You Know You've Been in Bangladesh Six Months IF...

As the term comes to an end, I realize that I have both settled into my life here and am longing for a break at home. For the first time I am seeing the end of a college semester from a teacher's point of view and understand that it's just as time-consuming and stressful no matter what side of the fence you're on (my friends in grad school may still beg to differ). I'm running into my sixth month in-country and was thinking the other day how different Chittagong seems than when I first arrived. My ride from the airport was a chaotic jumbled mess, but now I can pick apart the pieces of this city and there is a growing familiarity with all the unknown that makes me feel a bit less foreign in my surroundings.

So in honor of the term's end and in tribute to a country that has welcomed me, I thought I'd write about the signs that let you know Bangladesh is no longer that strange country with a weird name but a kind of second home at a University that is quickly becoming the most incredible place I have ever worked.

Without further adieu, you know you've been in Bangladesh six months if...

You have ever feared for your life in a rickshaw.

I named my blog before I arrived in Bangladesh but as luck would have it I could not have chosen a more appropriate name. Rickshaws are everywhere. I was nervous of taking rickshaws at first and also uncomfortable with the idea of a tiny man made of bones and little else pedaling me a distance I could otherwise walk. But I've grown more accustomed to the rides now and even enjoy sitting inside a brightly colored flimsy basket, wind whooshing through my hair, the slight nagging feeling that I'm about to be run over by a giant bus. But there's a closeness to your surroundings and the road feels more real in a rickshaw than a van or a CNG.

(scariest rickshaw ride ever, as you can tell from my face)

The rickshaw drivers, known here as rickshawallas, generally do not own their rickshaws but instead rent them for a daily fee. The cost of a rickshaw ride is unbearably low though it does vary based on distance. Most of what they make during the day goes toward the rental fee with little left to support themselves or their families. In the States college kids pull tourists around in rickshaws with the air of the ridiculous. Here the men carrying other men often seem hollow and sad, all of their energy poured into getting strangers from one place to another while they go nowhere.

You have gained ten pounds from eating too much mishti (and curry, naan, pratha, rice, ghee...)

While my stomach situation has been less than ideal these past months, I have eaten some incredible food here. I could dedicate a book to the bread alone. But it is impossible to talk about Bangladeshis and not mention their sweet tooth. They use sweetened condensed milk in their tea. Sweet shops are everywhere with rows and rows of syrupy, sugary treats (known as mishti). The last few weeks we've been too busy but for awhile, we had a ritual every Thursday night (your Friday) to stop into one of our favorite shops, Fukoli, and each buy a box. An exciting weekend night included us huddling over our flour, butter, and confection with a pirated bollywood movie and thai diet coke. You are now aware of the extent of my social life. Despite it's limitations, I looked forward to laughter and sugar every week.

You have had to get up at 5am to go to work because of a hartal.

So it seems the Bangladeshis like strikes just as much as the French. We've had two this year so far-- political strikes called hartals, announced for various partisan reasons too silly to bore you with, by one of the major parties in the country. Everything is shut down. Businesses don't open and schools are closed from 6am-6pm. Supporters roam the streets to ensure everyone is complying. The first time, AUW was called off. The second time, determined not be interrupted by the nonsense again, the University bussed us in at 5:30, all of staring at each other blurried eyed in the early morning van, not quite sure this was actually happening.

You have a pet goat named Mutton Chop.

Down the street from our apartment building is a small set of corner shops where you can get pretty much anything under the sun (including a Thanksgiving turkey but that's another story). Our favorite of these shops is called Ms. Moonshine. It's tiny but is literally covered floor to ceiling with stuff: peanut butter, dish washing soap, brooms, mops, diet coke, bread, butter, chocolate digestives, corn flakes. The people who work there are really nice, have never tried to overcharge us, and the shop is often better stocked than the grocery store nearby. Next to Moonshine is a small hole in the wall restaurant that looks like a shack. Passing by the open windows there's always a man rolling out dough and popping naan into the oven. There's also a goat that is often tied outside the restaurant nibbling a stem of green leaves or the bits of grass. After passing this goat for several weeks and making a fuss over it the restuarant owners began to point her out to us encouragingly each time we walked by. Once the owner, a jolly man with a round belly, pointed her and said "mutton" with a grin on his face to which we all groaned noooo.

None of us wanted to get too attached to dear sweet Mutton Chop because Eid was fast approaching and we figured she was a goner for sure. So we said our goodbyes to her before heading up to Dhaka figuring it was the last time we'd see her. However when we returned to our utter joy as well as confusion we found she was still alive. Calynn pointed to Mutton Chop and said simply "Eid?" The owner laughed and made a motion over his stomach indicating that our goat was soon to be a mother. It's forbidden to kill any pregnant animal at Eid. And so Mutton Chop lives! And we have babies on the way.

You are a little in love with all of your students.

Just a few hours ago, I came home from the kick-off of our big sister mentorship program (undergraduates paired with Access Acaemy) and dance party. It was similar to the welcome party I wrote about at the beginning of the year, but seeing how much the girls had grown in confidence and English ability left me speechless. The Afghan girls, who are generally never seen without head scarves, danced merrily along with the others. Their hair coverings occasionally slipped down around shoulders revealing youthful pony tails and braids beneath. I chatted with many of the students I have been lucky to know the past five months, wondering how much progress they will have made by the end of the year. For a brief moment I felt a tug of sadness inside to be leaving, even for just three weeks.

Heading home for Christmas tomorrow. So looking forward to being home with my family and in a country with redlights. See you all soon.

Dhaka Pictures

(power lines)

(Language Memorial)

(Bangladesh Supreme Court Building)

(Dhaka University)

Dhaka

Last week we had a five-day break for Eid al-Adha, the second Eid, which commemorates the story of Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son Ishmael (not Isaac as in Christianity). I went to Dhaka for the first time since my arrival at the airport five months ago. Before arriving we had to survive an absolutely terrifying seven-hour night bus trip on the Dhaka-Chittagong “Highway of Death.” I can safely say I didn’t sleep a wink on this swerving nightmare of a ride. It seemed like we were on an enormous rocking boat going an hundred miles an hour, making our way on a tiny fog ridden road, crushing everything in our way. But we made it and from now on I’ll be taking the train.

Dhaka was empty. A mass exodus to villages had hollowed out the City. All across Bangladesh people returned to the rural areas where they’d been born and where cows and goats awaited a very bloody fate. The ritual that belongs to Eid al-Adha is that of Qurbani, or the slaughtering of an animal as a sacrifice to God. In the days leading up to the festival you see cows decorated with necklaces of flowers or bright cloth encircling their horns—a fleeting moment of beauty and respect just before death. They lumber along, seemingly calm and unaware of what lies ahead.

It will sound strange to anyone who hasn’t been living in Chittagong since this summer when I say that Dhaka reminded me of home. Obviously it’s not like home at all. But there were many many more foreigners, women riding bicycles, cafes, red lights (though we were informed by a Bengali that they’re “optional”), parks, fewer stares, couples holding hands in gardens, and the general feel of a capital city—more cosmopolitan, progressive, and ahead of the rest of the country. While new visitors to Dhaka might see pushy rickshaw drivers, men praying in the streets, I seemed to only be able to concentrate on the familiar.

We visited the American Club, which was even more bizarre. It was like being dropped into an alternate reality. Blonde boys and girls played on a swing set next to a tennis court. Women in bathing suits read magazines by a giant in ground swimming pool. There was bacon and Starbucks and fifteen different types of beer in this strange, cocooned world. I realized it would be entirely possible to be in Bangladesh and never really know it if you existed within the walls of the American Club. But I also couldn’t be as dismissive and snide about its comforts and self-imposed segregation from the “natives” as I might have been if I was hearing about it from the U.S. When you miss home for a long enough and are gawked at any time you step outside your door, the respite that comes with pizza, sameness, and reminders of your old life is both wonderful and necessary.

There was still plenty of Bangladesh in our trip to Dhaka to keep us from completely forgetting where we were. The morning all the animals were slaughtered we were inside but leaving the house later we could not escape the aftermath. It was a vegetarian’s nightmare (and I was traveling with two of them). Bodies, and when I say bodies I mean entire bodies, of goats and cows lay sprawled out in front of houses. We were staying in the wealthier part of Dhaka called Gulshan so it seemed every house on our street could afford a cow. I saw stomachs, rib cages, bowels, legs, piles of hooves and hides. Men pounded on bones and slabs of meat with enormous knives. Blood streaked down the long white Punjabis men wore. Women squatted in saris, cleaning out the intestines. The smell of the blood and meat was thick and distinct but did not seem to deter men and women from sipping tea right next to those who were chopping at flesh. We were told it would take 4-5 hours with everyone working to completely take apart the cow and have suitable meat for cooking.

On the banks across the houses sat groups of thin, ragged men, women, and children holding bags in their hands, waiting. Eid al-Adha is not just about sacrificing an animal to God. What happens after the sacrifice matters too. A third of the meat is kept by the owner of the cow. A third is given to friends and family. And a third is handed out to poor waiting strangers who have never and will never own a cow. The open-handed generosity brought out images both oddly beautiful (men and women practically skipped with overflowing bags of meat on their heads and in their hands) and uncomfortable (lines of people arguing with one another about who would get what). But mostly the holiday left me with a sense of unsparing balance. The animals that died at the hands of those who would eat them gave life and precious meals to the people I often see digging for scraps in the mounds of trash outside of my well-furnished apartment. I think few of us imagine that there’s dignity in a hamburger but watch men live off garbage and food becomes a currency with multiple values.

And speaking of feasts, whether you axed your own turkey or not, I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Shockingly, Chittagong’s fanciest hotel had a Thanksgiving buffet last night and we ate our fill. It wasn’t as good as my grandmother's, but they even had cornbread.

Malumgaht and Halloween

(Malumgaht Village)

(me as a Hare Krishna for Halloween)

(Two Rickshaw Drivers and the Hindu Goddess of Knowledge Saraswati)

Rules of the Game

As I hone in on busy month number four in Bangladesh, I thought I'd write about a few rules I've come to live by in my attempts to adapt to a new lifestyle and culture:

Rule Number 1: The crows are King.

I'm not sure there's anyone or anything in Bangladesh with more chutzpah than the thousands of crows that swarm the garbage piles of Chittagong. They are large and sharp-beaked with a collar of feathers around their necks, making them look like members of some ancient, evil royal family. They aren't scared of people or dogs and snap at each other with eager ferocity. I was walking to our favorite bakery one afternoon when a large chunk of raw meat landed on the ground inches away from me. I stared, flabbergasted, wondering where it had come from and if more was on it's way when suddenly the giant black bird swooped down, tossed the flesh in the air once and caught the meat in its mouth. Don't mess with the crows.

Rule Number 2: Electricity is precious.

Power is a constant problem here. I'm pretty used to it by now-- every four or five hours the electricity switches off. The outage time varies, lasting anywhere from a few minutes to a stretch of a several hours. The reasons behind this issue are a little complicated but basically there isn't enough electricity to go around. And the system for transmitting the electricity is not designed to support the demand of a country that has a population of 150 million. And so this is the system we have-- the government which controls a large share of this sector cuts off power at various intervals throughout the day.

I'm really lucky. My housing and the University are so nice that we have back-up generators. That means a few minutes after the power cuts off we get it back. Air conditioners don't work and certain outlets aren't connected but for the most part the building hums along like nothing has changed. Most houses do not have generators so that when the power is out all you can do is swish your hand held fan and wait for it to come back.

At night, the streets are transformed into a world of flickering orange light. Each stall has a tiny lantern and one right after the other the rows give the appearance of a constant candle light vigil. Rickshaw drivers gather around a single flame to repair a broken bicycle wheel. Men play cards in tight circles, squinting to see how good their hand is.

Rule Number 3: Ask for help and people will.

One of the volunteers broke her ankle this past week and had to have surgery. You can imagine that this led to much anxiety and frantic searching for a good doctor. High on my lists of things I hope I never do is have an operation in Bangladesh. But through some faculty recommendations and help from many people we ended up at a Christian missionary hospital called Mulamgraht three hours south of Chittagong. The American and local staff were extremely kind. A nurse from Canada who has lived on the mission for 22 years since the death of her husband was very attentive, explaining everything as we went along, speaking in Bangla to most of the staff in her flat northern accent. The mission also had a school-- little Hindu girls in blue chased after me along their fenced in playground, their hands coming together as if in prayer, with slightly bowed heads as they greeted me with a giddy Nomoshkar.

Rule Number 4: There's no road so narrow that a rickshaw, CNG, car, and a giant bus won't fit.

On my several harrowing trips to and from the hospital this week, I oscillated between genuine fear and outrage at the close calls, near head-on collisions, and utter disregard for my idea of driving courtesy to complete awe of the ability of these drivers to go anywhere at all on roads much to small for so many passengers.

Granted it took us 3 hours to travel roughly 50 miles but the slow pace also allowed for some beautiful views of the tiny villages that cropped up in intervals along the way. One especially spectacular late afternoon an evening rain came in, brushing the twilit market with moisture. As we crawled along I watched black umbrellas blossom like upside down lotus flowers while men bargained for fruits, vegetables, and paan. One vendor sat straight-backed, his arms and legs crossed on a carpet of bright yellow bananas. In the half gray, half golden light, seated amongst his bounty, umbrella overhead, he didn't look like a poor farmer. He looked like a king.

Rule Number 5: Exercise is good for you.

A few of us have started waking up around 6am to run through the quiet neighborhoods near my apartment en route to a place called the Forest Research Institute. Inside the park it's quiet, green, and there are no cars. There are, however, an astonishing amount of people exercising. Old men with bright orange beards, dyed with henna. Younger men jogging in tight shirts and pants that are too short and barely reach their ankles. Women chattering together in abayat and hijabs, covered down to their toes, only their identical exercise shoes peaking out from underneath.

These morning runs have been a lesson in how tolerant Bangladesh truly is. Calynn was the one who pointed out what an amazing country we live in where it's acceptable for us to run in our t-shirts and sweats in the same park with women with varying degrees of covering. Sure there are stares but that's the case wherever we go. People are often bewildered by our presence but never angry. Of course I haven't forgotten that the rules governing me as a foreign woman are very different than those reining over the local women. I have the liberty to be free and strange and independent with few consequences.

Rule Number 6: Make friends.

And this I have. Every day I am thankful for the company of the people I have met here. Tonight is our Halloween celebration. Trick-or-treaters will be knocking on our door, eager for candy. And I'll be wearing a costume. Be on the look out for the pictures.

What happens when it rains...

(Photos courtesy of Jessi Hinz, WorldTeach Volunteer)

The Evening Commute

Happy October, everyone. Here it is still 90 degrees with 150% humidity, so I'm guessing that means I don't get a Fall. Sorry for my brief hiatus. School has been in full swing and I've been sick twice-- nothing too serious but definitely unpleasant. I've been able to work more directly with students this past month and that has been like a breath of fresh air. By and large they are earnest and hardworking, and curious about the world around them. It's clear that they are trying to figure out exactly who they are out from under the shadow of elders but mindful of their families' expectations. Still-- these women aren't a homogenous group. Some work harder than others. Some write better than others. Some have incredibly tragic pasts. Some are funny. Some are demanding and inconsiderate.

After most (long) days at AUW, I enter the Circus of Crazy otherwise known as the hours between 7-9pm on the streets of Chittagong. We don't live far from school but their are nights when the walk home feels twenty years long, mostly because so much is happening in between here and there. It's dark. Bodies are everywhere, crawling along the narrow avenues we pretend are sidewalks. The streets are choked with cars, trucks, CNGs, rickshaws, and pedestrians weaving in and out each other, like ants making paths in their encased plastic farm. The smell of sweat and dirt and heat mix with the abundance of street food, popcorn, chicken rolls, curries, fried anything. Men wrap paan by candlelight for passersby. Tiny generators vibrate outside the bright one-room stalls that sit one right after another and act as anything from restaurants and tea shops to pharmacies and fruit markets.

People shout. Men stroll holding hands, enjoying each others company. The women out and about are few and easy to spot and the later it gets, the more scarce they become. Sometimes I feel a bit like an endangered species, always amazed when they find one of their own kind. There are beggars galore. Children who pull at your arms, old men with deformed arms and legs, women with matted hair and soiled clothes, the blind of all ages, wearing white and chanting softly in Bangla.

Crossing the street becomes an adventure all of its own. We all have different methods. Julia is the calmest of us all, certain the cars and CNGs will stop, no matter how fast they barrel in our direction. Calynn's feet start in a walk but quickly fall into a scurry reminiscent of a chipmunk just before it is squashed. Trishna and I are somewhere in between, often waiting for a local to cross and tagging along behind him. But we're either doing something right or are just plain lucky. Their haven't been too many close calls.

I always feel a sense of relief when I finally get back to the apartment. The quiet of my solitary room is an incredible contrast to the journey home. But there's something in the heat and immediacy of the city that cannot be shut out by the gates we foreigners surround ourselves with. The smell, the memory of the old woman lying on the ground covered in flies, the brush of CNG metal as it whirs by my shoulder. There's a kinship in this chaos, in this exposed, unvarnished exchange of life. I barter with my students, trading nouns, verbs, and adjectives, simply hoping that knowledge will be currency enough to buy change. The rickshaw driver barters with his customer so that he can eat at the end of the day. The call to prayer barters with souls, giving us five reminders a day of faith's discipline and demands. We are all vendors, selling our street food, whether the goods we are peddling are religion, the English language, addictive betel leaves or even just our point of view.

I just wish I could find a stall that carried the colors of leaves changing and roasted coffee beans. Maybe next week.

Eid Mubarak

Off to the village for Eid Break. I went with an AUW student named Charmin, who's father Gies is also the University cook, to spend the biggest Islamic holiday Eid, in the "real Bangladesh" as the locals like to remind us city dwellers. Eid ul-Fitr celebrates the end of Ramadan and is a time to dress up and eat and visit with friends and family. We traveled by about 3 hours by bus, on a somewhat terrifying trip where I longed for both a seat belt and Dramamine. Little towns dotted the landscape in between stretches of nothing but rice paddies and lots (and lots) of water. For the first time I understood Bangladesh's existence as a sinking country.

We finally arrived at Charmin's house where we were greeted by her mother who hugged us tightly as if we were relatives returning from a long journey. Charmin's house was a small cement home with three bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a tin roof. Besides her mother and father, her younger sister Tonne (15) and younger brothers Robin (19) and Salman (8) were there. The siblings were quiet at first, staring at us with wide, curious eyes and shy smiles.


Almost immediately we were given food. Juice and homemade coconut pastries and sugared dumplings and rice and vegetables and fried lentil cakes and curried meat and fruit and tea. I must have had 18 meals in the two and half days I spent in the village, all made by fasting hands. Every few hours some new concoction would appear followed by the insistence on eating and eating a lot. It is the first home I've been in where there was no extra person to help cook and clean. Everything was done by Charmin, her mother, her father, and her siblings.





We were all a bit timid at first but curiosity soon won out over reticence. Salman was a big cheeked, bright, thoroughly happy child. The closeness he and Gies shared was palpable; the little boy followed his father everywhere, hugged him constantly, and the two were often teased by others in the family about their obvious affection for each other. Robin's English was broken and hard to follow but he seemed to understand everything that was going on. Tonne was the shiest of them all but she followed her big sister around, watching our interactions closely, never far behind the others.

Charmin showed us her family's pond where we fed the fish they were raising. Even in a modest yard there were so many plants growing-- red, green, and black chilies (black are the hottest), mangoes, coconuts, bananas, and limes. The coconuts towered high above us, topping trees without branches. I asked Charmin how they were able to get them down. She told me there were boys in the village who could climb the trees in thirty seconds to retrieve the fruit. I laughed and told her that couldn't be true. An hour later, one of these village boys appeared and proved us both wrong. He scaled the tree in five seconds, not thirty.



We made quite the spectacle, foreign and strange in a village where few foreigners ever visit. Kids and adults alike would stop by to peak in and see if the rumors were true, Americans running amok in the Bangla wilderness. The same questions came from everyone. First, "are you married?" followed by what country we were from, who our families were, what did we think of Bangladesh, and then, sometimes, what job we were doing.

Eid fell of the 11th-- that morning Charmin's family was up early-- by 6am already cooking. The men went to the nearby village mosque to pray after eating. The women prayed at home. The village was a bustling place for Eid-- with people dressed in bright colored saris, hands decorated with henna, bundles of food in their arms visiting houses to show and share with others their good fortune. I realized as I watched the excited shuffle from home to home, that no matter where you are or what your station in life, people find a way to express the vibrancy of being alive. In Namibia it was the grand dresses of the Herero women and the ceaseless singing and dancing. Here it's the spiciness of food and the radiant cloth that people decorate themselves with.




Tonne had a few of her friends drop by. One of the fourteen year old girls had just been married, Charmin whispered to me. I tried not to stare and quickly forced the pity out of my face at the site of a child who'd never met the man she was to marry, and who in three years would be delivered to him and to an entirely new life she did not choose. Charmin, a married woman herself, noticed the pity anyway. And she confessed to me that while she loved her husband (her marriage was not arranged though her parents' was), she missed the freedom of her youth when as a young girl she could run around the village, go swimming, and do scandalous things like ride bikes and brush off the expectations and customs of her elders. And I understood that while it's not universally true, most 10 year old girls in Bangladesh have more outward liberty than their mothers.





We briefly visited another, even more remote village (of Charmin's husband's family) and there almost no men were at home, only the women. As a group gathered at our exhibition, I watched the older women the closest. There were beautiful wrapped in cotton saris, marriage bracelets encircling bone thin arms, wrinkles earned and lovely carved into their faces. I could not take my eyes off of them and how they sat closely together, whispering and chewing tobbaco wrapped in betel leaves. I could feel the years of shared experience between them, the bonds formed by their similar hardships and by the partition between their world and the world outside.





My favorite moment of my visit was the night the power went out. And with no back-up generator the cement home became a furnace in a matter of moments. We were all sitting in one of the bedrooms. Charmin's family, utterly concerned that the Americans might melt, brought out hand fans and there by kerosene lamp we all sat waving these fans, trying unsuccessfully not to sweat. The family teased each other in the darkness. I witnessed tenderness between husband and wife, father and daughter, brother and sister. And we were invited into that tenderness as the kids laughed and poked fun at our pale, swollen feet. We laughed too.

Najma

School began this week. It was exciting to watch the University emerge from its quiet, ghost like existence into a place filled with wide eyed and nervous students moving in bunches from class to class. AUW is such a new school that right now their are only two classes in place-- a first year and second year. Then there's the Access Academy, a one year prep program for students who come mostly from poor backgrounds and are not yet ready for University level work. The idea is to spend one year in the Academy before moving into the Undergraduate level. The Access Academy is where most of the WorldTeach volunteers teach.

On Friday night I went with my housemate Lihuan (who is the director of student development), the Provost, and the executive director of WorldTeach to a welcome party the second year students were throwing for the new Access Academy students. The dance was on the rooftop of the school. The girls had decorated it with homespun streamers and slightly deflated balloons. There was 7-Up and dry chocolate cake. For a moment I thought I had walked into my 8th grade dance. Everyone lined the walls in chairs, hardly speaking to each other, certainly not dancing.


But as the evening wore on, the atmosphere on the roof changed. Girls rushed up to us trying to pull us out to the dance floor, wanting to snap pictures of our faces with cameras and cellphones. They clustered together by countries-- groups of giggling girls from Vietnam, girls from Nepal with quick English and lovely smiles, girls from India dressed stylishly and leading the charge on the dance floor, and the solemn girls from Afghanistan with pale faces and high cheekbones who rarely left their seats.

I talked to many of the Afghan girls, all of whom offered quiet thoughtful replies to my questions. I was especially taken with one in particular named Najma Qurbani. She had a hard time understanding my English so I talked slowly, well trained from my year in Namibia. She spoke of homesickness, a language I am fluent in, dwelling on brothers, sisters, her parents and her country. But her tiny, bright eyes expressed what her vocabulary could not: that while being away hurts, this chance to learn, to get better, to become her own source of hope matters more.

There are so many things about this job that are incredible. But one of the most amazing parts is the diversity of the campus. Bangladesh is just as foreign to a student from China or Iran as it is to me. Hindus from India sit next to Muslims from Pakistan. Tamils from Sri Lanka eat in the same dining hall as the Sinhalese. No one is singing kumbaya and there can be tensions but for the most part the girls seem to coexist and worry more about their grades than old histories and current politics.


So many cultures and backgrounds in one place makes the world smaller and more accessible. Here we are all bundled together, forced to know and recognize each other. But if the world is shrinking, there's also a sense, almost every day, of glimpsing a new way, or image, or idea, a view just beyond what you wake up knowing in the morning. Friday, before the dance, I looked at Afghanistan and all I could see was a war. Now I can see Najma.

Bhatiary Village Pictures

(kids at the village park)