Mother Language Day

Last Monday, Bangladesh took the day off in honor of International Mother Language Day, a holiday that holds special meaning for Bangladeshis. I haven’t written very much about this but the people of this country are fiercely proud of their language (something I can understand thanks to the French in my blood I suppose). In 1952, when Bangladesh was still considered East Pakistan, Pakistan attempted to impose Urdu as the national language. This resulted in mass student protests where many students were killed. In Dhaka there is an enormous memorial dedicated to the memory of those who died to preserve Bangla. In Chittagong there is a memorial as well though it is much smaller.

(Lyny and Deepti, Cambodia/Nepal)

(Oanh, Giang, and Tien from Vietnam)

On the morning of the holiday we woke up early and gathered at AUW to march to the Chittagong memorial carrying a wreath of flowers and an overflowing amount of Bangladeshi pride. In a particularly moving show of unity, one of our students holding the wreath was actually from Pakistan. As we began the long walk, collecting stares along the way, I found myself smiling widely. Not only were we the bizarre sight of fifty grown women out on the streets together but our group also consisted of Nepalis, Vietnamese, Cambodians, Chinese, and Americans.

The crowd leading up to the language memorial was enormous and festive. Men sold Bangladesh flags, headbands, bracelets. Faces were painted. Bangla songs sung. Laughing, excited children were out in droves. I usually feel a little wary, at least in my own country, of such fervent displays of nationalism but these kinds of celebrations feel different in countries that are decades rather than centuries old. When Independence exists in living memory, commemoration is not just about the idea but what was experienced.

The next day at school there was a celebration of all of AUW’s languages. Students from each country performed poems or dances or songs in their own mother languages. I was not there but everyone who was, from teachers to students, spoke of the event with incredible emotion. Listening to their reactions, I could not help but think about how the old traditions and ways of those in a new world become acutely precious. Like when one of my Cambodian students said she never thought of herself as Buddhist until she arrived at AUW, until she was placed in sharp relief to the other Muslim, Hindu, and Christian students. Only then did she understand how she was different and who she was.

We work so hard to not have the individual countries band together, to encourage the students to search outside of what they know but there’s no way to fault the impulse to desire the familiar. Especially since we foreign teachers do exactly the same thing. My sense of Americanness and love of country is never more heightened than when I’m not in the U.S. The truth is I usually feel very little when I sing the Star Spangled Banner at baseball games but singing under the Southern sky in a tiny pinprick of a village in Rehoboth Namibia I had to fight back tears.

So much more to write about but I will spare you for now. Trip to Nepal coming up in March. An incredible number of exciting school projects going on. And of course the Cricket World Cup (yes, I understand cricket now). More stories soon...

* Many of these photos courtesy of Calynn Dowler

Lunar New Year and Saraswati Puja

Chinese New Year Dumpling Feast...

(Professor Sangita chopping ginger!)

(making Chinese dumplings)

(more dumplings)

Saraswati Puja...

(Hindu priest with Saraswati statue behind him)

(Sri Lankan student, Ruwani)

(Hindu temple)

Bird-Watching

On the mornings I wake up early enough, there's a large tree outside my window by which I can sit, drink tea, and yes, bird watch. Bird watching is not really a favorite past time of mine. But here, it’s such a rarity, that I find myself riveted whenever I see a bird that isn't a crow. In my tree their are those with bright green feathers and orange beaks that look as if they belong in the Amazon, smaller ones with jet black coloring offset by a streak of white or red, tiny brown puff balls with loud twittering voices, yellow ones, blue ones, an amazing menagerie. The crows are still there too-- darting in and out of the trees, picking on the smaller birds, and fighting amongst themselves. But for a few brief moments at the start of each day, they no longer seem to dominate the sky.

There are fourteen students in my new class (which focuses on reading comprehension and writing skills) and it’s a diverse group. Women from Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Pakistan and of course Bangladesh. In the last couple of weeks we read Letter from Birmingham Jail and an excerpt from Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried. Listening to the girls debate the merits of passive resistance and compare the Civil Rights Movement to struggles in their own countries gave me goosebumps. Next week we're starting To Kill a Mockingbird and I can barely contain my inner literature nerd. This class has rapidly become my favorite part of each week.

And then there's Maya*, a Nepali student I had in my TA class last term. She's bright and extraordinarily thoughtful. She reminds me a lot of my former Namibian student, Jeneth. Both seem to have an overdeveloped sense of empathy, an innate kindness and instead of being suspicious about the constant onslaught of things that are new and different, they are open and curious.

Every Thursday afternoon Maya and I meet to discuss a book we're reading. But more often than not the conversation devolves into stories from her old life in Nepal, how she's been altered by school, how difficult it is to go back, and how wonderful but overwhelming her changing sense of the world is. She asked me whether I had ever felt shaken by all this new and contradicting knowledge. She asked me how I had figured it all out. Initially I laughed, but as I began to reply I had to work very hard to hide my sadness. I had seen that look she had on her face, that need for someone "older and wiser" to tell her that the years ahead will be easier, that the answers are forthcoming with age, that the uncertainty she feels will dissipate with the passing decades. I'm pretty sure I looked at my teachers like that. I'm pretty sure I still do.

Education matters. Obviously I believe in its power and in the overall good that learning offers. But I've realized, at least here, it's just not that simple. Sometimes I marvel at what we've done, setting this course into motion for these girls. We tell them the world is theirs if they want it, if they study and try. The University broadens their lives, just like college did for most of us. The difference is none of us had to return home to the mountains of Afghanistan or a rural village in Bangladesh. None of us had to exist as a bright green bird amongst an army of crows. That takes a kind of sustained courage I'll never know.

In the evening the tree outside my window is empty so I watch the rooftop next door instead. Some nights I watch a young boy trying to wheel his bicycle around the small space, dodging bathers and those attending to the plants. He doesn’t really see the others. He’s in a wide green field. He’s racing along the banks of a river. He’s somewhere without containment because he can dream himself there.

Other nights I watch two little girls hang laundry. When they think no one is looking they toss a pebble into the air and hopscotch across imaginary squares. My window is cracked and I can hear their laughter, half uncertain of, half delighted in this secret joy.

*name changed