese-American whose family has lived and worked in five countries over three generations, at times in exile and other times voluntarily, I shared a similar family narrative with those Chinese-Indonesian store owners; historically and presently, institutionalized policies and practices have both privileged and oppressed our lives.  And while it is enormously touchy to talk about the economic element of genocidal violence, it is important to recognize that minority market domination is a reality in many parts of the world, and it is very much tied up with group hatred and mass violence.  As long as I continue to pass as a Chinese-Indonesian, I embody a population that has seriously struggled and suffered, but also reaped tremendous benefits from the social structures of Indonesia.  This recognition wasn’t quite the peace I was looking for, but it provided a more conscious platform to approach and stay with the tougher relationships and the irreconcilable feelings.

In “traversing hi/stories”, I hope to further explore these tougher relationships and irreconcilable feelings, in order to shed light on the complex nature of an American of color’s experience while living abroad.  Connecting my personal narrative with the stories and histories of the people I meet on my travels, I will attempt to engage past and current world debates through different, often conflicting truths.  I pay attention to people’s love and resentment, activism and apathy, memories and dreams, and all the haziness that falls in between.

Jessica Peng is a traveling educator with research interests in Southeast Asian colonial history, and its legacies on political, educational and social landscapes. Upon receiving her B.A. in International Studies from Vassar College, Jessica first moved to Indonesia as a Fulbright grantee. This fall, Jessica will return to Indonesia to continue teaching at the university level as a Maguire Fellow. She has lived in five countries and speaks five languages.

Wash the Dust Away

An Anthropologist’s Lens

An Interview with Rachel Bussières

“Travelling inspires me – and all artists I think,” said Quebec native, photographer Rachel Bussières. “The richness of encounters, the uprooting from one’s native soil and, the curiosity about difference all feed the spirit and open the mind. And that’s where you start to be creative.”

Selling fruits, Dharamsala. Presented in collaboration with the Tibetan Women’s Association (TWA).

Bussières was always an artist; from a very young age her parents encouraged her creativity, thinking she might become a painter or an illustrator. She went on to study fine arts at college where she began experimenting with printing photographs onto mixed medias such as wood, fabric and metal. After receiving her art diploma, Bussières traveled to Central America for a year, where she began to shoot exclusively with a little digital camera. After returning from this long journey, she decided to study Anthropology.

“I had found a fascination for exotic cultures and others’ languages,” Bussières said. “During my first semester, I took the class ‘Visual Anthropology’ which made something click. Next thing I knew, I was buying professional photographic tools and was flying off to India for four months.”

Old people homes, Dharamsala. Presented in collaboration with the Tibetan Women’s Association (TWA).

Today, Bussières acts as a traveling photographer with an anthropological methodology, and is stationed back and forth from Quebec to the north coast of California continuing to develop her projects. Her knowledge of social anthropology reminds her that a subject’s context is crucial to understanding their culture. She describes her artistic process as capturing and reconstructing moments in a way that both reflect emotions and realities, but still accounts for their unique contexts.

Bussières is also prepared to take the time that is required to understand the diverse realities of culture by actively taking part in it.

“For talking about others realities, you have to live among them and participate in the everyday life,” she said. “As a photographer, I spend a lot of time wandering and walking around in the environment of my subjects. I’m inspired by [their] everyday life.”

The Tibetan Children Village (TCV) School, Dharamsala. Presented in collaboration with the Tibetan Women’s Association (TWA).

Bussières’s subjects are varied from people in her own immediate reality to those that she encounters in other realities. Her personal photography includes series such as “Women”, which chronicles images of naked women in idyllic natural settings. There is also “I Remember Water” which includes placid images of trees and human hands reflecting against the surface of still water. The images across the board interact with nature in a subtle, intimate manner.

In addition to her many personal series, Bussières has published two photo- collaborations with The Tibetan Women’s Association in Dharmasala and The International Society for Ecology and Culture in Ladakh. Dharmasala came about while she first traveled through India. As she walked through the streets of Dharmasala – which is in the Himachal Pradesh state – she stopped at the Tibetan Women’s Association (TWA) out of curiosity.

“They were actually working on a photo journal project on Tibetan women in exile. I said I was interested in the project and I started to work for them the next day,” Bussières said.

Over the next two months, she visited a refugee center, a few Tibetan schools; went on a nuns retreat and visited elderly homes to integrate herself with Tibetan women. Before she photographed the women, she would routinely interview with a translator them to get a feeling for their energy and story.

“The encounter with those women was passionate, touching and inspiring. This experience changed me as a person, as an artist and as a woman,” Bussières said.

Next, Bussières traveled north to Ladakh, which she calls a “state of snow peaks and moony landscapes”. The altitude gave the environment a mystical quality because of the lack of oxygen. As she walked through the state’s capital, Leh, she stopped at The International Society for Ecology and Culture which works towards the preservation of the culture and environment of Ladakh. There, she met with a woman named Helena Borbeg-Hodge, the director of the center and the first westerner who had come to Ladakh thirty years ago.

“She spoke Ladakhi, lived there and knew everything about the Ladakhi culture. The next day, they sent me to a small Ladakhi village called Skindiyang to take photographs of the western changes on the local population.”  Bussières said. “I stayed with a family for a week and half. Nobody spoke English except a young Ladaki teenager. She was my translator and would bring me to the school and to people’s houses.”

Bussières drank butter beer and ate tukpas (a soup with baked dough) with the people of Skindiyang, until she became sick from the severity in altitude and had to return to the capital. When she returned to Quebec City she prepared a series of her works from the village which she then showcased at her university in a solo exhibition. The photos were also part of two collective exhibitions in Quebec and Spain.

Young children passing by, Skindiyang, Ladakh. Presented in collaboration with the International Society for Ecology and Culture.

Like many traveling artists, Bussières also became interested in making paper as part of the artistic process. For Bussières, making paper helps her to connect with the environment of her subjects.

“During the production [of paper], I use environmental fibers and raw materials that I mix with a pulp of cotton, linter or abaca,” said Bussières. “Papermaking has become an integral part of my artistic process.”

After studying anthropology, Bussières decided that – despite her passion – she wouldn’t become a full time anthropologist because she felt that they spent too much time in the lab for her taste. She wanted to get out and move and now feels that traveling is an integral part of any artist or student’s learning.

Cooking, Dharamsala. Presented in collaboration with the Tibetan Women’s Association (TWA).

“School gives you tools to intellectualize your practice, to learn others, to reinforce your capacity to talk about your work and vulgarize it,” she said, “but you have to get your inspiration from new and different forms of experience that can’t be taught at school. Traveling and moving around is one of the best things you can do to learn from life and get inspired by it.”

We can all certainly be inspired by Bussières’ beautiful artwork and her dedication to integrating herself with the cultures and environments she photographed, instead of remaining an outside looking in. By taking the time to understand the people she wanted to capture, her art obtains an organic quality that speaks to the humanity of her subjects and of the world at large.

“Photographing them,”she said, “helps me to reach a better understanding of humanity.”

The Tibetan Children Village (TCV) School, Dharamsala. Presented in collaboration with the Tibetan Women’s Association (TWA).

 

Saskia Kusnecov is a Rutgers University student interested in studying History and Spanish. Coming from a childhood heavily invested in the visual and literary arts, she has a weighty interest in the dimensions of culture and geographical art history. She is motivated to pursue journalism by a voracious curiosity about the world around her and a desire to reveal the truth about unheeded areas of life. She would also like to take an active role in the fight for human rights around the globe.

Another Paris explores a different City of Light than most visitors expect to find upon landing at Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Examining how crêperies and kebab stands function next to each other in Paris’ new urban landscape, Another Paris opens up discussion on the growing cultural and religious diversity in France and what this means for daily interactions.

Another Paris: Imagining Barbès

The street-scape at the Barbès-Rochechouart intersection

I. Different Imaginations

My neighborhood does not exist in space so much as it exists in imagination. Every resident and visitor has their own vision of this neighborhood whose heart is the Barbès-Rochechouart intersection. Some see Barbès as a place of community and normalcy. They might also call it home. Others see it as a neighborhood of multiple enclaves, and multiple social codes. For others still, Barbès is a place of fear and danger, a neighborhood to avoid if at all possible. Each imagined vision of the neighborhood seems to contradict the next.

“I never get off the Metro there,” a coworker tells me. “It’s not safe.” To her, Barbès is a place of intimidation and anxiety, a place where she feels outnumbered and out-of-place. “There are so many men at that station. And you can see that it’s just men in the neighborhood even from the Metro. There are never any women.” But my coworker, like others I have talked to, has never been to Barbès. Once, she had taken stock of the neighborhood from the window of the Metro, or had taken to heart advice from peers or parents. “Don’t go there,” they told her. And she never has.

Rumor governs the city. Perception of place, the ‘type’ of people that places contain, and the economies within all shape different imaginations of this and other neighborhoods. Everyone has their own story about Barbès, but there are repeating themes in the stories of outsiders: the disproportionate number of men in public spaces, Friday prayers in the street, drug traders and crack cocaine, the market under the Metro overpass, hijabi girls, and pickpocketing. Told to loved ones and strangers alike, these stories form the public reputation of Barbès and regulate the paths that individuals take to work and the places they frequent and shop. “They’ve never been here,” a coworker tells me of her friends as we’re walking to my apartment. “And I don’t think they ever will.”

Mobile phone shops are numerous at the Barbès-Rochechouart intersection

II. Outsiders

In spatial terms, the Barbès-Rochechouart neighborhood encircles the Metro station of the same name that touches the 9th, 10th, and 18th Arrondissements of Paris. The Metro station and two major streets are named after Armand Barbès (1809-1870), a revolutionary, and Maguerite de Rochechouart (1665-1727), the 43rd abbess of Montmarte. Several boulevards intersect under Line 2, which is elevated at the Barbès stop. Arching over the neighborhood, Line 2 provides shelter from the rain for a long strip of vegetable stalls forming the Wednesday and Saturday markets. During the rest of the week, Tati is the neighborhood’s social hub. Spanning nearly two blocks, Tati is a major discount department store with neon pink signs. The streets are lined with Halal butchers, phone shops, and African hair salons. Men roast husks of corn on mobile charcoal grills on the sidewalk. Baklawa sits next to pain du chocolat at the patisserie. The neighborhood is alive.

But to outsiders, this vibrancy instills fear and apprehension. In imagined urban space, ‘immigrant area’ is re-conceived of as ‘poor area.’ Informal economy becomes illegal economy, ethnic shops become foreign shops, and street salesmen become drug dealers. Disorder becomes danger. One coworker considers Barbès as one of many neighborhoods she avoids visiting. “You can draw a map of Paris and split it in quadrants,” she says. “And the entire upper-right quadrant is a ‘no-go.’” This imagined quadrant includes Barbès and the other major West and North African immigrant districts within Paris: Chateau Rouge and the Goutte d’Or, the neighborhoods around Gare du Nord, and Belleville, a bit further south. Speaking about these and other neighborhoods, my coworker remarks that “there are some places you just never get off the train at.”

Men gather outside a hair salon in the rain.

III. Insiders

“They think of my neighborhood as a neighborhood for blacks and Arabs, and they’re scared.”  This is what a friend who has lived in Barbès her whole life tells me. In her eyes, urban renewal projects and media treatments alike have contributed to negative reputation of Barbés by portraying the neighborhood as a crime-infested ‘ghetto.’ But this is not the same Barbès that I and my friend see on a daily basis. We see some of the same things like prayers in the street on Friday, informal markets, lots of men outside the Metro station, but little very little that seems dangerous. My friend was never told in her youth to avoid certain areas of Barbès and she wasn’t told that the neighborhood was dangerous. “I was told not to run in the street and ‘don’t talk to strangers,’ but that was all,” she tells me.

Unaccustomed to ethnic stores, outsiders often feel uncomfortable by the multitude of African hair salons and halal butcheries in Barbès. But if the neighborhood’s economy is insular, it’s due to larger social forces. Shops outside of Barbès “don’t have products for black and Arab people,” my friend says. Although it is changing slowly, you can’t go into just any Monoprix and buy halal beef. The same is true for other products. Since skin bleaching creams are generally illegal in France, individuals have to buy the creams informally or they need to know who to ask at which stores, which are almost always in immigrant neighborhoods like Barbès.

How does my friend feel when I tell her that outsiders are scared of her neighborhood? She’s not surprised. It’s not new information. “I used to be ashamed I came from Barbès,” she tells me. Just like anyone else, she did not want people to think less of her because she was from “the ‘ghetto’ of Paris.” The news shows and articles misrepresenting Barbès as crime-ridden and dangerous used to be deeply frustrating, but she’s grown not to care what the outside world thinks. To a degree, she’s proven herself. Whether at university or in work, her successes have begun to overcome the stigma of coming from Barbès. “I’m the good black to them,” she says. She’s made it.

A pâtisserie selling traditional French and Maghrebi sweets.

IV. Outsiders inside

“Don’t go there,” my landlord says. “If you have to, watch your bag and wallet.” I have just moved to the neighborhood and he’s telling me where to go for groceries and where not to. I have to be careful, he says,  and I shouldn’t go to the market behind the Barbès Metro stop. “It’s not safe,” he says. Where should I go instead? “Dia, Franprix, anywhere — just not there.” Having only just moved to the neighborhood, this was difficult to understand. The two grocery stores he mentioned–Dia and Franprix–are both only a three minute walk from the Barbès market. And, in my mind, if something is dangerous there, it must be dangerous by the Dia and the Franprix, too. “No, it’s different,” he says.

He means that there is division between ‘that’ neighborhood and ‘our’ neighborhood. And when this invisible line in the urban imagination is crossed, we leave safety and enter a danger zone. This third vision of Barbès began to make more sense to me as I looked more closely at the urban landscape around me. I discovered on my way home from work that somewhere along the three minute walk between the Barbès-Rochechouart Metro and my apartment, the people-scape morphs from African and Maghrebi to almost entirely white. Only a few remnants of the ‘immigrant neighborhood’ my friends and coworkers describe remain in the surrounding blocks. Gone are the Tunisian public baths, the wig shops, and corn husk grills. There are cans of harissa alongside tomato paste at the Dia, but little else.

A hair salon just a block away from the Metro

V.  Making sense of the urban imagination

The last imagined vision of Barbès is my own. I have asked the questions, written down answers, and formulated perspectives into a modest story of a neighborhood. But my own experience is missing.

I take the Metro from Barbès-Rochechouart every morning, and return to the station every evening. Each and every time that I walk through the station, I let my arm and hand dangle behind me so that they rest lightly on my back pocket. Depending on the time of night, I will also rotate my messenger bag to hang around my front. And if I have to walk through a large crowd, I make sure to walk quickly and with purpose.

In writing this column, I feel deeply conflicted about these ‘precautions’ and the difference between my actions and my convictions. I try to convince myself that it’s not prejudiced to be concerned for my own wellbeing, that it’s not prejudiced to be way in crowds. I try to convince myself that the reason I’m worried about petty crime is because decades of social and economic oppression of this neighborhood and its immigrant inhabitants created the need for pickpocketing, and that when I take ‘precautions,’ I’m taking them against the system not the people.

But this is unconvincing and I remain troubled.

What is clear is that this neighborhood whose core is the Barbès-Rochechouart intersection cannot be defined in terms of its security or hazard. Barbès is imagined. It can only be defined by ourselves and the ways we choose to see it.

Anthony Chase is interested in the ‘democracy of everyday,’ the ways in which individuals perform and perceive the social contract in daily life. He is also interested in Islam, minority rights, and diversity. Originally from Michigan, Anthony currently works for a French development organization and lives in Paris.

Introducing SLG Perspectives: Second Batch

Jessica Peng: traversing hi/stories

Currently splitting her time between New York and Indonesia, Jessica Peng is a ‘traveling’ educator with interests in colonial histories and their political, educational, and social legacies in contemporary issues. Upon receiving her B.A. in International Studies from Vassar College in 2011,Jessica moved to Kupang, West Timor, Indonesia, as a Fulbright grantee.  This fall, Jessica will return to Yogyakarta, Indonesia to continue teaching English at Gadjah Mada University and Sanata Dharma University as a Vassar Maguire Teaching Fellow. As a dual-citizen of Taiwan and the U.S., and with previous experiences living in Japan and Vietnam, Jessica is interested in exploring the cultural landscapes of the Asia-Pacific region, especially as they intersect with her Asian-American identity. In her column, “traversing hi/stories,” Jessica will share personal stories and reflections on her experiences and encounters while living in Indonesia, paying special attention to the positions from which she writes.

Olivia Arguinzoni: Is Brazil’s Time Now? 

Olivia Arguinzoni

A recent graduate from Vassar College in International Studies, Olivia Arguinzoni is currently a Fulbright grantee living in Uberlândia, Brazil. Olivia’s interests include race relations and urban development in Brazil. In December, she will return to her native New York City and pursue work that will put her on track to a Master’s Degree in International Relations. She is fluent in both English and Portuguese.  Her column  Is Brazil’s Time Now? will examine the booming country through the eyes of a foreigner and the context of a scholar.This column will examine the political, economic, social, and cultural environment of both Brazil and its place within the current world order and reveal the differences between the current economic boom  and past boom periods in order to see if Brazil’s time is, in fact, now.

Saskia Kusnecov : Wash the Dust Away

Saskia Kusnecov is a Rutgers University student interested in studying History and Spanish. Coming from a childhood heavily invested in the visual and literary arts, she has a weighty interest in the dimensions of culture and geographical art history. She is motivated to pursue journalism by a voracious curiosity about the world around her and a desire to reveal the truth about unheeded areas of life. She would also like to take an active role in the fight for human rights around the globe. Saskia’s column “Wash the Dust Away ”  will examine the  dynamics of cultural roles and phenomena and will focus on arts, culture and people that work to break stereotypes and engage complexity of travel around the world.

Colleen Germain: Caravanserai

Colleen earned her master’s degree from Bard in decorative art history, design and material culture studies,Colleen’s experience includes gallery tours and art-focused travel in the U.S., Europe and Asia as a recent Fulbright fellow. Whether shopping, decorating, attending shows, or indulging in a foreign fashion, pursuing creative interests abroad enriches the travel experience and enhances cross-cultural understanding. Her column Caravanserai  explores exotic marketplaces, creative fora, and museums to present art appreciation as an essential component of ethical travel.

Aquib Yacoob: Kindle, Coal, Cauldrons, & Kettles  

Aquib Yacoob is an activist and  scholar currently pursuing the field of international medicine at Colby College. As a  Student Activist Coordinator for the Northeastern Region of Amnesty International: Aquib  works  with high schools and colleges to organize actions for social change. His unique philosophy that  all cultures  must be cherished, aims to create a  more peaceful and accepting world where humans can all coexist. Aquib’s column will  explore the things that make us humans so unique, yet so alike, exploring  the different corners of world and get a closer look at the Human.  Kindle, Coal, Cauldrons & Kettles will examine culture, health and human rights and celebrate the fascinating intricacies of  the global community.

From the Foreign to Familiar: Bathing with Strangers 

An old-school style public bath in Kyoto. The character on the center blue curtains reads “yu” and means hot water. Photo by Takanori Ishikawa

Public bathing is no longer a necessity of everyday life in Japan they way it used to be. When I first moved to Japan in the late 1980s some of my friends lived in apartments without baths or in rooming houses and a visit to the neighborhood sento (public bath) was part of their daily routine. Now almost all homes and apartments have their own baths and showers and public bathing is considered mainly a leisure activity enjoyed at natural hot springs spas, known as onsen, or at “super sento” leisure centers that have an elaborate array of baths with various features, including herbal baths, jacuzzi-style baths and waterfall features where the water cascades from above to massage your head, neck and shoulders if you sit directly beneath it. An evening’s stay at an onsen can cost hundreds of dollars and includes dinner and breakfast, while a visit to a sento or super sento will set you back less than $10 and you may stay there anywhere from thirty minutes to several hours.

Of course, initially it felt weird to bathe naked in front of strangers, friends and coworkers. I grew up in northern New England, where people tend to be conservative in dress and manners. I have as many hangups about my body as anyone raised in modern America would, but as I noticed how naturally women of all ages who grew up in Japanese culture  carried themselves in public baths I began to realize that trying to shield from view the parts of my body I am not fond of with a small washcloth or some unnatural posture only drew more attention and amplified my discomfort. I admired the elderly women who moved gracefully and naturally, comfortable with themselves and their place in this world, and wanted to become more like them. And so with this, as with so many other things in my life, I decided that the “fake it ‘til you make it” approach was the way to handle it. The first step was to stop trying to hide myself. Over time this turned into acceptance and eventually comfort and the discovery that an atmosphere of modesty and poise is possible even when you aren’t wearing any clothes.

Bathing etiquette sign. 1) Wash your body before entering the bath. 2) Do not jump into the bath. 3) Do not put your towel into the bath 4) Do not exit the bath and enter the locker room while wet. Photo by Ryan McBride

The Scrub Down

The pre-eminent rule of bathing in Japan, whether in a public bath or at home, is to always wash your hair and body thoroughly before you enter the bath. The basics  of public bathing are simple. You undress in the locker room and leave your clothes in a locker or basket. You can bring a small hand towel with you into the bath area and maybe a small caddy with shampoo and other toiletries, but never any food, beverage, clothing or larger towels. There will be one area with short stools, buckets and faucets and then one or more larger baths for soaking. You pull up a stool and wash your hair and body at one of the faucets. Shampoo and body soap are usually supplied. Wash thoroughly. Take your time and scrub all your parts and then rinse with the small bucket or the handheld shower, if there is one and you prefer that. You can chat with your neighbors if you know them, but don’t feel obliged to strike up a conversation with the person next to you. Silence is considered a comfortable state in Japan.

A bath with a view. Photo by kinneko.

Soaking Your Cares Away

Once you have made yourself clean it’s time for relaxation. Japanese baths tend to be hot, from about 100-110 degrees Fahrenheit. There is usually a ledge or bench in the bath that allows you to ease yourself into the hot water and sit comfortably with your legs extended and your head, shoulders and neck exposed. If it feels too hot at first just ease your way in and allow yourself time to adjust to the heat. Sit and relax for as long as feels good. It might be five minutes or thirty minutes. If there are several different baths, try them all and when you find the one you like best, stay there a little longer. Move slowly. You don’t want to slip and fall. Don’t splash. It’s bad manners. Staring is also bad manners. If someone is looking at you and it’s making you feel uncomfortable, a little direct eye contact and a small smile and a polite nod of the head may snap them back into remembering their manners. It’s not everyday you see a foreigner in a public bath. They may find you fascinating and wonder where you came from and how you know how to behave. If someone does strike up a conversation with you use it as an opportunity to ask questions about the area or even about etiquette. Japanese people generally won’t criticize or correct you for doing things improperly, but if you ask for their help they will be happy to oblige and will appreciate your interest in their culture.

Showroom version of a home bath. Photo by rc!.

No Entry

No matter how eager you are to assimilate and learn the rules, if you have large and obvious tattoos you may be denied entry to public baths. Many facilities have rules that prohibit bathing by people with tattoos. In Japan tattoos are mainly associated with the yakuza, organized crime syndicates, and outside of some urban sub-cultures regular citizens do not have tattoos. The presence of tattooed patrons will cause other bathers to feel uncomfortable and pretty much the worst thing you can do in Japan is cause trouble for others. If you have a tattoo that can be covered by a bandage, find a waterproof one and cover it. If you have extensive ink, you might get by due to your foreign-ness but be prepared to be stared at even more, or to leave without protest if asked.

This sign says people with tattoos and connections to criminal organizations cannot bathe here. And to leave promptly even if you are mid-bath. Photo by JapanInfoNet.

Bathing in general is a keystone of daily life in Japan. Even at home, baths are more than just good hygiene. They mark the end of the day and are a time to unwind and relax in preparation for a good night’s sleep. Just as in the public baths, you wash your body before soaking. And also like in the public baths, the bath water is not drained and refilled between bathers. Traditionally the order of bath taking goes from guest to family members in order of seniority, although in modern Japan it’s not quite so firmly fixed. It’s common that young children bathe together or with parents or even grandparents. This is considered a form of “skinship” a type of intimacy that is important in a culture where public displays of affection between family members are a rarity. The tub itself, which is shorter and deeper than American baths, keeps the water heated between bathers and in resource-conscious Japan it is also common to use the previous night’s bath water for the following day’s laundry wash cycle.

I have soaked in communal baths at an opulent ocean-side onsen resort with coworkers, after a day at the beach with friends, at the gym, on the upper floors of sleek city hotels with a view of the city lights spread out before me, and under the stars in outdoor baths set in beautiful gardens. One of my favorite things to do after a long flight to Japan is to find the communal bath at whatever hotel I have booked and have a nice long soak to unwind after hours in transit. It might be easier and more private to shower in my room, but I find it much more relaxing to slip into the cotton yukata robe in my room and find my way to the big bath. Even in hotel baths, there are lockers, clean towels and toiletries supplied. The lighting is subdued and there is always a view of some kind of greenery or stone and water feature, which may be small yet always elegant. The sound of the water circulating into the bath and echoing off the walls retunes my ears after hours of listening to the loud, low hum of jet engines. I can stretch my arms and legs that were cramped and constricted in economy seating and feel my blood circulate more freely. And best of all, I can appreciate the very palpable feeling of being back in Japan, enjoying a quintessentially Japanese experience.

An outdoor hot spring in winter. Photo by slackrhackr.

Pam Ikegami lived in Japan for twelve years as an adventurer, student, wife, mom, translator and teacher. Ever grateful for all the lessons Japan has taught her, she is now a teacher of Japanese language and culture in the US. Some of her happiest and proudest moments are spent with her students, many of whom go on to study, work and live in Japan.

Ajumma and Agasshi: the Reign of Korean Women : Surgical Solutions 

Subway station commercial; Enjoy your “Rebirthday” after Plastic Surgery

“Where did you get your nose done?” asks the young Korean woman.

“Ahh…it’s my own.” I cringe, not really sure how to respond.

A social dialogue about plastic surgery with a new acquaintance or a group of chatty Koreans is not uncommon in Seoul. There is seemingly little social stigma attached to plastic surgery procedures in Korea, in contrast to many other countries around the world.  As a foreign woman who has lived in Korea for over three years, I have come to realize that getting plastic surgery in Korea is one of the fastest, most accessible, and most popular services in Korea.  This comes as no shock, as South Korea is the highest ranked country in the world for plastic surgery, according to the New York Times.

The Economist estimates that approximately 1 in 5 Korean women have undergone a plastic surgery procedure, while other sources have estimated the figure to be much higher.  According to an article on Korean surgery trends in the New York Times, an eye job is so common in Korea these days; “it’s not even considered surgery”.  The truth is that appearance, and the intense emphasis on appearance, is one thing that potentially holds Korean women back from reaching higher social and professional ranks in society.  One female candidate, Na Kyung-Won ran for the position of Seoul mayor in 2011 and while she was neck-and-neck with the male opposition candidate towards the election date, she finally lost, partly due to a sensationalized news story claiming that she spent $87,000 US per year on skincare, which struck a nerve with the public and caused a negative backlash. While female (and these days also male) politicians and public figures are going to extreme lengths to improve their appearance through surgical and dermatological methods, Korean women in the public sphere are still scrutinized heavily based primarily on their appearance.

Joongang Daily newspaper cartoon depicting a Korean woman’s face over time.

How does this plastic surgery culture affect everyday Korean women?  While Korea has modernized rapidly to the point of exhaustion over the past 30 years, there is still a lag in how women are interpreted socially in the new modern, technology-savvy Korea.  Women are expected to look very young, while also being sexually attractive, and at the same time they are expected to exert a strong maternal side and care for a husband.  This causes identity and image issues for a lot of Korean women, who feel that any surgical enhancements to their faces or bodies will allow them to fulfil all these expectations more easily.

As a result of the high demand for plastic surgery in Korea, the trends have changed over the years.  Ten years ago, the focus was on making the Korean face look more “Western”.  As an Australian, I had difficulty understanding what this exactly meant, and I had to look into why Korean/Asiatic and “Western” faces were physically different.  Typically, Korean women do not naturally possess what is known as a “double eyelid”, which in turn has provoked thousands of Korean women to undergo “double eyelid surgery”, which involves surgically cutting the eyelid and resewing it to create the appearance of larger eyes.  The same image-anxiety applies to noses, with many Korean women hoping to give the traditionally smaller Korean nose a sharper and higher appearance, to resemble a larger and more apparent “western style nose”.  These days the trend is leaning more towards creating a much more innocent and younger face, also referred to as “dongan”, with many Korean women now spending thousands of dollars to get their faces pumped up and contoured to achieve a younger look.  The youth-focused pop-craze in Korea, as well as the male-dominant culture emanating from traditional Confucius thinking, may be part of the reason as to why Korea is now the top country in the world for “aesthetic medicine”.

There are a number of social factors that influence Korean women and their high interest in plastic surgery procedures, and one of the fundamental underlying economic factors is the nauseatingly competitive Korean job market.  Almost all Korean job seekers are tertiary educated, while a high number of Koreans have invested in post-graduate education such as   masters degrees, PhDs and MBAs, often from Ivy League schools abroad.  Korean companies have an impossible time delineating between hundreds and sometimes thousands of equally skilled and competent candidates from good schools, which means that the only ‘subjective’ criteria to help HR representatives separate candidates is appearance.  It doesn’t help that most Korean conglomerates are male-dominated, and would prefer to hire so-called “attractive female employees” as opposed to “unattractive female employees”. That said, a lot of male job seekers in Korea are now also receiving plastic surgery to improve their competitive edge in the job market, as Korean men are also now being scrutinized more heavily in the interview process based on looks.

A typically confronting Beauty Editorial in Korea.

This image-anxiety then carries over from employment, and into the marriage market.  Korean marriages differ slightly when compared to typical Western style marriages, as Korean marriages are traditionally viewed as the combining and reconciling of two families.  The families of the bride and groom hold a formal meeting leading up to the wedding to negotiate finances, salaries, house prices, and even babies.  The marriage market in Korea is just as competitive as the employment market, and many marriage-ready singles meet up in interview-like situations. Leading up to the age of 30, there is immense pressure on women to perform well in these meetings so that they can “marry well”, further pushing many women to look into plastic surgery as a means to increase their chances of successfully meeting a marriage partner before they are perceived as “too old”.  These women will often endure extreme pain and a high costs to achieve a younger look, and thus appear “healthier” for bearing babies, which will hopefully deliver a social advantage for meeting potential marriage partners.

Subway station advertisement demonstrating how plastic surgery
will land you a bigger diamond.

On top of all of this, a sizeable amount of stress to achieve physical perfection also accumulates during the younger development stages, inside the family home.  Korean mothers casually buy plastic surgery vouchers for their high-school age daughters from time to time, with the hopes that this will boost their daughter’s prospects of employment and marriage.  Some of my own Korean friends have been given plastic surgery vouchers as graduation gifts or as “anniversary gifts” from boyfriends.  While this is accepted in Korea, when my own (now ex) Korean boyfriend suggested that I consider having plastic surgery, I felt somewhat defensive.  Ultimately, my female Korean friends advised me that his suggestion was “advice”, rather than a “criticism of appearance”.  Inside, however, I still felt uneasy.

The intensiveness of Korean plastic surgery culture became even more evident when I paid a visit to plastic surgery clinics in Seoul. For the advertising department of my company, I had  to inspect a number of plastic surgery clinics in Seoul to verify if they were legitimate or not, in order to meet our criteria.  After being given tours of row after row of plastic surgery clinics, and after inspecting row after row of operating rooms, I started to feel panicked.  The plastic surgery PR representatives walked us through and explained how many of the procedures were; “simply walk-in, walk-out procedures”.  Seeing heavily bandaged Korean women lying on patient beds made me feel nervous and uncomfortable.  Yes, plastic surgery in Korea is an extremely lucrative industry, but somehow I still feel saddened by the fact that the burden and pain of these cosmetic procedures is mostly shouldered by women, who may or may not improve their marriage or job prospects after investing so much money in new faces and new bodies.

A subway commercial using a dirty potato to symbolize the female head.

While Korea is now an international hotspot for image-making and body modification, I can’t help but feel that the social pressure on Korean women to undergo these surgeries is a little overwhelming.  On a broader social scale, it does seem as though the strong “group mentality” and large-scale peer pressure in Korea does not boost self-esteem, and women are sometimes pushed to accept high-risk surgical procedures as a result of this.  A revision of the definition of “beauty” or a more equal footing for women in employment, may be some initial steps to soften the image-pressure that Korean women face in the future.  While living in Korea I have been asked numerous times to lose weight and wear make-up, and while I have been willing to make those small concessions, I am still not ready to go under the knife.  If I do consent to surgery, I am still unsure of how this will alter my life or relationships in Korea and abroad.

Luigina Webb is originally Australian but has studied abroad in Israel, the US, and South Korea, where she now works as an interpreter in a Korean trading company. She has traveled to over thirty countries. Luigina owns a large collection of Korean traditional hats and headdresses sourced from all over Korea. You can check out her blog at http://www.luiginakorea.com/

Editor’s Note: This is part of our series, SLG Perspectives which offers a unique take on travel experience and the complex nature of local life  through the eyes of  our correspondent’s based across the world. 

Two Bowls of Rice: Cambodia, View From a Bike Seat

I was scared the first time I went to Cambodia. Granted my fear was probably bit overblown, but when my friends and I found ourselves in the grungy and haphazard border-town of Poipet, my insides turned to jelly and I looked around for an easy escape back into Thailand. There is a stark different between the borders of Cambodia and Thailand; Thailand’s side is more orderly and there are gleaming 7/11 signs everywhere, beacons of familiarity.  When you cross into Cambodia, you can’t help but notice that everything seems to have a thick layer of dust covering it. Ramshackle buildings crowd the streets and beat-up cars that shouldn’t be on the road speed by with overstuffed with goods or people.

Why was I in Cambodia,  and why was I suddenly feeling fearful and regretting my decision? Well, it all started when our group of friends decided to take a long weekend trip from Bangkok, Thailand to Siem Reap, Cambodia. We saw the value in organizing our own transportation and decided that when we crossed into Cambodia we would hire a taxi and split the cost. Everything was going smoothly until we crossed the border and fell for the oldest trick in the book: a friendly and helpful tout, ( someone who is usually trying to sell you something because they will receive commission.) Yes,  he was friendly.  And yes,  he let me borrow his pen to fill out the customs form, but he also convinced us to take the “free bus” to the “bus/taxi station” which turned out to an overpriced private company in a remote and rundown part of the town. My friends and I were frustrated and I was scared. We had no idea where we were and we were being pressured by a seemingly ever growing crowd of people to take the overpriced bus and exchange money despite the overinflated rates. The tout even had the gall to try and convince us that all the ATMs in Siem Reap were not working and we HAD to exchange money here and now. That’s when my friends and I smartened up and we realized we were being played. We had fallen for the “free bus” bait, but weren’t so easy to fool that we would believe there would be no place in a large tourist-based city to exchange money.

In Cambodia, the cars are overloaded with
goods…and people.

There are touts and shady tourist businesses in all countries, but for me this was the first time I had ever witnessed one and been a part of one. Even after living in Bangkok for 2 months prior, I had avoided Khao San road like the plague and so I wasn’t accustomed to being circled by eager taxi drivers and touts hoping to cash in on a lost and confused tourist. I wasn’t used riding in beat up cars with no seat belts and the steering wheel on the wrong side, careening down the road honking the horn incessantly and passing traffic on the left and right. I truly felt the fear of stepping outside of my comfort zone and I almost turned around backed out. I’m sure glad I didn’t.

Instead, I chose to return, 3 more times in total, and then eventually moved to Phnom Penh, Cambodia and made it my new home in Southeast Asia. I love living here. I have interacted with scores of Cambodian people(I even fell in love with one!), been to countless weddings and religious ceremonies, eaten bamboo sticky rice until I thought I would burst, overcome my fear about sitting side-saddle on a motorbike and determinedly improved my squat. I have traveled the country top to bottom and side to side in many different forms of transportation from rickety buses to motorbikes and the backs of pick-up trucks. By far though, the best experiences I have had in Cambodia have been while pedaling a bicycle.

Into the emerald green rice fields.

I started regularly bike riding in Cambodia about 2 months after I arrived. I first had a rental bike and then realized my commitment was worth investing in my own. I joined a biking group and experienced the countryside surrounding the capital city, Phnom Penh, in a refreshing new way. On these bike rides, I went to few places foreigners go and witnessed the infectious joy of a young student able to practice English with a foreigner for the first time. I biked through rural villages, rice paddies and dusty and bumpy dirt roads and  sometimes there weren’t even any roads, just torn up ox-cart paths that led to hidden pockets of the country where few ventured. It was on these bike rides that I began to see Cambodia in a new light and I started to see more than dusty roads, tuk tuks and overcrowded markets. I started to see the very essence of a country; the people.

Being an expat isn’t always as romantic as many are led to believe it is. It’s thrilling and exciting living in another country and you get to experience the culture on a much deeper level than if you were just traveling through, lingering only important landmarks or cities where all the tourists flock.  Yet, even when you are living in the country, there is still a wall, thin or thick depending on the location and individual that separates the expat from the local. It’s difficult to digest truth, but is right there, in the word ‘expat’; someone who is from another country/culture and implicitly a stranger and the local, who seamlessly blends in.

Taking a break in the countryside

While living in Cambodia, I’ve had my fare share of moments where I have realized that even though I call this country home, it is still foreign to me and I am still a foreigner. I’ve anxiously tried to use the language, even though my shyness encourages me to hide behind translations. I’ve tried to smile non-discriminatingly, but I struggle to force one when I hear another “Tuk tuk Madame!” shouted across the street to me. It wasn’t until I got on a bicycle that the barriers started breaking down and I started to see Cambodia in a new light. When I was on the bicycle, I found myself on roads that many locals and foreigners had only seen from buses window as they whizzed by and those roads brought me to villages and towns where there is no “backpacker” area. Sure, people still stared and looked at me funny, but there was no area that was groomed into a Western enclave, forcing locals and foreigners alike to mingle with open minds.

It was on these bike trips that I had some truly groundbreaking experiences that rekindled my love and devotion to this country. I broke out of my shell and eagerly practiced the Khmer I have learned and spoke with countless people, who were all curious about where I was from and where I was going on a bicycle. I talked with women who shyly asked if I had a boyfriend and then giggled when I said yes, I was entranced by an old man who lived just 20 kilometers from Phnom Penh, yet had never been there before and I dutifully waved hello to school children eager to practice their English(I even gave my telephone number to one student and he has religiously called every few nights to practice his English).

These were the moments when I realized that yes, I am a foreigner in a foreign land, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t interact with the people who have lived here all their lives and talk with them about everyday occurrences; there were locals who were interested in more things than whether I would buy their goods or take a ride in their tuk tuk.  It was through this realization that I felt myself melting into the backdrop of the country and finally feeling the joy and elation of finding my place.

School children run out to say hello!

Learn the Language

Learn some basic Khmer. I know it’s not easy to learn a language, especially one that has vastly different sounds that Romance languages, but knowing how to say hello, goodbye, how are you, how much I like/I don’t like, numbers 1,000-10,000(currency is in high denomications) and other basics will really help open up doors and make you more approachable. Many Cambodians are quite shy to talk to foreigners in English, whether they have studied the language or now, so if you are the first one to break the ice it will be greatly appreciated and encourage them to talk with you more.

Budget and Bike

You don’t need to spend a lot of money on a fancy bicycle. The major roads are in good condition and unless you plan on veering off the major roads, a sturdy bike with decent gears will be fine. We met another biker who spent $100 on his bike and was riding halfway across the country on it! There are plenty of repair shops along the major roads and you will find people are eager to help you should you run into any problems and Cambodian people use motorbikes and bicycles regularly, so they are familiar with the mechanics.

Take Breaks, Stay Hydrated

Take a break during the mid-afternoon hours, slather on sunscreen and drink A LOT of water. Cambodia is hot. I highly recommend a mid-afternoon siesta between 11-3 or complete all your biking before noon. Sit down at a road-side stall that sells refreshing sugarcane juice, coconuts or water and eat a hearty Cambodian lunch to help you recover. And drink water. Lots of it. Even if you don’t feel thirsty, you still need to drink. I recommend 4-5+ liters a day. Seriously, you will sweat a lot, the sun will be beating down on you and being dehydrated is miserable and dangerous.

Watch the Road 

Be careful of traffic.  The driving in Cambodia is terrifying and no body really follows the traffic laws. There will be speeding SUVs, lumbering trucks, kids riding bicycles and motorbikes dodging through the traffic. One thing the drivers do right is honk when they are approaching you. For awhile, I hated this and thought it was extremely obnoxious, but then I started riding my bike on the roads and I realized how courteous and life-saving it can be. Don’t wear headphones or listen to music. Pay attention to the road and when you hear incessant honking behind you, just know it’s a driver letting you know they are behind you and preparing to pass

Learn to Laugh 

People are going to laugh at you. I’m talking a deep-bellied, you-are-the-strangest-person-on-Earth-for-riding-a-bike-for-fun kind of laugh. Don’t take it personally. Cambodian people don’t view exercise the way we do and they certainly don’t see the benefit or fun in riding a bicycle instead of taking a quicker and cooler form of transportation like a motorbike or car. My advice, laugh with them and smile inwardly knowing just how awesome what you are doing is.

Jess Watson has a passion for travel and an eye for adventure. Once upon a time she didn’t think she’d be writing about her travels, but in the summer of 2010 she had an epiphany and threw away the excuses and the self-doubt and packed up her bags to go live and teach in Bangkok, Thailand. That was the first time she listened to her heart, and she’s been doing so ever since. Over a year and a half later, and Jess has listened to her instinct and lived and taught in Thailand, Myanmar(Burma) and Cambodia, her current home and traveled extensively, both on and off the beaten track. Jess believes in raw travel, the kind where your brand-new pants get dirty, you find yourself in a nameless village where no on speaks English and your eyes are sore from seeing too much. Check out her personal blog, www.traveldiscoverlove.com and follow her on twitter, @journeyingjess.

An Interview with Traveler and Artist: Elizabeth Briel

Our intrepid Arts correspondent, Saskia Kusnecov connects with travelers, artists, and musicians around the world.  Saskia recently interviewed artist  Elizabeth Briel about art, travel, and her upcoming book .  Check out the interview  and be sure to watch Elizabeth Briel’s TED Talk below.

Where were you born; where did you grow up; where did you receive your education (grammar school and university)? When did you start doing art?

I always made things. They were made of words or images, often both. They were usually flat, because flat things were easier to share or display or keep hidden, depending on what they depicted. I made them with pencil, ink, markers or, later, a set of smelly oil paints donated by a neighbor that her son had left behind decades before.

They were a way out of a life I wanted to escape. Eventually these things that I made were what gave life meaning. There was no question that this would be the focus of my days and nights. If this all sounds ridiculously narcissistic and introspective, it was, and is. But I look around more now, and the world is stranger than anything I’ve seen in any painting or fantasy novel. Much more interesting, too.

When did you first start traveling? Was your artistic gaze always global?

Traveling is a state of mind. I first traveled solo at age 24, after years of dreaming and saving for it. Much later than most people I know now. The vehicle – the excuse – was a semester studying at the University of Strasbourg in France. During trips from that Alsatian base to London, Paris, Dublin, Prague, and Brussels, I saw great museums and got close to the bones of great writers. Gazed at the same skies and urban landscapes I had only seen in paintings, or read about before. Learned new languages and cultural mores, discovering assumptions from my own I hadn’t realized before.

   A global gaze? I don’t think my work is particularly global. I’m just a mid-sized, middle class American, schooled in the Midwest, and curious about everywhere else – destined for mediocrity. So I suppose I’m interested to be in places that are rather different, where the experiences of everyday life are vastly different from those of my home country. My visual arts background was very Eurocentric and conservative, not through the fault of my university so much as my own history of obsession with the books, illustrations and printing available through my early years.

Mosque-Detail-with-Tamil-English-and-Malay: Artist: Elizabeth Briel

Where have you traveled? Your focus seems to be on Asia – why is that? Are there any cultural complexities that interest you?

I’ve traveled a little in North America (Cuba, New Orleans and Montreal are personal favorites), a bit more through Western Europe and China, and throughout most of Southeast Asia.

Why Asia? Two main reasons: One – because this is the part of the world which is changing the fastest. Two – the world’s gaze, particularly that of the USA, is being directed here. It is a fascinating point in human history to live in Asia. With the communication and translation tools now available, and our global ties closer than ever before, I can’t imagine living anywhere else at this point of my life and career. Cultural complexes are part of the territory, wherever we live. It’s just more obvious when we’re not at home.

What would you say is your main medium? You seem to enjoy making paper – why is that? Is there something unique to each country in how they make paper?

Main medium? I have several: books, ink, paint. But the most distinctive is the Cyanotype, one of the earliest forms of photography: with the help of iron salts and sunlight, I etch blue images into paper and other materials.

Making paper? I’ve tried making it for my art/book projects, but soon realized I was better off finding others to make it for me, and wrote an illustrated travel book about my search for papermakers. It’s called Paper Pilgrimage: Bombs, Bandits, and a Vanishing Art in Southeast Asia and will be released by Things Asian Press at the end of this year.

Paper – and other items of material culture – are created out of necessity with available materials. These vary depending on diverse factors like trade, geography, and warfare. I.e. the secret of paper was spread to the west via the Muslim world, after a group of Chinese prisoners/papermakers were captured in Samarkand.

You seem to focus on the state of women in the countries you visit – why is this? In what medium do you like to capture them?

Every work I make is a result of my experiences – often from a bad day – though those pieces don’t tend to sell as well. I don’t set out to ‘capture’ anything about other women, but am happy when people identify with something in my work.

Imaginary Landscape, Artist: Elizabeth Briel

 What are “disappearing places” and why do you choose to depict them? In what medium?

“The past is another country,” write L. P. Hartley in the Go-Betweeners, a novel I’ve not read. As these places where I live and work transform, their context changes. , Like the bricked-out silhouettes of destroyed hutong-style homes, ghostlike against high-rise buildings. I am drawn to the traces of what was, before it’s gone. What medium? Whatever suits. Sometimes Cyanotype photos or prints, sometimes words or full-color digital photos. The medium is only the beginning. What matters is the end.

For more about Elizabeth’s work you can check out her website Art for Travelers

Saskia Kusnecov is a Rutgers University student interested in studying History and Spanish. She is motivated to pursue journalism by a voracious curiosity about the world around her and a desire to reveal the truth about unheeded areas of life. She would also like to take an active role in the fight for human rights around the globe.

South Africa: Not So Black and White

 Misconceptions and Contradictions in the Rainbow Nation 

Apartheid Museum: Johannesburg

“I’m not a racist,” the shop owner leaned in and added in a thick Afrikaans accent: “I just fucking hate black people.” I was stunned. Fortunately, I found him to be in the minority (no pun intended) but the experience of coming across a shocking inconsistency in South Africa was not. His statement was only the first of many surprising incongruities that I would encounter.

South Africa is a country of extreme contradictions: the ugliness of apartheid juxtaposed to the astounding progress since; the ravage of HIV/AIDS outdone only by the fortitude of those fighting it; and even with the highest GDP in sub-Saharan Africa, the country suffers a 25% unemployment rate.

The side of Cape Town many tourists don't see.

In October 2011, Archbishop Desmond Tutu accused the African National Congress (ANC) of conduct “worse than the apartheid government.” Although this is debatable and South Africa has come a long way since the end of apartheid in 1994, it still faces significant challenges. Attempts to level the post-apartheid playing field have birthed policies such as Broad-Based Black Economic Empowerment, which have ethical founding principles, but arguably harmful consequences that some fear undermine a meritocracy, for black and white citizens alike.

Many younger white South Africans—who opposed the apartheid regime—now feel that they are persecuted for race rather than rewarded on merit, as it is now increasingly difficult for a white male to gain employment. (It is possible that they are not experiencing the presence of discrimination, but rather the absence of preferential treatment.) Further, the older generation is bitter because South Africa was previously top tier in fields such as science and medicine (the first successful heart transplant was performed by a South African surgeon in the 1950s) and now competes at a subpar level. So while many fought against apartheid, they now lament the conditions in its wake. Far worse are the unintended consequences of new labor laws. The man who was “not a racist” also said that because he was not legally permitted to fire his black workers, he simply forced them to work outside in the heat with scorching machinery for days on end, causing them to eventually quit.

It’s commonly believed that South Africa is simply experiencing growing pains as it re-identifies itself and shifts into a democracy. But it is a misconception that most of the current problems are rooted in the transition. Many of today’s issues existed before 1994 and will remain long after. For example, internal conflicts are not simply a matter of race, as is easily assumed. Some of the bitterest tensions have historically been between the native Zulu and Xhosa, both black, and between the Anglos and the Boers (present-day English South Africans and Afrikaners, both white.) I particularly recall my South African friend telling me about the multiple reconstructive surgeries he’s had on his jaw, which was badly damaged after a bar brawl. When I pressed him to tell me what started the fight, he insisted that the group of Afrikaans guys beat him up just because he was English.

Anger towards the government is another example of a pre-1994 problem that has persisted. During apartheid, citizens fought against discriminatory laws. Today, that anger has transformed into frustration with widespread corruption and the slow pace of change. Ending apartheid was an important step in the right direction, but it was also a reminder that simply shifting from one form of government to another does not solve a country’s problems. A healthy country must have—among many things—a strong rule of law, commerce and business, education, health, fair taxation, efficient and democratic governance, and basic security—all of which remain challenges for South Africa.

One of the most troubling concerns is crime. In the words of The Onion’s Our Dumb World, “The citizens of South Africa fall victim to a serious crime every 17 seconds, a statistic that is nearly impossible to verify, as everyone in the country has his or her watch stolen every 12 seconds.” While The Onion may be slightly exaggerating, the point is loud and clear. How did it get so bad?

My colleague explained that before the end of apartheid, many black South Africans felt that it was only fair to steal from white South Africans because they were taking back something that was rightfully theirs. He hypothesized that the “culture of crime” as a means for survival—which was highly prevalent during apartheid— simply persisted.

The views of the security cameras at my friend's house. The holes were allegedly from bullets.

But again, the answer is not so simple, and is complicated by misconceptions and confusing contradictions. For example, it is common for misinformed people to assume that the increase of crime after apartheid was solely black on white, and increased in the absence of apartheid laws that made it illegal for blacks to be in white areas. But today, crime is also black on black, as it was during apartheid as well. (It should also be noted that higher rates of crime could be attributed to higher reportage.) In fact, a successful black doctor told my colleague that sometimes when a black South African robs a house that he expects to have white inhabitants and sees that the well-off individuals are black, the crime may actually become more violent than originally intended.

In 2009, The Economist explained: “It is not only whites who complain. Almost everyone is afraid. In one poll, 62% of South Africans said they would feel ‘very unsafe’ walking alone after dark.” Further, richer people can afford protection. The poor black majority cannot. Race is no longer a sole indicator of economic status (I recall seeing many white beggars) nor is it a sole determinant of who will fall victim to crime or harm. I witnessed this myself one day when I was walking to work and saw security guards clubbing a black homeless man. I also recall when my colleague—a young woman from Malawi—was held at knifepoint on her walk from the office to the bus.

It doesn’t help that cops in South Africa are widely corrupt, and known to accept bribes (almost all of my South African friends reluctantly admitted they had offered a bribe at some point—a favorite among cops is biltong and a coke.) The good news is that President Zuma just fired former police commissioner Bheki Cele based on charges of corruption. The bad news is that his dismissal reaffirms the stereotypes about black cops. But out of the three times that I was stopped by police in South Africa, two of the times were by white cops who wanted my number.

A South African Police Vehicle

When I came to South Africa, it was not the rate of crime that disturbed me. I was prepared for that, and did what I had to. I quickly became accustomed to sliding through red lights in bad areas, or not keeping my purse in the front seat to avoid a “smash and grab.” And I gladly parked where I was told to, especially after a friend parked on the wrong side of the office building and ended up surrounded by four men, with a machete to his throat. Yes, I found it depressing that you could hardly see any houses or buildings on the streets because of high security walls and electric barbed wire. And yes, I found it odd that when I was home, I locked myself into my own house—both with a gate and with a door (my sister was particularly upset about this when she visited.)

But I was ready for all of that. The thing I could never quite come around to was the fact that crime often occurs in populated areas in broad daylight, with bystanders failing to intervene. I compared this to an incident I witnessed in Ghana, where a man stole something from a woman’s stand at a market and in no less than five seconds, there was a mob of furious Ghanaians chasing him down the street, beating him once they caught up. I immediately judged South Africans for their jadedness and immoral indifference. I struggled to reconcile the fact that the people proudly wearing the jerseys of the national rugby and football teams were the same people watching their fellow South Africans suffer without intervening.

But with further comparison of the two countries, I realized that access to guns in South Africa is particularly high. I remember a staff meeting in which the topic came up and a handful of people casually mentioned that they owned guns. One said she kept a handgun in her car “just in case,” as if it were a GPS, and one even had his right there in the belt of his pants. The high access to guns is just one explanation, but it means that petty crimes in South Africa can quickly become violent. South Africans do care about their fellow citizens, but they are protective of their personal safety and—knowing the likelihood that a dangerous weapon is present—fear that interference could worsen the situation. Plus, people in Ghana know that if a robber were lucky enough to score a gun, he would be robbing a bank, not a banana stand. Either way, my belief that South Africans did not care about each other was sharply called into question.

A few years ago, a horrific thing happened to one of my colleagues. It’s a story I will always remember. She was seven months pregnant with her first baby. Just a few moments after her husband told her that he could not wait to hold their unborn daughter, he was shot and killed by intruders. Those were his last words. The couple lived in what was supposed to be one of the safest gated communities in Pretoria, but the intruders had gained access to the estate by digging a hole under the perimeter wall. In the news story about the incident, she said: “It is clear that your life is never safe no matter where you live. There is no such thing as a safe place in South Africa. The proof is that I am a widow at the age of 29 and that my child is fatherless because of crime.” She will never be able to feel the same way about her country again, but she has not left, despite the opportunity to. She said that leaving the country would be giving into the intimidation. She is still a proud South African, a proud Afrikaner, and to her, South Africa will always be home.

Which brings me to my next point: of all the unexpected contradictions I encountered, the one that intrigued me the most is that the acknowledgement of South Africa’s problems by its citizens is almost always accompanied by “but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else” or “but it is still the greatest country in the world.” I wondered how this country—with a brutal history, one of the highest rates of crime and prevalence of HIV/AIDS (18%) in the world—maintains the unwavering pride and loyalty of its people.

At first, I was confused by this inconsistency. I questioned how South Africans could love their country so fiercely despite suffering endlessly from its problems. But later I realized that it was unfair to enter at one particular moment in time without considering the long history from which that moment was a product. South Africans have seen much worse in the past and prefer to focus on how far the country has come versus how far it still has to go. As a young American, I had trouble understanding this point of view. To draw a rough comparison, my parents barely remember segregation in the U.S.; in South Africa, people my age remember apartheid. With my lack of perspective, I was more likely to criticize South Africa for its shortcomings rather than applaud it for its progress.

Dance group of young kids from a township

Still, I was blown away by the patriotism, especially during the World Cup. Every passerby on the street was donned in Springbok gear; every waiter and waitress was equally decked out. Proud banners lined the streets and you could hear cheering at bars from blocks away. It didn’t matter if you were Afrikaans, English, Indian, Xhosa, Zulu, Venda, Twsana, Tsonga, Sotho, or Swazi. The country transformed into a sea of green jerseys—and black, white, rich, poor—nothing else mattered. Everyone was a South African, and everyone wanted to see South Africa win. I was jealous. Not only does the U.S. not have a national team, but even the midnight turnout for the Super Bowl (at the only bar in town that was playing it) was disappointing.

I do not know if patriotism is a right or if it must be earned. Regardless, it serves a purpose. It creates cohesion that is fundamental to growth, especially in a country with eleven official languages. During the World Cup, crimes rates went down, only in part because of increased security.

While I support questioning one’s government, I have to admit that it wouldn’t hurt me to emulate South Africa’s positive and forward thinking, and attempt to appreciate the progress that the United States, too, has made. I’ve only scratched the surface of the complexities in South Africa. My judgments about it made me consider the contradictions in the United States as well, especially as a country that shares the history of segregation. Now I think often about the fact that in the U.S., things are not so black and white, either.

Laura Dimon graduated from Barnard College in 2009. She worked as a program analyst for the Clinton Health Access Initiative in South Africa, which directly supports the South African National Department of Health. She recently returned to New York and is currently interning at The Council on Foreign Relations as she prepares to start her masters at the Columbia School of Journalism in the fall.

From the Foreign to Familiar: The Name Game

Nameplate outside a residence

Names are important. In the very first poem of the Man-yôshû, Japan’s first poetry anthology dating from the late 8th century, the emperor-poet Yûryaku implores a young woman picking herbs on a hillside “Tell me your name!” Whether it’s an ancient emperor, The Zombies, Lynyrd Skynrd or Jesse McCartney, getting someone’s name is the way you start to make a connection. One of the first sentences you’re likely to hear in Japanese is “Onamae wa? meaning, “Your name is…?” It seems like the answer would be simple enough, right?

Racks of self-inking inkan, the name stamps that are used in lieu of signatures on official documents. Photo by Rachel Ikegami.

Pleased to Meet You. Hope You Guess My Name

I think I’ve introduced myself in Japan half a dozen different ways– surname first, first name only, first name first, surname only, as “Ikegami’s wife” or “Rachel’s mother.” Name order in Japan and other Northeast Asian countries is, like so many things, the opposite of the way we do it in the West. In Japan, affiliation with a group or larger entity is considered the most important piece of information and therefore is presented first. Information specific to something individual, like a name or an apartment address, comes after. So someone with the family name Tanaka and the personal name Hiroshi would call himself Tanaka Hiroshi. This might reasonably lead you to believe that if your name is Chelsea Thomas you should introduce yourself in Japan as Thomas Chelsea. This will lead to confusion because almost all Japanese people have learned that Western name order is the opposite of their own and in anticipation of doing things in a way that will make things easier for you, they will assume you are giving your own name in the Western order of personal name followed by surname. They will also wonder why you have a boy’s name. You could send spend a lot of time straightening it all out, only to discover another special exception that may be applied to you—you probably aren’t going to be addressed by your surname very often anyway, even in professional situations.

At work Japanese address each other by their surname or managerial title. The suffix –san usually follows the surname, so at work Tanaka Hiroshi is addressed as Tanaka-san. Among a group of acquaintances he might be called Hiroshi-san. You would only call him plain old Hiroshi if you knew him well or he was used to spending time around foreigners. As important as it is to remember to add –san after someone else’s name, it’s equally improper to add it after your own name. Honorific terms are never applied to oneself and there’s probably no more obvious way to announce yourself as a brand-new, clueless gaijin (foreigner) than by introducing yourself along the lines of—“Hi! I’m Thomas Chelsea-san!”

Watering KissMint gum.

We are all Friends Here

Although Japanese address each other by surname in professional situations, it’s commonly assumed that Americans and other Westerners always interact casually and call each other by their first names. So don’t be surprised if you are at a business function and hear an introduction that goes something like, “This is Ms. Hamada. This is Mr. Tanaka. And this is Miss Chelsea.” Unless they think that due to your own attempt to Japanify your name you are a woman with a boy’s name, where they may just then introduce you correctly though inadvertently as “Miss Thomas.” Sometimes honorific terms are thrown out all together for foreigners, like the time I was asked to provide feedback on a faculty research report prepared by a Japanese university that added Professor to Japanese faculty member names but referred to my research partner and me as Steve and Pam. (They changed it after I pointed out that it didn’t look very professional.)

These "Pooh Biscuits" are tiramisu flavored, hence the Italian flag on the package.

Hooked on Phonics

When I first started studying Japanese I learned that there is a special syllabary, called katakana, that is used primarily to represent words that originated in Western languages, usually but not always English. My professor left it up to us to figure out how to write and pronounce our names in Japanese. Being more inclined to written than spoken language I decided I should katakana-ize my name based on its spelling in English. It took me a couple of years to realize that this approach was the reason why it was so hard to recognize the Japanese pronunciation of my name. I had turned my family name Shaines into sha-ee-neh-su, which sounds almost nothing like the way it is pronounced in English. By the time I figured out I could and should have been spelling my name phonetically, so it came out sounding like sheyn-zu, all my official documents were already drawn up in my original, mistaken spelling. There was nothing I could do about it but keep my ears open for that funny sounding name.

Some names are just odd

You Can Call Me….

My friend Dave goes by his full name David in Japan. It’s not that he wants to be formal. It’s because the name Dave sounds very much like the Japanese word for “fatty.” I suppose it could be worse. When turned into katakana the name Troy becomes Toroi, meaning dull or stupid.If your name is Troy, you might want to consider going by your middle name in Japan. Some Western names are very familiar to Japanese, particularly those that are found in popular songs and movies. If your name is Michelle don’t be surprised if someone bursts into that Beatles’ song as soon as they learn your name. The Japanese language has a more limited palette of sounds than English. If your name is Kathy or Cassie either one will sound like kya-shee. My name Pam sounds a lot like the Japanese word for bread, pan, which is why I go by Pamela/Pa-meh-ra. This wasn’t all that helpful when I was teaching in junior high schools and class comedians decided I was named Camera or, even better, Gamera, you know, the fire-breathing tortoise movie monster.

Some Names are Fitting

I Now Pronounce You…

When I got married I took my husband’s family name. Japanese married couples are required by law to share a common last name, but this rule doesn’t apply if one of the couple is a foreigner. My Japanese last name confuses people to no end, in Japan and in the US. I have been told several times to sit down when my Japanese surname was called at the bank or the doctor’s office. My last employer in Japan insisted my Japanese family name be written in katakana in all school documents so no one would become confused and assume I was Japanese. Mostly it just gets a mangled pronunciation in the States.

Really? A fascinating use of adjectives.

A Rose by any Other Name can be Spelled Completely Different

Most Japanese personal names are written in the ideographic characters known as kanji or sometimes in hiragana, the phonetic syllabary used for Japanese words. Many names can be written in more than one way with the same pronunciation. What this means is that even if you know how someone’s name sounds, you can’t be sure that you know the proper way to write it. Japanese names are chosen for sound, meaning and sometimes for the number of strokes it takes to write the name.

Names, our own and those of our loved ones, are some of the first words we learn to recognize. They are an integral part of our identity, whether you are Emily, Astrida or Kathleen with a K. They shape who we are and how we think about ourselves. When we need to reshape them to fit into a new environment we change more than just a word, we change ourselves.

Pam Ikegami lived in Japan for twelve years as an adventurer, student, wife, mom, translator and teacher. Ever grateful for all the lessons Japan has taught her, she is now a teacher of Japanese language and culture in the US. Some of her happiest and proudest moments are spent with her students, many of whom go on to study, work and live in Japan.