Reconciliation: An Exercize in the Arts

By Katherine Wright, ‘11

I had slept through the border crossing. My sleepy eyes awoke to snow-capped hills and small farmhouses in the distance, and it seemed as if a fairy tale was unfolding before my eyes. I looked down at my watch to discover that we had been driving long enough to have officially reached the United Kingdom, Northern Ireland, or the North of Ireland– however you choose to define it.

As we pulled into a rest stop, I quickly stuffed Euros into the back of my wallet and desperately grasped for British pounds so that the waitress would not suspect I was traveling from the South.

An hour later, we reached Belfast; until now, this was a city I had only known through song; as a child with an Irish-American heritage I knew of the ‘Bell from Belfast city with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes’ as early as I can remember.

Our bus had license plates from the Republic and our bus driver explained that had it been a number of years ago, he would have been nervous to drive into Belfast with a bus from Ireland. Now, however, he explained in a thick Irish accent, “Oh don’t ya worry, you’re just fine traveling anywhere in Belfast now. I reckon it’s safer up here than Dublin.”

Despite this reaffirming statement from our knowledgeable driver, my nerves grew as I exited the bus and looked around at the cold city streets as the bright winter sun cast its shadow on the sidewalks. I could feel tension in the air. But was this all in my head? It had been years since violence was a daily reality of Belfast, but not long enough for ‘The Troubles’ to be considered remote, forgotten history. By political terms, the conflict between Catholics and the Protestants, often refereed to as ‘The Troubles’, was over by way of a peace agreement signed in 1998. Since then, the area has stabilized. However, the city streets still seemed to tremble with the stories of lost lives, car bombs and police riots.

I traveled to Northern Ireland with a delegation of seven other students from Occidental College through the Office of Religious and Spiritual Life in order to examine ‘The Troubles’ and the critical role that religion played in the conflict between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. We worked to identify the core issues that underlie conflict as well as the methods used to establish peace and embrace reconciliation.
Through our partnership with the Irish School of Ecumenics, we were able to meet with peace and reconciliation organizations and hear from victims and survivors of the conflict. Through these firsthand accounts, we were able to begin to unpack the difficulties, frustrations and successes entailed in the long process of rebuilding Northern Ireland.

In order to further examine the process of reconciliation, I conducted independent research on the murals that surround community walls throughout Belfast. These murals were used as a political and social form of expression during the conflict in order to mark territories, honor fallen heroes, or to voice opinions publicly. To this day, the tradition of mural painting still continues, but instead of spreading staunch political and cultural views, it is starting to be used to promote peace and reconciliation.

As you wander through Belfast’s residential streets, large, colorful murals adorn the walls of this severely divided city. Many of the murals tell the history of the conflict, as dark shadows of paramilitary men, IRA slogans, Bobby Sands, and Union Jacks drape simple architecture with vibrant messages. In order to allow space for other stories to be told, the Arts Council of Northern Ireland has designed a program to aid the process of reconciliation through public art with the Re-imaging Communities Program.

The Re-imagining Communities Program is “rooted in the building of a shared future for Northern Ireland, which is peaceful, inclusive, prosperous, stable and fair.” In order to achieve this goal, the Arts Council of Northern Ireland is engaging communities to re-imagine their communities without images of violence and hateful words once used to define their neighborhoods and identities.

This work requires a long process of community outreach, workshops as well as the actual creation of the art. Deborah Malcolmson, a local artist involved in the project, explained that “it is a community led project. We don’t go to communities; they come to us, and you cannot just come in and tell them what to do. You must really work with the community before hand, but there is no template for this.” One of the many facets of this project is to allow people to feel that they are in power of their own lives and communities. Peace and reconciliation through community involvement is necessary to ensure that the time of violence and hatred is redirected in a way that empowers and secures lives within these communities.

However, the violence that lived within these streets is not one that can be easily silenced or forgotten. In light of this, Anne Ward, the Director of the Re-Imagining Communities Program at the Arts Council explained that the project “encourages people to look at the history of their immediate areas” in order to support meaningful cultural expression and to allow “pride” without causing violence or animosity so that communities can “celebrate old traditions in new, more peaceful ways”.  Art has been a useful means to achieve this because “it is a open and safe way of exploring ideas and it helps to transform through its experimental nature.”

Through this brief study of art as a means of reconciliation, I was able to gain insight into a violent chapter in Northern Ireland’s history highlighting both a community’s prideful heritage and its painful losses. Despite its recent violent past, Northern Ireland is moving forward. This project represents Northern Ireland’s path towards reconciliation, but, as Ward explained, “we [in Northern Ireland] have a long way to go, a really long way…we are ten years into the peace process but we have only dipped our toes in the water.”

Katherine Wright is Diplomacy and World Affairs major and can be reached at wrightk@oxy.edu. Support for this project was provided by a Richter-ASP award from Occidental College.

A Perfect Woman

A film by Julia Bleckner ‘10

While studying abroad in Hyderabad, India, Julia Bleckner shot a short documentary examining what an ideal woman is in Indian Society. Her conversations with women highlight the widespread use of ‘Fair and Lovely’ skin whitening products in India, and how conceptions of beauty, race and marriageability are communicated in Indian society to construct the ‘perfect’ woman.

Part One of ‘A Perfect Woman’

Part Two of ‘A Perfect Woman’

Julia Bleckner ‘10 is a Diplomacy and World Affairs major at Occidental College. She can be reached at jbleckner@oxy.edu.

Going Green- A Semester in Freiburg

By Michael Fisher, ‘11

I would not, by any stretch of the imagination, identify myself as particularly “green”.  When my family and I moved to Los Angeles five years ago, we lovingly embraced the consumer-friendly, car-oriented, perpetually air-conditioned world of Southern California.  At one time—of which I am both equally proud and ashamed to admit—we even owned five cars, one for every member of the family.  During my sophomore year at Oxy, my dorm room was equipped with two televisions, two refrigerators, and a stereo that regularly overloaded the circuit breaker in the hallway.  Consequently, considering my lifestyle choices to date, it was a curious decision to spend my semester abroad in a city that has been hailed as the “Green Capital of Europe”.

Let me explain.

After nearly 20 hours and more than 6000 miles of traveling I arrived in Freiburg im Breisgau, Germany.  Following a strenuous walk from the train station with three large overweight bags, I sat in a taxi on the way to what would become my home for the next four months.  The sights and sounds of that initial drive later came to define my experience in Freiburg.  We passed low-rise office buildings and the historic Innenstadt, crossed over the scenic Dreisam River and skirted the densely forested slopes of the Schlossberg. German graffiti—which I would soon learn to read—with messages like “Your Television Lies” and “Parking Places Over All” (a play on Germany’s national anthem) covered the apartment buildings we sped past.  I saw the university buildings where I would study and the farmers’ markets where I would shop.  The drive even introduced me to the local anarchist encampment, an institution that would soon become a familiar sight.  That first journey from the train station gave me glimpses of a dynamic city with a vibrant culture where green industries thrive and recycling ranks next to godliness.

Freiburg im Breisgau is an incredibly picturesque German city located on the edge of the Black Forest, just minutes away from both Switzerland and France.  Founded in the 12th century, Freiburg quickly became the commercial hub of the Breisgau region. The city’s well-known university, Albert-Ludwigs-Universität, was established in 1457 and remains one of the most prestigious institutions of higher education in Europe. Famous for its weather, its vineyards, and its natural beauty, Freiburg welcomes over one million visitors every year. With just over 200,000 residents (nearly 30,000 of them students), Freiburg is by no means a small city.  However, walking through the historic downtown or shopping at the local markets, one cannot help but experience a sense of intimacy in this charming city.

Both Freiburg’s high quality of life and distinctive local culture contribute to the city’s green reputation. Its “green city” moniker is overwhelmingly the result of an intense commitment to environmental sustainability on the part of the city government, local businesses, and Freiburgers. As I explored Freiburg during my four months there, the depth of the city’s commitment to environmentalism became increasingly evident and persuasive.

I arrived in Freiburg in late August, just one month before the quadrennial German federal elections.  My first impressions of the German political landscape were surprising.  Unlike American elections, where political advertisements often inundate television, radio, and the Internet, German campaigning is largely limited to posters and local stump speeches.  When the Prime Minister, Angela Merkel, came to Freiburg to support her party, I was fortunate enough to witness Freiburg’s reaction to her. Merkel’s party, the Christian Democratic Union, is not known for its environmental policies; the protests against Merkel gave me my first introduction to Freiburg’s green politics.
Freiburg’s history as a green community began over 40 years ago in the late 1960s with the introduction of a citywide sustainable transportation policy.  Catalyzed by the anti-nuclear movement of the 1970s, Freiburg began to explore renewable energy alternatives and environmentally friendly development over the subsequent decades.  Today, local government policies encourage the development of an environmental economy in Freiburg; nearly 10,000 residents are currently employed in green industries, contributing over 500 million Euros to the economy each year. Freiburg is the largest city in Europe to have a Green Party mayor, Lord Mayor Dr. Dieter Soloman.  Living in Freiburg, it is impossible to miss the proof of the city’s commitment to environmentalism.

As I explored Freiburg, I began to take notice of solar panels arrayed throughout the city. With nearly 150 days of sunshine a year, as well as a high level of environmental awareness among citizens, Freiburg has become the solar capital of Germany.  Nearly ubiquitous in some city neighborhoods, solar panels provide a considerable amount of Freiburg’s energy needs.  Even the roof of SC Freiburg’s soccer stadium, is lined with solar cells.  Freiburg also uses other innovative technologies, like small water wheels, to generate power for local homes and businesses.

The evidence of Freiburg’s sustainability extends far beyond renewable energy. Historic downtown Freiburg is closed to all motor vehicle traffic; only pedestrians and bicyclists are allowed to enter the city center.  During the warmer months of my time in Freiburg, I made use of the extensive network of bicycle lanes throughout the city to commute to and from class.  When winter began to set in, I was able to rely on the city’s comprehensive tram system to get around.  Cyclists account for over 28% of all traffic in Freiburg, nearly on par with private car use.  In fact, Freiburg has the lowest motor-vehicle density in Germany, with 423 cars per 1,000 people.  Freiburg’s foray into environmental sustainability has fostered the development of a wide range of innovative green ideas and technologies.

In my student apartment in the Vauban district, I was introduced to the city’s most recent—and most extreme—venture into environmental sustainability.  Vauban, formally the site of a Nazi army barracks, was occupied by the French military until the reunification of Germany in 1991.  Following the withdrawal of French forces, Freiburg began to redevelop the area into an environmentally sustainable community.  Completed in 2006, Vauban offers a unique mix of upscale housing, student apartments, and businesses for its 5,500 residents.  Almost every building is equipped with solar panels and designed to reduce heat loss and maximize energy efficiency. Most importantly, street parking, driveways, and home garages are generally prohibited in Vauban.  While car ownership is allowed, residents are required to pay up to $40,000 for a parking place in a central garage when purchasing their homes.  Consequently, less than 30% of Vauban’s residents own cars.  However, grocery stores, banks, and tram stops are dispersed throughout the neighborhood, ensuring that they are never more than a short walk away from home.

The unique atmosphere of living in Vauban led to a number of interesting experiences.  For example, to block the development of a new “green” shopping center, a group of anarchists squatted on land between my apartment and the tram stop.  While their fortified encampment was initially intimidating, it soon became just another part of living in the greenest section of a green city.  To describe Vauban as tolerant would be a significant understatement.  As I noticed on my first day, ideological graffiti, with messages from “Atomkraft? Nein danke” (Atomic energy? No thanks) to “Revive the F Word (Feminism)”, marked many of the student apartment buildings.  Some things I initially thought were clever—like timers on light switches—proved maddening when I had friends visit. Small energy efficient refrigerators made daily shopping the norm.  I quickly found that my German roommates placed extreme importance on proper recycling.  In Vauban, this entailed sorting waste into one of five separate bins: plastic, paper, compost, glass, and “other”.  Through the frequent, and not so gentle, reminders of my flatmates, I gradually became accustomed to the Freiburger lifestyle.

A semester abroad is an opportunity to immerse oneself in another country’s language and culture.  My study abroad experience was no exception. I traveled to Freiburg in August with expectations of improving my German, meeting new people, and studying the European Union.  What I did not expect were the environmental habits I brought back with me to Los Angeles after four months in Freiburg. While I would still hesitate to identify myself as “green”—particularly in comparison to the people I met in Germany—I have grown substantially “greener”.

Michael Fisher ‘11 is a Diplomacy and World Affairs Major at Occidental College. He can be reached at mfisher@oxy.edu.

Step(pe) by Step(pe): Kazakhstan’s Reach for Regional Dominance

By Ivelina Georgieva, ‘10

Kazakhstan is a country defined by the complex dynamics of Central Asia, a region that proves how impossible it is to not be fascinated by its politics, culture and history.  From the 19th-century Great Game between Great Britain and Russia, to the decades of Imperial Russia, to the years of Russification and Stalin’s carving out of the region, and finally to the 1991 independence of the republics, Kazakhstan is a product of Central Asia’s rich history.  Kazakhstan the world’s 9th largest country, is particularly important, not only because of its gigantic oil and gas reserves, but also because of its ambitions to become a regional leader in close alliance with Russia.

I developed my interest in the region during an extensive research project on Russian politics with Professor Caldwell and Professor Richmond. Exploring the Russian and Eurasian information space turned into an obsession. Before my trip to Kazakhstan, I had never been to a Muslim country except for a couple short trips to the touristy parts of Turkey. At the time, I felt rather ignorant sitting at the classroom and discussing human rights and Islam, for instance, without having seen, heard or felt the religion’s impact on society myself.

My expectations were shattered only a few hours after my arrival in Kazakhstan. This is not to say that taxi drivers didn’t rip me off  or that I didn’t see staggering poverty in the villages around Almaty. However, the overall spirit was of prosperity and good life. I was surprised to find a beautiful modern downtown sporting both relics of Soviet architecture and boutique names from all over the world. The supermarkets offered produce from all countries imaginable and all the local specialties including horse-meat delicacies, camel milk, and different types of caviar. Some malls even had ice-skating rinks and mini theme parks, all for exorbitant prices. The average yearly income in the country is estimated at $11,500, but and the luxury markets are booming. Professionals are driving the consumerism in Kazakhstan’s rapidly developing city centers.

Westernization, I hear some of the readers mutter. Economically yes, but not culturally. The government headed by Nursultan Nazarayev, a close partner of the Russians, is implementing a strong nationalistic program. The unmistakable Kazakh label is ubiquitous. It is on the architecture,  the environmental campaigns, the ads for credits and phone plans, on the infinite number of posters of Nazarbayev that keep a watchful eye on the passers-by. The West deems the latter’s policies dictatorial, especially in the wake of a lifelong presidency proposal recently, floated by an official from his party. However, a fast friend explained to me, “Some say our President is not a good ruler, but truth is he has done amazing work and people trust him. That’s why they chose to reelect him for a third mandate. They are worried about what will happen after he steps down.”

During my stay, I rarely heard opinions critical of the President. Consistently, the young people I met vowed their allegiance. I did not hear any reactions against the decision to control the Internet, either. It was taken in mid-June, officially for the purposes of detecting potential terrorist networking. Unofficially, it has been suggested, that it served to  limit the budding freedom of speech and expression. The majority of the publications propagate the official governmental stance and hail Kazakhstan’s expected role as a regional leader, focusing on uniting Eurasia.

According to projections, Kazakhstan’s center will be Astana, the futuristic fast-growing capital over which towers the Baiterek Tower. Astana is the President’s personal project and the two celebrate their birthday on the same day, the 6th of July. Its intense urban development kick-started in 1994 and was a part of the larger project to develop Kazakhstan’s steppes. Although most of the city still looks like construction grounds, the spirit is easy to capture: business. Astana is deemed the future business capital of Central Asia. My hosts in the city explained that the workday is 10 hours on average and people are too tired to think of fun or culture, “not that the capital has any to offer” the “administrators and businessmen (working) exclusively” in the city.

I stayed with the extended family of a Kazakh friend and had the opportunity to take a glimpse of the traditional Muslim ways for the first time. In Almaty, where exposed midriffs and punk outfits are common, and where I lived with a young, Burberry-clad Kazakh student, my mind registered the occasional hijab with passing interest. This is why a mere three steps into Asem’s house in Astana, having glimpsed the living room where eight bearded men in traditional clothes were dining, I froze. What was I supposed to do? Greet every one of them, greet the eldest one, or not greet them at all? I picked the second option, shook the hand of the white-haired elder, and, blushing with shame, rushed into the kitchen for a snack with the women. In the next two days I was passing tea cups to the elders at the end of the table, eating with hands, helping set the mid-afternoon snack with fruit and delicious Eastern desserts. The time I spent with them reminded me of the importance of cherishing one’s family, so often washed down by our “globalized,” fast-paced lives. The traditionally nomadic society seemed settled down in comparison with ours.

My time in Kazakhstan  was a period of intense learning in which the maxim “you notice things when you observe” proved a most valuable partner. In a professional aspect, I examined the economic upheaval and growing strategic importance of the country, as well as the Eurasian information space. As a tourist, I discovered the historical riches and beautiful nature of both the Almaty area and Astana. On a personal level, I got to know a distinct multiethnic and multiconfessional culture that has remained vibrant in spite of the Soviet intrusions.

Ivelina Georgieva is a junior Diplomacy and World Affairs major. She can be reached at igeorgieva@oxy.edu

An Unexpected Trip

By Katherine Lonsdorf ‘09

I distinctly remember the moment before the first punch.  He was looking down on me, his fist clenched, his eyes angry and clouded, his arm pulled back for momentum.  I screamed, eyes wide in disbelief.  I don’t remember if I braced for it or not.  I don’t think it would have mattered.

The moment of impact is black.  The moment after flooded with emotion—anger, confusion, acceptance, detachment, strength—all in one rush of adrenaline.  The rest of the punches all blend together; after one, ten more aren’t all that unique.  I don’t remember pain or blood or the feeling of my face breaking in three separate places.  The touching, the grabbing, the clawing, the choking, the screaming:  clouded and surreal.

What’s vivid was my reaction.  It’s the first time I have ever proven to myself that I wanted to live, that I valued my existence.  It’s the first time I have actively recognized my rights, my complex role of being a woman, and the sacred ownership of my body.  I took it all for granted before that day.  I’ve thought about it every day since.

I went abroad to change my views.  On the sixteenth day of my year-long life in Amman, Jordan, my perspective of myself, of social roles, of the world changed forever.

American women abroad—especially in the Middle East–all seem to find themselves trapped by the same stereotype:  easy, promiscuous, inviting, and naïve.  Nearly everywhere I went in Jordan, in Syria, in Egypt, and even in Qatar the stares, the shouts, the touches all confirmed my unwavering place in society:  an object first, and a person second.  It became clear to me that being a white, blonde woman in the Middle East seemed to mean two overarching things:  free sex and the possibility of a green card. 

For most foreign women I knew, it was something that slowly sunk in.  The first weeks were too overwhelmingly exotic for much of the cultural and social norms to appear.  Then began a gradual but gnawing process realizing that with every blatant stare, every rude comment, provoking grab, or lack of acknowledgement, we were different.  This wasn’t America, and we were nowhere near equal.  What’s more:  the majority of the population seemed to accept, and even expect, it be this way.

However, my initiation was sudden.  It was fast.  It was painful.  And there was nothing subtle about it.  In the second week of my life abroad, I was abducted by a taxi driver on my way home from the grocery store.  It was broad daylight, in the western, trendy Abdoun neighborhood of Amman.  But that didn’t matter–I didn’t know much Arabic and I was obviously foreign.  I smiled too much, I laughed too loud, I talked and made eye contact.  I realized I wasn’t headed home when it was much too late.

We ended up on a dirt road on the outskirts of Amman, no houses or people in sight.  In one swift motion the cab doors locked shut, the driver hurdled over the front seat to pin me down in back, and my clothes were ripped and torn.  I managed one call on my cell phone before he threw it to the front seat, and we were alone.  I screamed, he punched.  I kicked, he choked.  I bit, he hit. 

It probably lasted all of ten minutes; I blank on most of it.  I just remember an intense will to live, coupled with outrage and disgust at the injustice of being so objectified.  Ultimately, I remember the look of astonishment in his eyes when he realized I would not submit.

Lost in translation between the Paris Hilton images and the Britney Spears music videos, my personal empowerment, my individuality, my self-reliance had never been part of his consideration.  I was not the easy American woman, the promiscuous American woman, the inviting American woman; I was the enabled, proud, and independent American woman. 

Thanks to him, I am also now a much less naïve American woman.

He stopped and I jumped from the cab.  I grabbed my groceries.  I demanded my phone.  He offered to give me a ride home, and I almost laughed between sobs.  I looked him straight in the eye as he slammed his door and barreled away. 

Three Jordanian young men happened to drive by soon after, finding me bloody, in shock, and crying in the middle of the road.  Without realizing it, they offered me the first in a series of second looks at a culture I almost dismissed.  They called the police, bought me water and ice, stayed with me for an hour to wait for help.  In broken English, they managed to string together one sentence: “No worry, it will be okay.” 

The next two weeks were spent between hospitals, police stations, and Arabic classes.  I was contacted by the American Embassy, the UN, the royal family.  The police were committed to finding the cab driver, and they called me every day.  Nothing like this had ever happened in Jordan before, they told me, at least not to an American.  Everywhere I went, with my battered face and my known story, it seemed someone wanted to apologize, to excuse, to sympathize.

 An old Bedouin man found me soon after the attack.  He took one look at me, shook his head, and said sadly, “There are good men, and there are bad.  In the whole world.  This man, he was bad.  But we, we are not all bad. You understand?”

A woman, her face covered and her head down, came up to my translator as I waited at the police station for a medical exam.  She said something in Arabic. My translator turned to me and said flatly, “She wants to know if your husband is beating you too.”

Everyone stared, and it was a much different stare than I received before or after my face was healed.  The women stared with understanding and pity, the men stared with a mix of shame and anger.  I realized that I was in no way the only person struggling in my story.  While my pain may have been more recent, my situation more extreme, I was only a piece of a continuous, daily strain on society—man or woman, American or Arab.

Going back to America never really crossed my mind; in fact, three days after the attack, I petitioned my home school to let me stay abroad the full year, instead of the one semester I had planned.  I wanted to make sure that awful cab ride was the beginning of my time in Jordan, and not its definition.  I consider that one of the best decisions I have ever made.  The resulting year was one I’ll reflect upon indefinitely.

Still, throughout the year, my feelings about being a woman—an American woman—only became more distressing.  The catcalls, the grabs, the assumed inferiority never stopped.  I learned to keep my eyes down, to smile less, to speak to men only in Arabic and only when addressed.  In taxis, I used the same story every time:  I was Lebanese and I had moved to Amman with my new Jordanian husband.  As best as I could with my blonde hair and white skin, I assimilated. 

It wasn’t until about six months in that I began to realize that my stereotypes, my assumptions of the average Jordanian woman were just as misplaced as my attacker’s thoughts of me.  It took time, but I allowed myself to take another look.  What I found were some of the strongest women I have ever met, women who had realized their rights and empowerment in a society where it was not an easy find.  From filmmakers fighting harassment to journalists reporting honor killings; health care professionals teaching sexual education and female college students aspiring to study law in America, Jordanian women also proved that social norms and stereotypes are different than definitions.

That’s not to say I necessarily felt more empowered myself; coming back to America was a giant and much needed breath of fresh air.  But I realized that I was not at all fighting the feminine fight alone.  In fact, most of the time Jordanian women were fighting much harder than me. 

Coming home, I was suddenly surrounded by things that had been taboo—short skirts, tank tops, male friends, individuality, and an expectation to be an independent woman with a job, a voice, and my own life plan.  I felt like I was handed every social freedom for which those women in Jordan fought every day, but for the first time in my life I could fully appreciate them all.

They never found that cab driver, despite the hours I spent looking at lineups, mug shots, and impounded taxis.  With over 10,000 registered taxi drivers in Amman, and probably thousands of others unregistered, it’s not surprising he disappeared. 

I spent a lot of time being angry about what happened.  Part of me still is, but a much larger part of me has tried to transform the experience into something meaningful, if not positive.  That incident forced me to open my eyes early in my time abroad, and I don’t think I would have gained as much insight otherwise.  America may provide me independence, but Jordan granted me awareness.

I probably won’t ever live in Jordan again, but I would visit tomorrow if I could.  Jordan managed to become part of my identity, and I think it always will be.  Once a place is home, it’s home.

Kantherine Lonsdorf is a Diplomacy and World Affairs major. She can be reached at klonsdorf@oxy.edu.

Lessons in Diplomacy From Geneva

By Ivelina Georgieva ‘10

I embarked on my Geneva adventure with zeal but I have to admit that I was initially disappointed. The program’s academics lacked structured, my Swiss family turned out to be cold and reserved, and the city? Small and unexciting. For about a month I went to lectures with lukewarm enthusiasm and saw Geneva with quiet disdain for all those Gucci-clad stylish bank executives and diplomats that populate the city. “Where are the normal people?” I would catch myself thinking. The name of the infamous Facebook group “Geneva Ultimate Eurotrash” was acquiring new significance for me. What threw me aback the most was that the Swiss seemed so unapproachable—no benevolent smiles at the shop, no random conversation in the public transport. Everyone seemed to be walking with a purpose, working without respite.

 

Flash-forward two months later during the final week of the program. I am sitting in the spacious living room of my second host family after a particularly cheesy (literally full of cheese) dinner. Washing down the vestiges of the raclette, a traditional Swiss meal, with a glass of cold white wine, I am busily working away on the cyber-legal labyrinth of my independent project “The Geopolitics of Cyber Warfare.” Although Watchlandia is certainly not going to make my post-undergraduate destinations list, I had seen and learned more than I expected to.

Regarding international relations (IR), we had the amazing opportunity of having the whole diplomatic world of Geneva at our disposal. Not only did we have our lectures in organizations such as the UNCTAD, UNHCR, OCHA, ILO, WTO, WIPO, the Red Cross and many other organizations, we could attend a multitude of IR events that were open to the general public, including cocktail parties held by diplomatic clubs, briefings and conferences. For instance, just in the course of two weeks I visited talks by Joschka Fischer and Joseph Stieglitz, went to one panel on sovereign wealth funds and another one on the financial crisis in Webster University, and randomly met and conversed with an ex-captain in the Pakistani Navy, the present chair of a movement for the liberation of Kashmir.

The quality of programming varied greatly. Admittedly, some of our lectures were quite disappointing. Instead of addressing a concrete problem, the speakers would make Q & A presentations of their organization. Other talks, however, were terrific. We met plenty of people with immense field experience and organizational qualifications, people who started their presentations with, “I used to think the UN’s work is nonsense” and then proceeded to explain how they got involved in their work. They would talk at length about the countless bureaucratic levers they need to push everyday to make the UN wheel spin. Most importantly, they addressed why it had to keep spinning. We met the energetic President of the International Peace Bureau, one of the largest civil research and lobbying organizations for peace and disarmament. We also met the President of the South Club, the Southern equivalent of the International Monetary Fund. One of the judges who oversaw the process against Milosevic gave a marvelous two hour presentation on international humanitarian law. I would not exaggerate the tiniest bit if I said that some of the speakers left me enchanted, inspired, breathless and impatient to contribute my share.

Everyone truly appreciated the second aspect of the program—the study trips. These were well-balanced, since normally we had lectures in the morning, while the rest of the day was free for exploration. In Bern, we stayed in a charming hostel downtown. In Paris, we looked out on the Eiffel Tower. In Brussels, our small hotel sat close to the Guinness award-winning bar whose menu included 2,500 beers.

Of course, the trips were not solely to visit organizations and have fun, but also to expose us to the varieties of Francophone culture. To demonstrate our observation and analytical skills, we had to complete two culturally-based projects. Since I did one of mine on Swiss cinema, I managed to meet a number of Swiss directors, actors and producers, which was easy to do because of the size of Switzerland and its movie industry.

Throughout the semester I visited most of urban Switzerland, including Zurich, Lausanne, Fribourg, Bern and Montreux, as well as quite a few villages in the area, whose Beaujolais and alpine landscapes proved irresistible. I swam and sailed in the Geneva Lake. I went to the Museum of Paul Klee, my favorite artist, reducing the list of my life dreams by one. I heard a myriad of variations on French and German, and tried a hundred types of cheese. I visited CERN, saw some fantastic art collections, and made friends with the so-called French buddies and a Lebanese kebab owner (who would occasionally treat me to a free falafel.) I finally understood why Bill Bryson made that joke about Zurich; “How do you call a gathering of a lot of boring people? Zurich.” I learned to love Geneva—especially after Zurich. Life is ultimately about comparative advantages, just like Ricardo’s economics.

But most importantly, I had the luck to live with a host mom and brother who made my world a wonderful place to be. Ils sont simplement les meilleurs. Them and the raclette.

Ivelina Georgieva ‘10 is a junior Diplomacy and World Affairs major and Russian Language and Culture Minor. She can be reached at igeorgieva@oxy.edu

Village Stay in Morocco

By Wynne McAuley ‘09

I sit in my bed in Rabat on Saturday watching my host sister tie her headscarf in preparation of leaving the house. I listen to my host brother watch cartoons and I revel in the delicious smells that waft from the tiny kitchen where lunch stews the morning away.

Yesterday afternoon I arrived here again after 6 days in the tiny rural village of Ouled Khallou with the Sidi Battach tribe. I dropped my bags and, having not showered for the entirety of my stay, practically ran to the Hammam (the public bathhouse). Usually I just sit amongst all the other women, sweat in the steam and soap myself leisurely. This time, however, I paid a woman 25 dirham (less than 4 dollars) to professionally scrub me down. She filled a few buckets with hot water, took the abrasive scrubber that I had bought a few weeks back, and went at me with vigor. She made me take my underwear off and lie down on the tile while she scrubbed with practiced strength everywhere on my body: neck, ankles, butt. It felt incredible and my skin came off in rolls she then washed away with scoops from the bucket. I was then amazingly soft and clean and rested, ready to reflect on the events (both great and terrible) of the past week, having not had even a minute to write in my journal while I was there.

We rolled into the village after a 40 minute drive from the nearest tiny town of Boujad, rumbling down a hilly, rocky dirt road, packed tightly into hot, dusty vans. Tumbling out, we were met with a crowd of village men, the women sitting farther away on a hill. I waited awkwardly until my name was called and then grabbed my bag and went to shake hands with Mohammed, a tiny, dark-skinned and mustached man with a straw hat. I later learned he was my host brother. I followed him on a fairly tiring, sweaty hike up scrubby hills of cactus, through waving fields of poppies and wheatgrass, down dirt paths and past grazing cows and sheep to a low mud house perched on a steep hillside overlooking an incredible valley of rolling hills and, in the far distance, a few snowy peaks.

Heaving, I was ushered inside where I encountered a chorus of welcomes and a veritable dance of cheek kisses – right cheek, left cheek, right, right, right again. It was in a bright room washed with yellow. The sun streamed through a tiny window into a large room where a beautiful patterned rug was finding its beginnings and a few colorful throws and pillows were laid on the floor for sitting. I was told to sit and instantly given a banana-yellow silk kaftan (long flowing robe) and a sparkling lavender headscarf. Feeling utterly ridiculous, I followed the others and sat down to sickeningly sweet tea and fresh bread.

Nobody in the village speaks anything but Moroccan derija, a form of Arabic quite different from Modern Standard Arabic, which is what I have been studying every day since I have been here. Standard Arabic is used in schools and in the news and certain television channels, which is why people in most cities, even if they can’t speak it, at least understand it. Since this tiny village has barely any television and hardly anyone goes to school, this Arabic is lost on them. Communication was extremely difficult. My Arabic was almost useless. Words like ‘why’ and ‘where’ were met with blank stares. Most of the time I was being babbled at and had no idea what they were saying to me at all. However, I was surprised at how much I did know and how much I could communicate. Anything that I write here I learned from this family through Moroccan Arabic, and I am proud of that.

My host family consisted of Matriarch Zahra and Patriarch Hussein. I saw very little of Hussein but he is a wonderful, tiny old man in a long tan robe and a white skull cap, who told me he thought of me as his daughter. Zahra is a Berber woman who had greenish zigzagged tattoos between her eyebrows and on her chin. She was always wrapped in multiple scarves and aprons and robes, and chided her children in a high, chattering voice. She asked me what to do about her toothaches, headaches and stomachaches. I told her I had no idea what the matter was, but gave her all the Ibuprofen I had brought and told her to take one when the pain was really bad.

Zahra and Hussein have six children. Three of them live elsewhere: one in Spain, one in Tangier and one in the nearby town of Boujad. The remaining three are Mohammed, 35, Fatima, 24, and Miriam, 17. Mohammed has a wife Hafida (who I later learned was his cousin, and wasn’t surprised. Almost half the village has the same last name as my family, Fayz). Mohammed and Hafida have four beautiful—if quite unkempt—little girls, Hanan, Njwah, Khadija (a complete troublemaker of 5 whom they call Khadooj and must constantly be reprimanded) and a chubby little baby named Assiya who I insist would win any cute baby contest you put her into. All in all, quite a crowd.

Khadija is the only one who goes to school, a few times a week. Hanan and Njwah, no older than 10, with missing teeth, wild hair and snot running in constant streams down their noses, spend the day in the field with the tiny herd of sheep and goats. Miriam weaves, cleans and takes the donkey to the well down the hill twice a day. I went with her once; It’s a long trek to an extremely deep and almost dry well (droughts have caused serious problems in recent years). She hurts her shoulders often, pulling up bucket after bucket, but wouldn’t let me help because just a few weeks previously an 18 year old girl had fallen into one of the wells and died. Mama Zahra spent a lot of time combing wool from the sheep and spinning it by hand on a large spool into big balls of wool, which they would then use to weave the kind of blankets I slept under each night (I slept on top of a sheepskin, with 5 or so others next to me). Hafida was constantly at work; If not behind the colossal loom weaving the hours away, she would gather wood, sweep and bake bread, all with her baby strapped to her back with a large red cloth.

Fatima was my own personal escort, an extension of my body for the week, so I am not sure what she does when I am not there. She led me by hand everywhere we went, and stood quite nearby as I went to the bathroom in the cactus patch in front of the house. Being in a place where no one really wants to bare one’s butt (those spines really look lethal), let alone without any sort of toilet paper, going to the bathroom was already unpleasant, yet doubly so while a sentry watched me all the while.

When we sat for tea Fatima would lean on me, curled up on my leg, playing with my hair, fixing my scarf. Her face would be inches away from mine. Her breath was rancid; Teeth aren’t brushed here. Her breath will haunt my dreams for a while to come. When we ate, she would rip off pieces of bread and dip them in oil and place them in front of me, all the while insisting, ‘Eat, Wynne, eat!’ while Mohammed would echo, ‘Eat, Wynne, eat well! Dip the bread well into the oil!’ One morning I woke up and she was holding my hand. All sense of privacy and personal space was erased. She was very nice and quite fun, but the attention was not easy to get used to.

As for eating, we ate bread and oil four times a day. I didn’t eat a single other type of food until the last night I was there, because that was market day, so Hussein had come back with vegetables. I reveled in the taste of those overcooked carrots. Granted, the bread was the best I have ever had. In the mornings we had bread that we would pat down into round, tortilla shapes and grill on a pan over the fire. Thrown directly from the pan into my hands, it was warm and incredible. At roughly 11 a.m. every day we built a fire in the mud oven outside, and threw in the larger loaves. I would sit in the kitchen and help Miriam weave. (She made it look so easy, but it wasn’t). Hafida would bring me a chunk of the bread straight from the fire, still steaming. The freshness of the bread was overwhelming. The oil was olive, and as I sat by the table I could look out the window and see the waving branches of the tree it came from.

In the afternoons I would meet up with the other American kids and we would work on projects like painting, association building, planting olive trees and repairing wells (to prevent accidents like the recent tragedy).

One day we hiked over the hills and through valleys and forests, on no path I could see, to another tiny village where we had lunch (bread and oil. Surprise, surprise). The subsequent question and answer session with the village women, facilitated by my academic director, was magical. We sat crowded on the floor of a tiny room with these beautiful women ranging from tiny, old and wrinkly, to young and sparkling with babies strapped on their backs. They asked us questions and we asked them questions, about life and work and changing times.

In the evenings we would drink tea and I would be stared at by a row of wide-eyed girls. We talked about life in the village and life in America. It was quite a new thing to me to be around people who have never gone to school, cannot read or write and have never  left the village. Fatima had no idea where Spain was (even though her brother lives there), and had no sense of distance. To her, America, Italy, and Rabat were all the same distance away. Besides Italy and Spain, she really did not know about other countries. Those places are only where brothers and sons of people in the village have gone for work.

Mohammed asked me once, ‘How many languages are there in the world, 20?’ Equally interesting was fielding questions like, ‘Do you have looms in America?’ or, ‘Does your mom take the donkey to the market?’ I tried to explain that we don’t bake bread in our houses in America, don’t go to a well, don’t own cows and sheep and donkeys.

I really do wonder what impression of America they got from me. Seeing that Fatima has never even been anywhere with paved roads, I don’t think it was easy for her to imagine it. She wanted to come with me back to America. She told me she baked really good bread, and could make it everyday for my mother. When I asked her why, she said it was because there wasn’t any money in the village, and that is the truth. The drought has ruined everything there, and the dead-end feeling of life seeped into me all the time. How could I make her understand that there are no clay ovens for her to build fires in Barrington, Rhode Island? How do I tell her that my mom does not need someone to wash her clothes? Or that she couldn’t go to America because it’s illegal?

At times I hated how I was in the village for a romantic, rugged experience, how I thought village life was so beautiful and simple and sustainable. I don’t want these types of villages to disappear, but I certainly don’t want to live my life in one, either. So who am I to think it’s sad when they all want to move away in search of money? (Fatima really wanted earrings). The ‘village stay’ was created to give us American students an experience, and to learn. Yet the trip has forced me to consider how much thought was given to what the village would take from our presence, how we disrupted things for a week or for much longer. These people had never, ever conversed with Americans before.

One evening as it was getting dark I brought out some Crayola markers and ripped a few pages from my journal. The little girls wrote a few letters that they had learned in their single year of school, and it was surreal hearing them teach the sounds to their father. Mohammed seemed to enjoy the markers most, meticulously drawing ducks and abstract pictures with dots. He had most of the markers in his hands when his five-year-old daughter asked for red. He said ‘No, wait, wait’ and continued to draw with painstaking concentration.

I left my host family with a few pairs of my woolen socks they had been admiring and a Boston Red Sox t-shirt. I plan to send them a package with some earrings for Fatima, the pictures they took and some cooking utensils.

 

Wynne McAuley is a senior Economics major. She can be reached at wmcauley@oxy.edu.

Stranger in a Strange Land

By Erik Quezada ‘09

“It’s OK, you look Indian!” My mother keeps repeating that phrase to make me feel more at home in a country that feels so foreign. I will be in India for a little more than four months on what will be the longest time I have ever been outside of the United States. My friends and family will miss me, and I will miss them. But as I am getting to know my adopted country for the next four months, I anticipate quite an adventure.

This experience is something incredibly new to me. I have visited and lived in Mexico, which is similar to India in terms of infrastructure and appearance. But in my personal experience, I have never been to a country that is so different. India is a country of extremes. I have seen extreme poverty and extreme wealth. It’s both beautiful and ugly. Cruel and kind. Brilliant and, at times, illogical.

My introduction to India took place on the roads. I quickly learned might has right and the common pedestrian is at the bottom of this hierarchical food chain. Walkers jump out of the way of the bicycle rickshaws, which give way to auto rickshaws, which yield to cars, which then submit to vans and trucks that then defer to buses and huge tractor-trailers. There is only one thing that can stop a huge tractor-trailer dead in its tracks: the cow. This inconspicuous bovine is all-powerful on the highways of India, so much so that if commuters were to accidentally hit it, offenders are automatically sentenced to seven years in prison.   

But the one thing that is always constant here in India is my home-stay, my new adopted family. Auntie-ji and Uncle-ji. Their hospitality knows no bounds. Upon meeting them, my roommate and I were greeted with hugs and a spectacular meal. In India, a guest is to be treated like a god. A guest is a member of the family. It is a very comforting atmosphere and I always feel at home, like one of their grandchildren or even their own child.

I have learned that India is somewhat romanticized as Edward Said writes in Orientalism. It has been represented as being full of mystical and unique religions to discover, almost as if that’s all it has to offer to the rest of the world. But India is so much more. It’s not snake charmers and swamis and street performers. Rather, India is a rapidly developing country. And with such monumental steps such as the nuclear deal between India and the US, India is now a world power to be reckoned with.

One of the issues I have noticed with India is its inability to efficiently distribute aid to the people who really need it, a crippling fact in a country that has a growth rate between 6-8% per annum. And with over a billion people living in India, it is slated to overtake China in population by the year 2032. There is no question about it: India is rising in the world. Anything it does to alleviate its impoverished citizens has to be done carefully, and in a widespread manner. India moves slowly, but what is wrong with that? While other countries are eager to open up its markets for foreign investment, India stands strong and firm by taking a more cautious approach.

The fact that I look remotely Indian is a blessing, although Indians constantly come to me speaking in Hindi. All I can do is shrug and walk away. I am learning the language, however, and it is not as foreign to me as I once thought it was. I can now read the Nagari script, even though I may not understand the meaning.

 

Erik Quezada is a senior Diplomacy and World Affairs major. He can be reached at equezada@oxy.edu. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Belfast, Identity and Vanishing Murals

by: Linda Lyke, Professor of Art and her daughter,Grainne Godfree, Graduate student Columbia University

This past July, I was invited to the Belfast Printmaking Workshop in Northern Ireland as a visiting artist. Belfast – the city’s recent history that conjures up grainy images of brick throwing rioters, burning buses, and bullet-ridden pubs – was to be my home for two weeks. Before the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, Catholic and Protestant neighbors had spent 39 years mired in internecine warfare. The Troubles started as a civil rights movement by the Catholic minority in Northern Ireland but quickly descended into a bloody struggle between paramilitary forces. The Catholic IRA fought for equal rights and many desired unification with the South. The UVF defended Protestant supremacy and the union with England. Last year, as the peace treaty held, British “peacekeeping” troops finally left Northern Ireland. Catholics had won equal rights and a powerful political voice. The Protestants had kept their place in the United Kingdom. As watchtowers were dismantled and tourists were welcomed, it seemed the Troubles were finally over.
When I first arrived, Belfast’s violent history seemed nothing more than a distant, if somewhat exciting, memory. The Irish printmakers awed me with their generous hospitality. I was busy every day in the studio and every night with pub crawls, art openings, and family dinners. Friendships develop quickly over a shared cup of tea or a pint of Guinness. (The Irish take their tea and Guinness seriously!) Sights included Trinity College, the homes of C.S. Lewis and Van Morrison, the docks where the Titanic was built, and the Europa Hotel, which has the dubious distinction of being the most bombed hotel in the world. As a visual artist, I was particularly excited to see the political murals in the Catholic and Protestant estates.
During my second week, Belfast’s bloody past and uneasy future became a solemn reality. As I walked to the print shop early in the morning, I passed a huge smoking stack of wooden ballasts. People were staring at the burning heap in dismay. I asked around and learned that Protestant Unionists were gearing up to celebrate the Battle of the Boyne on July 12th – which commemorates the victory of the Protestant, British King William III over Ireland in 1690. On the night before July 12th, Protestants light huge bonfires around the city. A Catholic friend described the night as “a fascist demonstration by Unionist psychos.” My cabbie told me “it was a lovely celebration for the whole family.” Regardless of your religious leaning, the facts remain as follows. The bonfires, built months in advance, are often topped with burning effigies of the pope and the Tricolor flag of Ireland (although Belfast City Council gives grants to dissuade such affronts.) During the days leading up to the 12th, young boys guard the towering structures to prevent Catholics from lighting the bonfires early. The smoking stack I walked by was the result of such a midnight attack.

The tension between Catholics and Protestants continues muted, but ever present. Catholics still remember a time when the electoral system, educational opportunities and access to housing were designed to keep them out of power. The Protestants, like the Israelis, fear that without vigilance their country will cease to exist. Yet despite these grievances, it seemed like Catholics and Protestants were remarkably similar. The capital of Northern Ireland is tiny with only 300,000 residents (compared to Los Angeles’s 3.8 million.) You can easily walk around Belfast in a day. And, completely at odds with my own experience in a diverse city, Protestants and Catholics all look alike, speak the same language, and are nominally Christian. I wondered how Protestants and Catholics retained their separate identities, magnifying their differences to become more important than their similarities. Aggressively exclusive traditions like Bonfire Night and the July marching season enable Protestants to remain insular. (Many Catholics take their summer holiday during this time.) More interesting for me, as a visual artist, was the way that the murals throughout Belfast constructed separate Catholic and Protestant identities.

The Catholic artery of Belfast is Falls Road. An artist friend of mine Robin Cordiner, took me on a tour of the neighborhood one rainy afternoon. Immense, colorful murals decorate the walls and gable-end houses. Many of these murals orientate Catholic Republicans with a global leftist movement. They lambaste Bush, memorialize Ché, and proclaim support for the Palestinians. For the most part, I would say the artists are self-trained, their figures lacking dimension. But this in no way robs the murals of their expressive power. Many murals also portray uniquely Republican heroes, such as the hunger-striker Bobby Sands or the fighters of the 1916 Easter Rising. The murals contribute to the sense of a shared history and help construct a unified Catholic Republican identity.

If you travel up Falls Road, you enter the Unionist areas along Shankill Road and Sandy Row. The change is immediately visible. Union Jack flags hang across the streets. The curbs are painted blue. The murals here are remarkably different than their Republican
counterparts. Protestants draw heavily on their military past for inspiration. In both WWI and WWII, when many Republicans were refusing to fight for the Crown, Unionists were dying in the trenches and the battlefields. They brought back this militarism to Northern Ireland and are extraordinarily proud of their past sacrifice. Robyn explained the trick to spotting a Protestant mural, “If there’s a balaclava, it’s Protestant.” The black clad figures, carrying machine guns, are strangely incongruous with the ordinary folk strolling past. A contingent of Belfast denizens want to move away from the paramilitary murals. In 2006, the Belfast City Council announced the £3.3 million “Re-imaging Communities Program.” This three-year push aims to “help all communities in urban and rural areas tackle the visible signs of sectarianism and racism and to create a welcoming environment for everyone.” Neutral images like those of football star George Best have replaced some of the most incendiary murals, (including those that canonized convicted murderers like Johnny Adair.) Although it seems a bit like trying to erase history, and robs the town of a certain sadistic tourist appeal, I would rather have children emulate footballers than armed thugs. I asked another printmaker what he thought of the City Council’s move to re-paint paramilitary murals. He shook his head, “Oh don’t ask me. I’m not a reliable prod. I’m a gay artist who talks funny, walks funny.” Monolith identity is always an illusion.

Robyn was generally supportive of the City Council’s program. “On the whole the paramilitary imagery is only being removed from sites that are on main arterial routes around the city so the more adventurous tourist will have to delve deep into the housing estates to see the real deal.” Because of efforts to create a more inclusive environment,
Robyn was paid to create murals for a public park. He decided to print (rather than paint) images of fairies out of deference to the large fairy tree in the park. In Irish folklore, fairy trees act as a gateway between the two worlds. Irish fairies are fierce creatures who
exact swift revenge on anyone who ill-treats their trees. Apparently, the vicar in the church behind the park left his post due to the stress of burying so many people that had harmed the tree. Despite the park’s dark history, wee children love to play in its lush garden. Robyn’s views on the Troubles seem to be fairly indicative of mainstream Protestant attitudes. Vehemently against the sectarian violence, Robyn still wants Northern Ireland to remain part of the United Kingdom. When my daughter asked him why he wasn’t in favor of unification with the South, he replied, “My government is in London, my flag is the Union Jack, I use the sterling.” Skeptically, she nodded. Later she whispered to me, “Dude, he’s Irish.”

The murals of Belfast are a visual phenomenon well worth the trip. (A tourist can catch a bus from City Hall or hire a black cab for a more detailed tour.) One of the reasons the Belfast murals have emerged is simply the architecture of the city. Without the flat, gable-end houses, there would be no space for their display. The fact that paramilitary groups fund and protect the murals is another reason for their staying power. In Los Angeles, such street art would immediately be tagged or plastered with advertisements. Throughout the Troubles, the raw expressive power of the murals was used to create distinct Republican and Unionist identities. In Northern Ireland’s new dawn, murals are also being created to foster a more inclusive identity. Sport stars and Celtic folklore offer colorful breaks from urban sprawl. As I took a last glance at Robyn’s fairy park, I thought of the ways that art can act as a healing salve. It’s going to take more than the re-painting of paramilitary murals to ease tension, but perhaps it’s a start.

Living in Paradise? Eco-Tourism in Nicaragua

 

By Brian Damron ‘08 

“AguaAguaAgua?” The young boy selling drinks in my bus at the Israel Lewites market in Managua, Nicaragua hawked his product so rapidly it seemed to be a single word. “Agua señor?” he asked me, interrupting my preoccupied thoughts for a moment. I motioned him away, lost in my own worries about my fast approaching journey. I had been too nervous to speak to anyone other than the young lady behind me to confirm that I was on the correct bus.

Although Managua, the capital of the Nicaragua, has several western-style supermarkets, almost all of the commerce in the city happens informally. Mercado Israel Lewites is just one of many large open air markets where one can buy nail polish, hammocks, and even armadillos ready to take home and cook. Usually I avoided the markets at all cost, because a single “gringo”, as I was often called, is an easy mark for pickpockets and less than honest entrepreneurs. Despite my reluctance to visit the markets, I found myself at Mercado Israel early one morning last April in search of transportation. 

Every market in Managua is home to a bus terminal. The buses are usually tricked-out yellow school buses bought from U.S. school districts, forming an ad hoc system that connects the entire Pacific coast of Nicaragua. These “chicken buses” (so called because of the high proportion of rural folk who use them due to their relative affordability and willingness to carry any kind of goods) are a cheap and more or less effective means of travel in the second poorest country in the Western hemisphere. Each time I asked if my bus was the one to Villa El Carmen, the person I spoke to gave me a smile and nod, which did little to quell my uneasiness.

As part of my semester abroad with the School for International Training, I was allotted $650 dollars to conduct a month long independent study project on a subject of my choosing. While my friends in the program had chosen serious academic subjects of inquiry such as the process of landmine removal in the post-war country or the role of domestic violence in Nicaraguan society, I had made plans to study tourism at a surf resort. Although this may sound easy, not to mention a bit luxurious, it did not change the fact that I was traveling by myself for the first time with more money in cash than the majority of Nicaraguans make in a year. I turned around in my seat to face the lady behind me once again. “This is the bus that might carry oneself to Villa El Carmen, yes?” I asked in my slow and far from conversational Spanish. This time she laughed. “Good grief,” I thought.

After a few awkward minutes the bus started and slowly made its way out of the market. It would occasionally stop to let vendors on and off who sold items as varied as pizza, mango juice, and an ointment unconvincingly solicited to cure malaria and back pain. Finally, after all the hangers-on had disembarked at their destinations, the driver declared our bus was “Jesus Christ Our Lord” and accelerated into the chaos of central Managua. Where exactly we were, an outsider could only guess, but I hoped we would soon come to the Masachapa highway.

The reason for my disorientation was quite simple; the streets in Managua have no names. In 1972 a massive earthquake leveled the city and plans to rebuild were never put into effect. Shantytowns sprang up all over the city, the forerunners of its current slums, and little thought was given to street signs. The majority of the foreign aid that was invested in the country went to the Somoza dictatorship or into the bank accounts of its cronies. If I wanted to go to the Institute of Tourism, for example, I was told that I needed to go two blocks south of where the old cinema used to be. Thus, it is quite easy to get lost in the city if you do not know your way around. I turned in my seat one last time. My neighbor glared and shouted, “Yes! I’ll tell you when we are there!” Silenced, I resolved to take in the countryside as we drove south, hoping to get a glimpse of the ocean and praying I was on the right bus.

Situated between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, Nicaragua is a land of disparate and unique environments. Known as the land of lakes and volcanoes, one has the opportunity to climb any of its five volcanoes or swim in Lake Cocibolca, home to the only freshwater shark in the world. The humid jungles of the Northern and Southern Autonomous Regions, once hot beds of Contra activity during the 1980s civil war, are now homes only to a diverse array of creatures. An ecologists’ dream, many of these birds, frogs, and insects have yet to be classified. San Juan del Sur, an increasingly popular tourist destination and cheap alternative to the neighboring economic success of Costa Rica, reminded me of the Mediterranean climate of Southern California. Earlier in my stay, I had ventured north of Managua to the coffee and tobacco growing center of Estelí, where I walked through a cloud forest in a nature reserve and stayed with a community-based tourist outfit owned and operated by an organic farmer. INTUR, the Institute of Tourism, knows that the country possesses a wealth of resources to be developed for the national benefit, and perhaps none is more lucrative than what it calls the “Beach and Sun” sector.

For a country in desperate need of foreign investment and a diversification of its industries, the development of tourism seems like a silver bullet. Tourists bring much needed cash inflows, and could provide a plethora of new jobs to a country that suffers from chronic unemployment and underemployment. On the other hand, there exists a risk that foreign-held multinationals could take over the industry, and fail to reinvest the profits in the infrastructure the country requires to expand. Also, if the natural beauty that makes Nicaragua a tourist destination is abused or neglected, the industry could fail, adding to the country’s economic woes. It was with these questions in mind that I proposed to study alternative tourism as a means of sustainable development at Los Cardones Surf Lodge.

At kilometer marker forty-nine on the Masachapa highway in the municipality of Villa El Carmen lays the sleepy hamlet of California. Made up of a few houses constructed of rough-hewn planks and corrugated tin, there is little that distinguishes California from the surrounding forests. As I disembarked my bus, the “Jesus Christ Our Lord”, I waved goodbye and took stock of my situation, realizing I had no plan to cover the fifteen kilometers that separate California and the sea. My salvation came in the form of a beat up Jeep driven by two magnanimous Portuguese surfers who lived in neighboring San Diego.

I hiked the last few miles to the lodge through tall grasses and oak trees, smiling from ear to ear when I at last heard the roar of the ocean. Chris and Tina, the managers of the lodge and my project advisors welcomed me with open arms and were as excited for my study as I was. Tina showed me to my spacious room with a soft bed covered in mosquito netting, where I would spend my first night. I planned to live with a family in the neighboring community of El Zapote, but my home stay sister Mercedes, who works as a waitress at the lodge, had the night off. Over a dinner of red snapper and local greens my advisors gave me the basic history of the lodge.

Six years earlier the owners and creators Isaac and Anne-Laure Sitton, both marine biologists and avid Florida surfers, moved to a deserted Nicaraguan beach and bought 92 acres of oceanfront property and began constructing a home and bungalow. Over the years, using only local labor and all natural construction materials, they have expanded to five bungalows. Nonetheless, at full capacity the lodge houses only 19 guests. Using only solar energy and hand-pumped well water, the lodge is a model of environmental low-impact use and conservation. Though this is an integral part of a sustainable tourist enterprise, I was primarily interested in the impact it was having on the local community and economy.

And so it was that on my second day at Los Cardones and last month in Nicaragua I began my real education about the country and people I had come to learn from. Mercedes Bonilla-Gutierrez came in the afternoon with her best friend Julia and their bicycles, and sitting on her friend’s crossbar, the three of us pedaled down the sandy coast and through the sugar cane fields to El Zapote. Señora Bonilla was waiting for me, unsure of what the only gringo to ever visit the village would think of her home. Of course, she proved to be the most hospitable woman I have ever encountered and the home was cozy enough. 

Señor Gutierrez and Señora Bonilla have two daughters and three sons. Sofia, the oldest, works in a free trade zone in Managua, which is more accurately described as a sweatshop. Free trade zones have multiplied in the two years since the signing of the Central American Free Trade Agreement, and are touted by the International Monetary Fund and World Bank as key planks in the development of the nation. Human rights observers view them as dubious advancements where workers contend with inhumane conditions and are prevented from forming labor unions. 

One evening I read a letter from Sofia to Señora Bonilla (Tonia to everyone except for me). It was then that I discovered that despite her role as a community leader and prominent local supporter of the Liberal Party, Tonia was illiterate. In the letter, Sofia told her family that she had lost her job, and was asking for support so that she would not be kicked out of her small dwelling in the capitol’s slums. I still do not know what became of her.

Sofia’s two children, Juan and Betsy, live with the family in El Zapote. A teachers’ strike prevented them from attending classes at the local school. During conversations with Tonia, who I came to refer to as Mama due to our increasing closeness, I learned that all of the teachers lived in California, which is at least twenty kilometers away via a network of atrocious dirt roads. During the rainy season the roads become swaths of mud and passage by bicycle is impossible. Most of the teachers have to walk both ways each day to give the children a chance at an education and hopefully a better life.

Señor Gutierrez and his two elder sons work most of the year in the sugar cane fields that surround the village. In the mornings they leave the house in the pre-dawn hours and return home before sunset. Though the work is strenuous labor, workers are paid only US$25 every two weeks. Staff members at Los Cardones explained that if they did not have a much better paying job at the lodge they would probably not be able to make ends meet cutting and planting cane. No one in El Zapote is prospering and children with stomachs distended by malnutrition play in barren dirt yards. Mangoes, fish, and shellfish from the nearby ocean and corn planted during the off-season make up the majority of the local diet.

Apart from the sad realities of life, El Zapote is situated in an Eden like physical environment that is absolutely gorgeous. One evening when the tide was up Mercedes and I walked down the beach with our bicycles. On our way home the setting sun painted a masterpiece over the Pacific. As we left the beach and made our way through the forest that borders the sugar cane, I commented that Mercedes was lucky to live in such a beautiful country. A paradise is how I described it. Mercedes stopped her bike, cocked her head, and in a tone of genuine inquisitiveness asked me, “How can this be paradise?” In her reaction I felt my research, my incubating theories of tourism and development and social justice, washing out to sea. 

It is rather easy to fall in love with Nicaragua. The people are some of the most honest and hospitable I have met. As I rode my bike out of the yard on my last morning in El Zapote, Tonia wiped her eyes on her apron and bid me return soon. On the dirt paths old men tipped their hats to me from oxen carts laden with cane; a security guard returning from the lodge stopped me and shook my hand, wishing me well in all my journeys. Nonetheless, I’m sure the residents of this village would gladly trade their slow paced country lives and tight-knit community for electricity, schools for their children, good roads that lead to clinics, and a job with a living wage. Am I the one, as Mercedes would have me believe, that really lives in the paradise of the North?

The answer to this question still eludes me. On one hand, I miss the simplistic life of the Bonilla-Gutierrez family, and treasure the memories of sitting under the star-lit sky laughing with a family that takes care of itself and is full of love. On the other, I give thanks that I have been blessed to live in a nation where the vast majority of people live in relative prosperity. Perhaps paradise is somewhere in the middle. Perhaps it is really a utopia, an idea, by which we can understand this world’s shortcomings and are capable of imagining, hoping to make real.

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