Looking for a Husband

If I was to name the subject I am the least qualified to teach, it would have to be physical fitness. As one of my high school friends pointed out last week, “Hal, you never even came to gym class!” It’s true. Much of my high school career was spent devising ways out of physics, calculus, and physical education, and I am proud to say I was more often than not successful (unfortunately, to the detriment of my muscle mass and mathematical prowess). I am uncoordinated, refuse to run even the shortest distances, and consider kanafeh healthy because it is made from wheat and cheese (and butter and sugar). I am the last person you want leading cardio, handing out diet advice, or training girls in soccer. And yet, that is exactly what I did every week here.

My beautiful aerobics class on our final party day.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, one of the other interns, MJ, and I would team-teach aerobics for two hours. At first, I mainly taught the cardio portion, a task that required me to dig deep down to my seventh grade gym days and watch some Billy Blanks videos. The women then requested dancing, and for a while, I taught a zumba routine to the Shakira song, Loca. Finally, MJ, and I taught various workout circuits together, each one of us demonstrating different exercises.

Although I love my children, their mothers, the women in my aerobics class, are in stiff competition for my heart. Everyday, the women come in covered head to toe in hijabs and abayas, and then strip down into these sexy workout outfits or pajamas. They then proceed to put up even more of a fight about working out than I typically would. But their comments during certain exercises are the class highlights for me. One morning, I was leading some pilates exercises and the women were being particularly talkative and lazy. To punish them, I said we would do forty-five leg lifts (women lay on their sides and lift one leg straight up and then lower it back down) on both sides. One of the women groaned and muttered something in Arabic; in response, the entire room busted out laughing. I looked to Hanin, my Arabic teacher and translator, for a translation. She reddened slightly before saying, “She says she won’t be able to lift her legs to her husband tonight because of you. They all want you to get tired.” For the first time in my life, I was the fittest person in the room.

  

MJ and I took some glamour shots after being made-up.

This past Wednesday was my last class with the women so we had a party. Normally, they only see me without make-up, sweaty, and in frumpy workout clothes. So when they walked into room to find me dressed in a skirt with my hair freshly washed and down, I was met with exclamations of, “Hilary, you are pretty?!” And this got them thinking. One woman decided she wanted to do my hair, and then a couple of the women thought they should do my make-up. Afterwards, I “looked like a bride without a groom,” so another woman offered me her son’s hand in marriage. He is a “wealthy man and well liked; you would be well respected in the Nabulsi community.” I politely declined and then went to dance with some of the women. This too turned out to be a mistake.

Hanin is not only my teacher and translator, but also one of my closest friends here in Nablus. Two weekends ago, I went with her to her brother’s house for Sha’aban, a celebration strictly for females during the month before Ramadan. The women chat, smoke shesha, prepare food, dine, and dance. So Hanin’s family tried teaching me how to dance like an Arab woman, aka shake my hips. And, well, I kind of picked it up. So dancing in front of a roomful of women who had just made me up to look like a bride only solicited appraisals of my physique for their eligible sons, nephews, and brothers.

I was also the topic of discussions in their homes as I came to later learn from their daughters the following day at the pool. As I was playing around with some of my girls in the shallow end of the pool, a couple of them explained that their mothers said I could dance. They wanted to see too! So the girls started dancing around me, singing, and trying to clap me into acquiescing. But I’ve learned my lesson, no dancing in front of women looking for a wife for their men.

Sing Opera, Miss

At one point, I was convinced I was going to become an opera singer. It was not one of those fleeting career affairs I have a tendency for; I lived this one. While some high school students watched TV, I watched performances from my favorite opera singers on youtube. In the back of calculus class, I sat with my calc binder stealthily open to the translation of some German aria I was trying to learn. And if I was ever going anywhere with my IPod, I was listening to opera. Oh yes, I was quite sure of my future.

This week's lesson: found instruments. One of the volunteers
and I helping the kids brainstorm ideas.

Then I went to college. I am still not sure what exactly changed, but all of a sudden, music became terrifying. In particular, I came to dread performances. Back in high school, I would sing in the practice rooms, fully aware that everyone on the floor and the one below could hear me. However, my first semester in college, I tried to sneak into the practice rooms on weekend evenings, when I could rest assured that people were at parties and not in the building. It did not take long at all, one semester, and my confidence was sapped. I could not sing. I certainly could not sight read. I was not that talented, and I had no future in music.

My translator, Mohammad, and I talking with one of the
groups about their found instrument composition.

When I interviewed for my internship this summer, I mentioned a background in music. Although I may have lacked confidence, I knew it was the one thing I had actually spent a long period of time learning and doing. However, I really tried pushing for teaching another subject: art, science, English, knitting, environmental issues, anything but music. In early May, I learned that I had been accepted into two internship programs, the one here in Palestine with TYO and one with a housing corporation in DC that works with the homeless. Obviously, I decided to take this one in Palestine, thinking that it would be the more challenging of the two. At that point, I was under the impression I would be teaching science. So when I got the email saying that my class was changed to music, all my insecurities took center stage again.

I chose this internship because I thought it would challenge me, and it has. But I did not realize what else it would do for me. Teaching music has rekindled something I thought I’d lost. Having these kids look to me for information, inspiration, and advice has helped me to find my confidence performing again. I cannot second-guess myself when I am in the moment, trying to help them create music from chairs or sing a song in a foreign language. If I am not sure about my lesson plans, why should they listen to me at all? When I am asked to “sing opera” at lunch, in class, at the pool, in the changing rooms, or on the bus to the pool, they do not care that I have not warmed up and my vocal cords are stiff. They want me to sing now.

Working with these kids and watching them really enjoy music has taught me to let go of my insecurities and just be. It is funny. My class is supposed to be geared towards teaching self-confidence through music. Something I most certainly did not have when I began classes. As at risk of reiterating the white-girl-teaching-kids-abroad cliché, I hope I have taught my students exactly what they have taught me.

Facebook Is Haram

Facebook. Bleh. I delete it every couple of months and then find some silly reason to bring it back. But there are some lines I won't cross. No twitter, no inappropriate comments, no posting photos. I've got Palestinian friends; I have to make sure my profile is not haram.  (I know, I know. I thought of the pants or the Turkish sultan's pack of women at first too. But haram in Arabic means "legally forbidden by Islamic law." This means if the Koran says no, no. But here in Nablus, there are things also outside the Koran that are still haram. So walking around in shorts = haram. Tattoos = haram. Alcohol = really haram. Painted nails = haram. You get the point.)

Anyways, I've had some requests for more photos. Mainly from my mom and dad, who are also probably the only ones who read this blog. (I don't even think my sister does, but we'll see if she catches me on this). Tonight, I have enough time to write a little and post some photos, but not enough time to write a real post. I drank a little too much Turkish coffee a little too late. So read on for some more photos of my kids' music and art class.

This was taken during the second week of classes while we were working on
pitch. On the First day, students learned one octave (C4-C5) on the music staff
and piano and then had to write their own song. On the second day, we split
up into four stations. There were two games of memory, one station making
music note cootie-catchers, and the final one with me, playing their song
on the piano. Here, Saja is working on reading the staff and playing the notes.

This was on the day we learned dynamics. We played a game of 'hot and cold."
But instead of yelling hot when the 'it' student was class and hot when far away,
we used dynamics. So if the student was close, everyone clapped loudly (fortissimo).
If the student was far away, we clapped quietly (pianissimo). If the student was kind
of close, we clapped somewhere in the middle of loud and quiet (mezzo piano/forte).
Here,  Mohammad is searching desperately for where his group hid their object. 

Also on our dynamics day. One of my volunteers, Sumar, is leading a
activity where the students mimic a rain storm. My translator, Mohammad,
is helping out.

On our melody day, I explained that notes and rhythm come
together to create a melody. Using notes and rhythms from

"On Top of Old Smokey," the students had to weave a certain

color based on a rhythm I clapped or a set of notes I played.
In the end, they had created a song and a weaving. Islam is
working away hard on his weaving.

On the our weaving/melody day, I stopped clapping/playing
and started having the students do the work for me. Here Eman,
one of my most clever students, picked the color she wanted
and played the corresponding notes on the piano. The
rest of the students then had to decide what color she played.

Hassan, also a favorite of mine, shows me his completed weaving.

Finally, this last video is of the day we worked on tempo.

I used a song called 'Froggie.' We began by singing it really 

slow and the second time around, we sang very quickly. 

See if you can figure out if this was the first time or second

Holding Babies, Singing Songs

"I am terrible with kids. I simply don't have the patience for them." This is something more than one family member and friend has heard come out of my mouth. My summer plans must have come as a bit of a surprise to those who know me. Back in America, I avoid kiddies like the plague. "No, I don't want to hold your baby. No, I am not interested in babysitting. You want to pay me twenty dollars an hour? Nah, I am still not interested."

Not only do I now teach music, I also hold babies at weddings.

Perhaps my tune began to change in Germany, where I taught English to first and second graders. But come on, six- and seven-year-olds are super cute, particularly when they are speaking in a foreign language or with an accent. Nonetheless, my time ETA-ing at Tiefburgschule got the ball rolling for this summer. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I teach a music and art class for eleven to fourteen-year-olds, the toughest age group in any part of the world: pre-teens. Without fail, it is the best part of my week.

Since most of my students have never encountered music education, I decided to teach the basics: pitch, rhythm, tempo, dynamics, melody, and performance. First, I am hoping to teach the kids concepts that they can utilize when I ask them to create a Stomp-like performance from found instruments. So far, we've gotten through pitch, rhythm, tempo, and yesterday, dynamics. 

Class began with a rain rondo, and then I asked the students to describe a rain storm to me. Storms start out quiet, a little pitter-patter. Then they become louder and louder, with lightening and thunder. Finally, as the clouds blow over, the rain becomes quiet again. I explained that in music, these different levels of volume are called dynamics. In order to practice our dynamic markings (pp, p, mp, mf, f, ff), we learned a song in honor of July 4th, This Land Is Your Land. While singing, students had to respond to the dynamic markings one of the volunteers held up in front of the class. So from my kiddies to you, Happy Fourth of July!

Stressful Situations

Shebab after shebab congregated outside of my friend, Mary-Jo’s, classroom. Longingly, I looked at some of the girls in the front of the class, wishing they were mine. But with a sigh, I accepted my fate.

Shebab literally means ‘the youth’ in Arabic. However, it can also refer to young Arab men. Typically between the ages of 16-25, shebab could be considered similar to a young male phenomenon going on across the world. In America, we call them ‘guys,’ college-aged men who do not put down the video-game controller, spend too much time in the weight room, are free floating, drink rather often, and generally lack ambition. In Great Britain and Australia, they are called ‘lads.’ In Italy, they are mama’s boys, bamboccioni or mammoni. And in France, they are fondly referred to as ‘Tanguys.’ Around the world, young men occupy this limbo phase between boy and man, and I have got a class full of them.

It is one thing to be teaching a class full of guys; mixed gender really helps in keeping order and focus. It is another thing to be teaching a class full of guys your own age or older. It is also another thing to teach a room full of Arab men as an American female. Thanks to Hollywood and just general American promiscuity, my nationality and gender come with certain stereotypes that are hard to break down.

So on that first day, as I led my class of shebabs down to my room, I was nervous. Mary-Jo and I decided that we would split her class up based on English ability, and I had offered to take the lower level of English. Everyone registered for the course was supposed to have an intermediate level of English. However, I quickly found that maybe two of my students could utter a coherently structured English sentence. The rest... well, they have some work to do. Although it is a professional competency class, I will often spend a large portion of the class working on English.

Today, I had my class work on speaking by asking them two basic interview questions: what is your greatest strength and what is your greatest weakness. I wrote the terms up on the board, had the students define them, and then gave them all a few minutes to think. Everyone had to explain to me why their strengths were useful, and how they overcome their weaknesses.

The best student went first, telling me that his “strength point” was communication with people, and his weakness was speaking English. He then said, “I am overcome weakness point by taking your class, miss.” Gold star for Mohammad.

The shebab who sits in the corner, never does his homework, and once told me that he “wanted to form a relationship with an American” went next. His strength: being able to face problems head on and stay calm. His weakness: getting frustrated easily. When I asked how he overcomes being frustrated, he said, “Nothing! I do nothing! I just stop.” Slowly, slowly, I tried to explain that this contradicted this his strength. “I do nothing,” he reiterated, and I decided to move on.

Haitham came next. One of my favorites in the class, he actually seems a little scared of me and thus, tries very hard to do things correctly. Nonetheless, his English is some of the worst in the class. After stumbling through his strength, I gave him an encouraging smile and asked what his weakness was:

            “Exams scare I. I fear,” he mumbled into his paper.

            “Okay. So exams make you feel nervous?” I asked trying to clarify. He nodded, and I tried to make his weakness more professional. “So sometimes in stressful situations, you get nervous. Is that what you are trying to say?” He nodded again, thinking that I had understood his weakness and would move on to a new person.

            “Can you say it?” I asked. “Just repeat after me. Sometimes in stressful situations, I get nervous.”

            He nodded.

            I tried again, “No, you say it.”

            He nodded once more, and someone leaned over to translate my words into Arabic.

            “Just say: sometimes in stressful situations, I get nervous,” I urged.

            “Stressful situations, I nervous.” Again, he sighed in relief, thinking he was off the hook.

            “Good. Now, how do you overcome your weakness? What do you do to deal with being nervous? How do you handle being scared?” I tried a couple of different phrasings, hoping one would make sense.

            He turned to converse with his neighbor, who then turned to me and said, “Please miss, he likes to go out. Um, he likes to go to park.”

            “Oh, oh. He likes to go take a walk in nature?”

            Haitham nodded.

            “Okay, so say: sometimes in stressful situations, I get nervous. When this happens, I like to take a walk to calm down, and then I can handle the problem.”

            He nodded, agreeing that I had explained his weakness and method for overcoming it well.

            “No, Haitham. I need you to say it. We all know I can speak English. It is important for you not to just understand me, but to also say things yourself. Say: sometimes in stressful situations, I get nervous. When this happens, I like to take a walk to calm down, and then I can handle the problem. I know you can do it,” I encouraged him again.

            “Please Miss Hilary. This is a stressful situation.” Finally, Haitham said a full sentence.

Resurrection

About a month ago, I left Nepal and headed to Nablus, Palestine. Here, I am working for an American organization called Tomorrow’s Youth Organization (TYO). I am teaching four classes: Music and Art for eleven-twelve year olds, Professional Competency at An-Najah University, Beginner/Elementary Community English, and Mom’s Aerobics.

In each of my classes and several of my travels, there have been too many stories begging to be shared. Thus, I’ve decided to resurrect my blog, and hopefully this time around, I will be faithful with my writing and publishing. 

                                           A view of Nablus from my apartment balcony.

Saturday Morning Market

Looking for a sign that might direct me to my destination, I was quickly bypassed by one of Kathmandu's elite expats. Dressed in tights, a nautical style dress, and carrying a designer French bag, the woman purposefully waltzed down the sidewalk, and I decided that if I followed her, she would lead me right to where I was trying to go, the nexus of Kathmandu's expat community, the Saturday Morning Market.

Earlier this week, my previous research project and I got into a fight. Deeply unsatisfied, I decided to break things off and dived into the swanky arms of my new topic: Kathmandu's expat community. Instead of trekking up to Nepal's Tsum Valley (I'll admit to being a bit disappointed about missing out on this), I am staying in Kathmandu for the next month hanging out at bars, going to Saturday morning markets, and basically loitering in the areas most frequented by white people. You'd think this would be pretty easy considering I am a young, white girl myself, but it is looking like this project might push me more out of my comfort zone than my former one.

The market was held on the grounds of one of Kathmandu's upscale restaurants. Walking in, I was immediately stuck by how well-groomed and put-together everyone was. I stood there in hippie-pants that I picked up in Boudha, the Tibetan Buddhist portion of Kathmandu (see photo) that is just crawling with the baggy pants and patterned skirts of Western dharma practitioners, and immediately regretted the fact that I hadn't showered in the last three days. However, I sucked in my insecurities and began checking out the different booths. There was artisan cheese, sugar-free jams, fresh-baked goods, and fine clothing; all things I could not even consider buying with my meager student stipend. Finally, I stumbled upon a booth about street dogs and figured I could take a look without giving in and buying a block of cheese. The booth was run by an older couple, maybe in their mid-60s, from Australia. We got to talking about their work and my research. After a little while, I got up the nerve to ask to interview them at some point, and although appearing a little nervous about it, they said yes.

So I am off. I still have a little work to do though as far as getting over my timidity. After shaking the couple's hand goodbye and promising to call them, I quickly ran around a table of gorgeous, young expats and scurried to the exit. Oh well, next time, I'll know to shower.

We'll Take It Slow

While I was home over break, I tried, albeit rather briefly, to get back into shape. It first began with this ill attempt at running. Since it was cold outside, I got on the treadmill, equipped with water bottle, workout gear, and music. About ten or twelve minutes into my run, I hit the power button and laid down panting on the carpet. Clearly running is not for me.

I can easily track the decline of my physical fitness over the last few years. Playing varsity golf, walking the dog, and avoiding gym-class dodge ball in the weight room were my main forms of working out during high school. When I arrived at college, I did not suffer the freshman fifteen; however, I also rarely left the library so although I did not really get fatter, I did get softer. Then after enjoying a couple bouts of malaria in Uganda and losing whatever muscle mass I still had, I came back home and sat in the library some more. Sometimes I would run crazed around campus, frazzled with work, but generally I typed papers or sat reading. Then, I went to Europe, where I indulged myself with chocolate and various pastries and once again, stagnantly sat in libraries.

When I decided to come to Nepal and Bhutan to study Himalayan peoples, people who live on some of the highest mountains in the world, I knew I was getting myself into treacherous waters. I was by no means even remotely in shape. So, when we arrived in Bhutan and went on our first hike, I brought up the rear. After a few more hikes, I adjusted to the altitude and was pretty much okay. However, I was always at the end of every group hike along with one of my friends, Lisa, who leads hikes at her school and enjoys acting as the sweeper in the group.

One day about halfway through our trip, nearly the entire group was feeling sick or low in spirit. Hiking up to a monastery that day, the whole group moved at a particularly slow pace and nearly no one spoke. During the lecture, everyone sat hunched with glazed over eyes. As Lisa and I were walking to the toilets with our Bhutanese guide, he told us, “I’ve been so worried about you getting sick. Please tell your friends not to drink the water.” We looked at each other, unsure whether he was worried about us in particular or the group as a whole.

About a week later, our question was answered. After traveling to two different colleges, sitting in on classes, and attending our own lectures, we had a few days rest in Bumthang, a dzongkhag in the middle of Bhutan. We had some time to hang out, read, visit a local brewery and cheese-making factory, and hike. The night before one of the longer hikes, our guide, academic director, Lisa, and I all sat around the woodstove fire together, discussing the next day’s hike. Lisa, who had been sick for a few days, was contemplating whether or not she should go and inquired about the hike’s difficulty. I was also interested since I had recently fallen into a drainage hole and banged up my knee a bit. The guide looked at us and said comfortingly, “Not hard. Gradual incline. Like this.” And he motioned with his hand, holding it almost completely horizontal. Then he turned to our academic director and said, “Don’t worry. We will take it slow for Hilary and Lisa. We don’t want to push them too much.”

Lisa and I burst out laughing. She always was at the end because that is the spot she preferred. Although I originally brought up the rear out of necessity, I came to enjoy the separation from the group and hiking in silence and had chosen to remain there during our treks.

However, now, as I am preparing for a five-day trek into the Himalayas for my Independent Study Project (ISP), I am a little worried again. Higher elevations than before, few hikes in the last couple weeks, and no place to work out for free in Kathmandu have brought my lungs right back to square one. Although I’ve contemplated trying to run again in order to get into shape, I’ve developed excuses such as, “I only have hiking boots” and “breathing in too much Kathmandu pollution while running is much worse for my lungs than sitting and reading.” So when I set out for the mountains in the next week and a half, I have a request: wish me and my lungs luck.

The Land of Happiness

Landing in Kathmandu yesterday felt a little like a homecoming. I had spent nearly a month in Bhutan, crossing the country from west to east, visiting different colleges, and leaving through India. Although it was an amazing trip, I missed the chaos of Kathmandu and the familiarity of a routine.

Bhutan is a mountainous country sandwiched between two of Asia’s and the world’s biggest super powers: China and India. Unlike many other Asian nations, Bhutan managed to escape a history of colonialism and has one of the youngest monarchies in the world. A Buddhist country, Bhutan very recently began the process of modernization and only became a democracy in 2008. In less than 30 years, the country went from the bamboo pen to Internet, from a complete monarchy to a democracy. Needless to say, it is a fascinating nation.

It is easy to become smitten with Bhutan. Virginal landscapes, hospitable people, and Buddhism. It is a land of happiness. Or at least that is what my snack box on the plane ride over had told me. “Bhutan: Happiness Is a Place.” Bhutan is the land of Gross National Happiness (GNH). This means the government measures its success and prosperity off of the happiness of its people, not the money that is being spent or exchanging hands. GNH has four pillars: 1. Sustainable development, 2 Environmental conservation, 3. Preservation and promotion of cultural values, and 4. Good governance. It is an interesting way to run a country and even the UN is looking into it as a viable means to measure success. Nonetheless, during my travels, I am quickly finding there is no perfect way to run a country. While trying to measure success by the citizen’s happiness is admirable, I am not sure if these four pillars actually do it or even if happiness is something that can be quantified.

Happiness has become the way the country markets itself, and it works. For a country with a population of about 700,000, there are quite a few tourists pouring into Bhutan. Tourism, however, is not cheap. It costs 200 dollars a day for a tourist visa, basic accommodations, and meals. If you want anything fancier or more, it costs more money. Since a trip costs so much, Bhutan attracts a crowd that is largely over 60 with money to spare. One day I asked an older tourist at a temple why she had decided to come to Bhutan. She told me, “It is just special. It is special. You can feel it.”

What I liked about Bhutan though was not the one-dimensional happiness the tourist companies advertised. Since I was able to explore a large portion of the country and build relationships with college students my own age, the Bhutan I saw felt real. People had problems. People had worries. They were not 100% happy all the time, and I liked Bhutan better for this. It was a lovely country. One I would go back to if I had 200 dollars a day to spend.

And on that note, let me explain my lack of blog posts this past month. I often did not have Internet and never had fast Internet. Thus, writing posts fell to the wayside when sending a single email took sometimes around an hour. Now that I am back in Kathmandu, I am hoping to get back to my blogging and may even try to post a photo or two.

Living in the Shrine Room

It was around 6:00am when I heard a knock at my door. Choosing to ignore it, I rolled over and shoved my earplugs further into my ear. The knock sound again, however, along with my name this time, and I figured I should probably answer the door. My host mother came quickly inside, handed me a bowl, told me to eat it while it was still hot, then proceeded to offer the same breakfast to the gods.

I live in the family's shrine room, a somewhat intimidating dwelling. As I enter the room, the Dalai Lama smiles down, entreating me to be a more compassionate person. There are offerings of water and sometimes fruit to the gods within the shrine, and often, a butter candle is lit in their favor. Unfortunately, that candle often burns well into the wee hours of morning disturbing my sleep. (It really is ridiculous that I need complete silence and darkness to drift off. I feel so high-maintenance). Once or twice, after waking up in the middle of the night and failing to fall back asleep because of the flicking light, I grumpily blew out the candle. I have stopped this selfishness now, as I am pretty sure blowing out the candle is sacrilegious.

Anyways, my family is used to me waking up pretty early as I sometimes walk with my host mother before the sun rises. Thus, I really cannot complain that the one day I decided to sleep in, I ended up drinking heated chang (Tibetan barley beer) and watching traditional Tibetan dances on television well before 7:00am. It was Losar, the Tibetan New Year, and it was certainly a treat to be able to celebrate it with a Tibetan family.

Typically, on Losar, a family wakes up early, drinks their chang and eats sweet rice, before changing into traditional Tibetan clothes and then visiting high lamas or monasteries for New Year’s blessings. Often, Losar is a fifteen-day celebration with dancing and merriment continuing late into the evening. However, this year, Losar was canceled by the Dalai Lama in recognition of the monks, nuns, and laypeople in Tibetan who have self-immolated in protest for religious freedom.

Suicide in Buddhism is considered a terrible sin. There are six realms of reincarnation, and the human realm is considered the best. Human is the only realm that has the ability to reach enlightenment/nirvana and thus, escape samsara, the cycle of life and death in the material world. To commit suicide is to surely be reincarnated into a lower realm; it is throwing away the chance of enlightenment. So to us in the western world, setting yourself on fire would certainly be considered suicide, at least that was what I thought before arriving in Nepal. However, this is not what is actually going on. Although the Dalai Lama has condemned the self-immolations and requested their abatement, these actions are actually considered something other than suicide. In Tibet, where any type of protest is immediately and forcibly put down, self-immolation is a way to still state one’s dissent. Those who self-immolate do so in compassion for others, hoping their sacrifice will force the international community to really look at the conditions they are living under and help to make positive changes. Thus, the cancellation of Losar this year was to honor those people who saw fit protest the only way they thought they could.

My host family celebrated only a slight bit, nothing like in years before. We all donned traditional Tibetan dress and went up to the roof with the neighbors. We hung prayer flags (one should only hang prayer flags on an auspicious day, otherwise, they will bring bad luck until they are weathered away). We at sweets and drank chang and beer. Someone chanted mantras, and then we threw tsampa (barley flour) up into the air. Perhaps it was not the traditional, fun, and celebratory Losar, but I consider myself lucky to have been able to experience it.

Black Horse, White Cloak

The Ambien worked miracles. As I stepped off of my flight at Doha International Airport, I felt mildly human. Unlike the other international flights I have taken, I slept nearly the full twelve hours this time. Nonetheless, I was a bit groggy and confused as I entered the transfer's security line. I became even more confused as a security guard approached another SIT student and me to tell us we had hotel rooms during our ten hour layover. He shoved us back onto another shuttle bus and we rode it around for a little while, unaware of where we were supposed to go. Eventually, I found myself in an immigration line getting a visa for Qatar and then on a bus, ridding to the hotel. Although I was slightly worried that I was being kidnapped by an international airline, the shower, free meal, and bed were much appreciated.

I landed in Tribhuvan International Airport about a week ago now, and since have come to appreciate that last shower even more so. This semester I am studying in Nepal and Bhutan (possibly India also) with the School for International Training (SIT) Tibetan and Himalayan Peoples program. The program was started in 1987 and looked closely at Tibet and other Himalayan regions. For those in my generation who do not know much about the region, Tibet borders Nepal, India, and Bhutan and is located within China today. Its history is quite expansive, but I'll try just to give a basic overview along with some of my favorite stories from their history:

Tibetans believe that they are descended from an monkey and an ogress. The monkey was a quiet contemplative sort who meditated peacefully in a cave. The ogress, on the other hand, was very volatile and displeased. Lonely, she wailed and wailed, until the monkey went to her in compassion. Together they produced the Tibetan race, and it is said that the monkey gave the Tibetans their tame qualities and the ogress gave them their untamed ones. At one point, Tibet was a great empire, but since then, its boundaries were largely undefined. Around the seventh to ninth century, Buddhism first entered Tibet. It was propagated by three kings until 850 AD when the last king was killed. It is said that a monk killed him out of compassion because the king was so corrupt, he had to have been creating quite a bit of bad karma for himself. The monk arrived at a play dressed in white, riding a black horse. Pretending it was a part of the play, the monk pointed a bow and arrow at the king and then actually shot him. As the monk made his escape, he turned his white cloak inside-out, making it black. He then rode through a river, washing the black paint off of his white horse. Thus, while the authorities searched for an assassin wearing white on a black horse, the monk rode away wearing black on a white horse.

After the death of the third king, Tibet entered into a sort of dark age until the second diffusion of Buddhism. Eventually, Dalai Lamas became the political and spiritual leaders of Tibet. The Dalai Lama is a chain of the same reincarnated scholar/lama, Chenrezig. After the thirteenth Dalai Lama died in the late 1930s, a search began for a new Dalai Lama. Following predictions from the previous Dalai Lama and visions, a search party set out to Eastern Tibet, where they found the a young three-year-old boy. After passing several different tests, the boy was renamed Jamphel Ngawang Lobsang Yeshe Tenzin Gyatso (or just Tenzin Gyatso) and in 1940 was taken to the capitol city of Lhasa where he began his studies. However, trouble was brewing, and in 1950, China invaded Tibet. Met with poorly coordinated and equipped resistance, it did not take long for the Chinese Army to reach Lhasa. Over the next several years, tensions brewed until 1959, when things exploded during March of that year. Fearing that the Chinese were planing to kidnap the Dalai Lama, Tibetans gathered outside his residence in mass to protest. On March 17th, the Dalai Lama disguised himself as a common solider and fled Tibet, going into exile in India. The next day, the Chinese began shelling his residence and the people surrounding it.

Over the next decades, many Tibetans have gone into exile in Bhutan, India, Nepal, and all over the world. Those who stayed in Tibet faced extremely hard times of famine, thamzing, imprisonment, religious prosecution, and the cultural revolution. Today, many people are still leaving Tibet, including my host mother and father, and protests against Chinese rule continues. In the past two years, there have been many cases of monks, nuns, or even lay people setting themselves on fire in protest. Losar, the Tibetan New Year, has been cancelled in order to honor these people.

At the moment, I am based in Boudha, Kathmandu, a portion of the capitol that is largely Tibetan refugees. Along with studying Tibetan and attending lectures on Buddhism, development, this region, and cultural anthropology, I live with a Tibetan host family. In about a month, I will leave for Bhutan, and then the month after that I will be doing independent research.