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.

A Unionist mural depicts the terrors of the riots of 1969. August 1969 is considered the start of 'The Troubles.'

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.

A mural dedicated to Bobby Sands, member of the Irish Republican Army who died on hunger strike while in prison.

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.

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.

Stephen Kinzer did not like the lectern. Occasionally he would lean against it, casually, as if relating a story among friends, but mostly he walked around, away from, to the side of it – anywhere but neatly in front of it. Similarly, his hands didn’t want to stay still either, gesturing to the sunny outside world as part of a point about journalism, miming gun-shots while telling an anecdote from his time as a foreign correspondent, twirling near his head to demonstrate American policymakers’ mental cogs slowly turning. Instead of delivering a prepared speech, he spoke energetically and extemporaneously to the assembled Oxy students as part of an engaging addition to this semester’s Diplomacy and World Affairslecture series.

In contrast to the lively, staccato nature of his delivery, though, his arguments and stories counselled, above all, patience and thoughtfulness. Threaded through tales from his career was an emphasis on the need to take the long, historical view of world events, viewing and engaging other countries with empathy, commitment and honest interest. Kinzer related what he had learned from his professor, Howard Zinn as a student – history is not static, but an ever-changing narrative, as much about who we are now as what was happening then.

He took this engaged and questioning approach into his career as an aspirant foreign correspondent, seeking the untold story by travelling to Central America before Sandinistas, civil wars and the policies of Ronald Reagan made that region front-page material. His genuine interest paid off – soon the New York Times recruited him as one of only two journalists in the country with the requisite familiarity, for their new Central American bureau.

He advised the audience to act along these lines when thinking about their futures – find a gap where people aren’t telling the interesting story. Never believe the newspaper you’re reading has a monopoly on what’s important or useful – go out and find it. Posted to Europe after Central America, he ultimately decided the Times needed an Istanbul bureau. Rather than accepting the current list, and he duly pushed to get one opened. From this vantage point he related covering the ex-Soviet states such as Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan, and even reaching beyond his remit to develop an interest in Iran, about which he would eventually write All the Shah’s Men, on the American and British sponsored-coup of 1953.

In explaining how he covered all these places, Kinzer emphasised his passion for taking the historical view – his favourite question always being “how did this country get this way?”. Answering questions both on policy and getting to understand Iran and other countries, he returned time and again to the theme of context and empathy – highlighting the importance of Pakistan’s historical anxiety about India in answering today’s policy questions and explaining the links between Iran’s nuclear ambitions and their thwarted bid to nationalise the oil industry in 1953. On today’s major policy dilemmas, he was optimistic about the democracy movement in Iran, suggesting Iran as a future major American ally, and insistent that American policy could and should be thoughtful and historically informed.

Tellingly, he explained that he avoided trying to learn about countries he visited from US diplomats – America, he said, always has an agenda for the country its in – a script to stick to.  This kind of short-term strategic thinking about the rest of the world clearly isn’t Kinzer’s style. As well as pointing out the problems this approach has caused us over the years, he explained that it’s no fun, either. The talk, and discussion afterwards, was a welcome and passionate argument for considering other peoples not merely in relation to their value for American interests, but as ends in themselves – for viewing other countries with the novel and the conversation as guiding constellations, not the CIA World fact book.

The talk was an invigorating survey as well as something of a gift to the anxious senior. Kinzer called for asking questions, getting interested – for sincere curiosity and simple questions. One sensed a man who views the world as not a scary place awaiting the graduating student, but somewhere filled with interest and detail and surprise.

Stephen Kinzer is a veteran New York Times foreign correspondent who has written extensively on foreign policy and history, covering US-sponsored coups in Guatemala and elsewhere, the rebuilding of Rwanda after the genocide, the Iranian coup in 1953, and the war in Nicaragua. His forthcoming book is ‘Reset: Iran, Turkey, and America’s Future’.

Olivia O’Sullivan is a recent graduate of Cambridge University. She is currently studying at Occidental College through a scholarship Pembroke College at Cambridge University. She can be contacted at osullivan@oxy.edu.

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.

This apartment complex features solar panels, a common sight in Freiburg.

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.

This advertisement reads: "Parking place in the Glass Garage for sale! Instead of 23,780 Euros, 19,900 Euros!"

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.

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.

Baiterek Tower

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

Oxy hosts few speakers in Thorne Hall like Reza Aslan, and that isn’t without reason. There are few speakers out there who are regulars on Jon Stewart’s The Daily Show (let alone six appearances), few speakers who might call on a member of the audience using the epithet “that dude” (and keep a straight face), and few speakers with titles and publications as varied and extensive as his (degrees from Santa Clara to Harvard, two books, and numerous articles published online and in print). Perhaps it is simpler and more appropriate to say that there are few people out there like Reza Aslan, period.

Photo: Marc Campos, Occidental College

Aslan made a return visit to Occidental’s campus on October 6 as part of the First Tuesday Speaker Series. With his two books—No God but God and more recently, How to Win a Cosmic War—as a backdrop, the journalist, professor, and scholar spoke about the perils of generalizing in the Middle East, the decisions to be made in Afghanistan, and how Oxy’s most famous alumnus, President Obama, is faring as commander-in-chief.

Perhaps Aslan’s most crucial take-home message for concerned citizens and decision makers alike was the oft-neglected choice to distinguish the truly incorrigible enemy in the Middle Ease from those who simply don’t like us around. Central to his argument was the difference between Islamism and Jihadism and the willingness to see the vast gulf between the two ideologies. Islamism, on the one hand, is a form of ethnic nationalism—an effort to instill in the state the spirit and law of Islam. For those reasons, Islamism is not unlike the Zionism that resulted in the creation of the state of Israel, though the two are rarely compared. An Islamist’s interest in politically concrete goals—that is, an Islamic state—makes him a candidate for dialogue, said Aslan. The proof is in the pudding, he went on, as historically, when Islamist groups like Hamas have been invited to the “marketplace of ideas,” they have inevitably moderated.

Aslan’s contrasting category includes the Jihadists, those for whom a state is “anathema” and the goal, as opposed to that of the Islamists, is a utopian, Islamic world without borders or limits. According to Reza Aslan, these groups “want nothing and cannot be dealt with.” For that reason, he suggested, they must only be destroyed.

With that clear distinction in mind as a “necessary prelude,” Aslan turned to Afghanistan. Like with his previous topic, Aslan asserted that the discussion of Afghanistan requires the establishment of some basic facts. For one, the Taliban is not a uniform entity: its original followers were, as the translated name implies, students. Today these Taliban are present in Afghanistan and ultra-conservative. They are not, however, interested in fighting, as Aslan might call it, a “cosmic war” with the West. Instead, “thugs, crooks, and thieves” have brandished weapons all over Afghanistan calling themselves Taliban. The distinction, muddled as it is, is one we have to see. Only five percent of Taliban have gone the way of Jihadism. That sliver, while dominating American television, is the minority. The question then becomes what to do with the Islamist majority.

The simple answer is, don’t make them jihadists.

And how do we do that? Albeit hard for an American to digest, Aslan’s response: don’t “trample” on Islamist aspirations; invite them to a place in Afghani government. Our victory in Afghanistan might look as feeble as a stable Kabul with modest clout beyond its city limits.

These very difficult policy decisions face Obama squarely, and Aslan didn’t shy away from levying judgment on the President’s record so far. There were, no doubt, moments when Aslan’s support seemed unabashed. But he did not leave his enthusiasm unsubstantiated. Aslan praised the President for his speeches in Cairo and Istanbul; he lauded Obama’s choice to eliminate the phrase “War on Terror” from his rhetorical vocabulary and to describe Israeli settlement action as “occupation;” he even went so far as saying that Obama has already begun to “change the fabric of the relationship” between the United States and the Islamic world.

But that’s not to say Aslan’s comments fit to a T the usual pattern of left- and right-wing criticism. In fact, amid the bits of disapproval of the President’s choices was—albeit finite—some commendation of the second Bush administration. Aslan asserted that Bush’s call for democracy in the Middle East, while implemented incorrectly, was praiseworthy. The people on the ground in Afghanistan and Iraq and elsewhere, the scholar said, do in fact want a voice through democracy.

So Aslan’s talk was not always conventional. Above all, it was clear that he is not an archetypical scholar. For having written two books, he is not bookish. For having appeared with Jon Stewart, he is no clown. Aslan seemed, by and large, both pragmatic in policy and relaxed in manner. There was a sense of urgency and action in his prescriptions, of passion and dedication. But beside that devotion to study was the bigger-picture, laid-back demeanor that made him a Californian. And perhaps that facility in both dimensions is what makes Aslan unique and emblematic for the liberal arts aspirations espoused by Occidental College.

It could be said that in 2002, the Islamic Republic of Iran and the Scandinavian country of Norway had one very unlikely characteristic in common: they were both led by clergymen. Or at least so went the humor of then President Mohammad Khatami of Iran and Prime Minister Kjell Magne Bondevik of Norway. On October 1, Prime Minister Bondevik visited Occidental College as the second speaker in the Diplomacy and World Affairs Brown Bag Series.

* * *

Photo: Marc Campos, Occidental College

Since the departure of one Mr. Obama three decades ago, the Oxy community has welcomed to its campus its fair share of world leaders. Kjell Magne Bondevik, former Prime Minister of Norway, president and founder of the Oslo Center for Peace and Human rights, was its most recent. He and a small entourage converged on Johnson Hall on the first day of October where he discussed, among other things, Norway as a model country, his time in office, the Oslo Center and its work, and perhaps the most crucial conflict resolution stone so often left unturned, dialogue.

After leaving a long career in government in 2005, Prime Minister Bondevik founded his Oslo Center. In order to achieve the goals it sets, the organization groups its action into three “core pillars.” To deal with situations like those in Burma and North Korea, the Oslo Center employs its Human Rights division. When faced with issues of young nations, the Democracy arm of the Oslo Center works with an eye for coalition building. But of particular note for Bondevik is the third “pillar” into which his organization is involved, Dialogue, with considerable investment in interreligious discourse.

For the context in which interreligious dialogue plays a central part is a contemporary global political climate marked by religiopolitical tensions and the effort to combat extremism. However unpredicted the renewed focus on religion in national and international politics may be, the potential conflict resulting from a conflict between the Western and Islamic worlds does, as Bondevik firmly asserted, compel those involved to choose the path of dialogue, not division.

The Prime Minister’s emphasis on religion is not altogether surprising; he is an ordained minister in the Lutheran Church. And his philosophy is astoundingly simple, the sort of synthesis only a clergyman-politician could make without hesitation. One on hand, religion and politics, he says, must remain distinct; they should not bleed together. Yet on the other, said the Prime Minister, we “cannot leave behind religion when going to work.”

With the topic of religion forming the background to much of his discussion, Kjell Bondevik covered issues from Islamic immigration into Europe to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to the cartoon of Mohammad that set tempers and Danish flags aflame across the Muslim world. His comments were refreshing and genuine, realized both in study and in practice. The level of investment in his cause was clear.

* * *

Prime Minister Bondevik is only the most recent featured speaker in the Brown Bag Series. Among those previously hosted are prominent journalists, scholars, and politicians. The next Brown Bag event will take place on October 12, featuring the chief foreign affairs correspondent of the Wall Street Journal, Jay Solomon.

In September of 2008, the already palatial halls of the Federal Reserve Building in New York City were undergoing renovation. The building that stood as a monument to the nation’s wealth and financial power had literal roots leagues beneath its floors: in vaults deep below lay hundreds of billions of dollars in gold—much not our own—a not-so-subtle reminder of the building’s significance. The Fed, though, isn’t alone in its prominence. Add this structure to the dozens of skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, and it becomes clear that the American financial system in September of 2008 wasn’t just dawdling along. It wasn’t simply making ends meet. No, the American financial system was the best in the world.

“Not!” said David Wessel, economic editor of the Wall Street Journal, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, and author of the new book, In Fed We Trust: Ben Bernanke’s War on the Great Panic. The crowded Fowler classroom chuckled. One can say retrospectively that the above assertion of the strength of the American financial system should, at the very least, carry a prominent asterisk. More appropriate, though, would be Wessel’s thorough explanation to the eager group. In much the same way that his book makes the events of September 2008 more accessible, David Wessel, the first speaker this year in the DWA department’s Brown Bag series, visited Oxy and shed light on some of the characters and characteristics of the greatest economic crisis in decades.

Wessel’s brisk negation was not a simple statement of disapproval or cynicism, or even just a clever way to garner laughs. Rather, it was a legitimate reflection of the speed at which the highest tiers of American banking, government, and media came to know the shadowy vulnerabilities of the financial sector. The failure of Lehman Brothers in mid-September 2008 shook to the core those who believed in eternal American prosperity (at least on Wall Street). The “too big to fail” paradigm suddenly held no water. But instead of some torrent as a result, the stream of credit dried up, and the so-called Great Panic ensued.

The subtitle of Wessel’s book, “Ben Bernanke’s War on the Great Panic,” captures the work’s more lengthy analysis of the Fed chairman’s attempts to open those frozen valves once again and return life to the struggling economy. Among his journalistic critiques, there is genuine admiration for the work of the academic who ran the Fed through trying times under the mantra of “whatever it takes,” and who today remains at the helm of one of the most controversial arms of American government thanks to, in Wessel’s words to the Oxy community, an “innovative and gutsy” style.

Those who attended the Brown Bag event also heard Mr. Wessel’s take on what is sometimes referred to as the “fourth branch of government,” the Federal Reserve. Key to the controversy is the very nature of the Fed: run by very few unelected individuals, many of whom share a common company background, the Fed handles vast sums of American taxpayer money in an arguably extrademocratic way. The American president, even, has far greater barriers to the same actions taken by Bernanke in 2008. But regardless of the institution’s political repute, Wessel insisted that Bernanke’s use of the Fed’s tools prevented a crisis that might have rivaled or exceeded the legacy of the Great Depression.

But the journalist cautioned the audience against imagining the Fed’s work to be over. In fact, Wessel outlined three major challenges Ben Bernanke will face in the coming months. Casting a shadow over any actual monetary policy to be made, the widespread public suspicion of the Fed will prove an obstacle to any Bernanke action. That action, though, will be crucial, and its timing both delicate and pivotal. The Fed chairman will have to make two serious policy decisions. He will first have to decide when to raise interest rates from their near zero level. Then, he faces the question of when to begin pulling back some of the more than $2 trillion in credit the Fed has currently lent. According to David Wessel, either decision has potentially grave consequences. Perhaps his next book will serve as a conclusion to a particularly critical period in American history.

* * *

David Wessel represents the kind of thoughtful and articulate guest speaker characteristic of the Brown Bag series, a guest who brings pertinent and practical analysis to the Occidental College campus. In addition to writers studying contemporary issues, the Brown Bag series has hosted writers and non-writers alike, each of whom shares work that is relevant, distinguished, and applicable to Oxy’s DWA department and the Oxy community as a whole. The next Brown Bag event will take place on October 1, featuring the former Prime Minister of Norway and founder of the Oslo Center for Peace and Human Rights, Kjell Magne Bondevik.

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.

By Kera Bartlett ‘09

Lines of hundreds of portapotties could be seen in all directions, along with little green and blue huts with white roofs standing at attention. First aid and security tents were being erected on the grass and the distant sirens of a motorcade could be heard across the Mall. The wind that whipped around the Washington Monument was devastatingly cold, leaving my face frozen and a static overtone on the home video I was recording. It was three days before the Inauguration and I stood directly under the giant white obelisk looking towards the Capital dome in the distance, trying to imagine the million people that would soon fill the space. I walked around and looked back at the Lincoln Memorial and the reflecting pool, imagining this space being filled with hundreds of thousands of people for the free public kick-off concert the next day and the overflow for Inauguration a few days after. But for now, it was quiet and all I could do was pray it wasn’t this cold for the big day. 

The next afternoon I went through the first of many security lines to attend the kick-off concert at the Lincoln Memorial, broadcast live on HBO for the world to see. It seemed all of Hollywood had turned out for the event as entertainers young and old did their part to celebrate America and its new beginning with President-Elect Obama. I was quickly caught up with the energy of the crowd and jumped and sang along to U2, Bruce Springsteen, Garth Brooks and Stevie Wonder as the Jumbotron caught a candid shot of Barack Obama dancing in his chair next to his family. After the concert, my friend and I moved up to the VIP section against the flow of people, passing newsmakers like Senator John Kerry, Madeline Albright and Steven Chu as we made our way to the stage. Jack Black was making funny faces at the bald eagle that had been featured in the ceremonies as its handler and the nearby crowd laughed. But what we were really looking for didn’t come for about ten minutes. Barack Obama walked back on stage through a sea of black overcoats herding his entourage back to the motorcade. Being only 30 feet from the next President of the United States was thrilling and a once in a lifetime experience. I left feeling energized and ‘hopeful’ for the events of the historic days ahead.

Having already secured one of the coveted “golden tickets” for the Inauguration (mine was literally yellow but didn’t come in a chocolate bar), I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to begin my journey from Georgetown to the Capitol for the main event. I must have had a guardian angel that morning, because I made it there in record time despite the large crowds already forming in the subway stations. After securing some food and much needed hand warmers I put back on all my layers on and returned to the early morning cold.

The gates didn’t open until 8 a.m., so I had plenty of time to stand in line and watch it grow behind me as thousands of people poured out of Union Station by the minute. Vendors and journalists walked the lines as we stood shivering, watching the sunrise over the capitol dome. Once we made it through security and into our section, my new group of friends and I strategized to predict the best view once the section became filled with people, as it inevitably would. Having found a small knoll under a tree and having nothing else to do, I plopped onto the dusty grass, curled into a ball and tried to conserve heat. I was just one person, huddled under a tree with the realization pumping through me that everything was changing, and that amazingly enough, I was there. I felt small yet huge. Three hours to go.

After watching the sections slowly fill in from my low vantage point and feeling the warmth from the emerging sun, I stood up as the jumbotron screens blinked on. At first they showed only the empty stadium seating of the capitol steps, but the choirs soon began, filling the cold atmosphere with the music of the future. The arrival of many familiar politicians began to fill the screens speaking of their experiences and excitement to the growing crowd. My group looked at each other with shock when Joe Lieberman was loudly booed, but Colin Powell was cheered. We wondered aloud if Senator Lieberman was booed, what reception would President Bush get? Luckily for him, “Hail to the Chief” blared over the speaker system during his arrival, drowning out any discernable reaction from the crowd. As Senator Dianne Feinstein finished the introductions with, “You may now be seated” a ripple of laugher was heard through the millions standing in mall, huddled together for warmth. 

Over one million people had traveled hundreds and sometimes thousands of miles, endured hours of below freezing temperatures, to see a man recite a few timeless sentences. Granted, this didn’t go entirely according to plan, prompting sympathy from the crowd as the President to be and Chief Justice fumbled over the pledge. It reminded me of a nervous priest presiding over his first marriage ceremony, with the groom equally eager to get on with it. But soon after, President Obama returned to his calm and collected baseline and prepared to deliver the speech of his career.

The speech conveyed the harsh realities of the burdens he and the country faced, but maintained the hope that as Americans, no task was too great. Several moments stuck out, and I often caught myself not breathing as I listened to his words. In my little section of the crowd, his inclusion of “non-believers” in his survey of American religious diversity prompted soft cheers at being so publicly acknowledged. I see secularism as one of the rarely referenced last barriers in American politics, which given the not one but two benedictions at the Inaugural event, has a long way to go before being accepted in the mainstream.

Amid a flashing of cell phone cameras, the deed had been done, and a new President began presiding over the United States of America. Soon after, we watched as President Bush flew over the crowd in a helicopter, prompting gestures from many that remained in the Mall. I pushed against the flow of people to stand in the middle of the Mall for pictures, wanting to capture the moment, the ‘feeling’ and the enormity of what I had just shared with so many other Americans. I watched two national guardswomen, in full uniform, fall into a bear hug as one exclaimed, “We have a new boss… One that really understands us.”

Anticipating the bottleneck at every metro station for miles, I milled around the grounds and surveyed the vendors carrying a cup of much needed hot tea. When I finally did make it home, my housemates were watching the parade on the news when a newscaster made a comment that struck me. With over one million people, all crammed into a freezing outdoor place, there were no arrests or incidents of unrest. There were no protesters. There were no injuries reported, no security threats that caused alarm to the crowd. It reminded me of the feeling I had when I left Invesco Field after Barack Obama’s DNC speech. There was no pushing, no anxiousness, just calm at knowing that we were all experiencing history. Again I hoped that this calm, this feeling of being a part of something so much bigger than any one of us, would continue to be inspired by the President as he faced the immense task of putting this country back on track.

I flew back to Occidental the next morning. The plane ride headed west was clearly full of people who had come into Washington for the Inauguration. As we all passed out from shear exhaustion for the first three hours of the flight in our Obama t-shirts and beanie hats, I’m sure we all had the same sense of hopeful anticipation flowing through us. As my row woke up an hour before we were set to land, we smiled at each other and shared pictures and stories of our experiences, relishing this common bond we felt from a moment of historical significance. When we dispersed through the airport, Obama t-shirts going every which direction, it was bittersweet to know that my experience had ended, and yet somewhere within me, I knew, that it has only just begun.

This is the view looking back at the Washington Monument during the concert on Sunday. Hundreds of Thousands of people showed up to this free showcase, which was broadcast on HBO.

Here

This is a scene during the Inauguration when we were all watching the President, with the Capitol dome in the background. I alternated between watching the screen and using binoculars to watch up-close from my vantage point.

Here I am, cold and tired but happy, looking back at the mall after the Inauguration.

After the ceremony, this was the Capitol Dome where it had all happened.

A view of the Green Ball in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington.

The amazing Google party the night after the Inauguration.

Kera Bartlett is a senior Diplomacy and World Affairs Major. She can be reached at kbartlett@oxy.edu.