Bhumika Ghimire

When I was 13 years old, I'd decided that if Pat Benatar was right and love really was a battlefield, then I'd be proud to fight for the grandeur of romance, show off all of my scars, and maybe lose a few emotional appendages, too.

By the time I was 16 years old and my father revealed that he'd had two children out of wedlock, and that he and my mom were considering divorce, the idealism of happily ever afters had sunken in so deeply that it wouldn't bleed out of me, no matter how many times my heart broke.

And so it's been, despite  the unhealthy dysfunction of my parents' rollercoaster marriage, and my own many strange and twisted experiments with sex, love, and fidelity: I have always held on to the ideas that love is one of the most beautiful things anyone can know, and that the hope of an enduring, loving, and fully supportive marriage is an ideal worth fighting for.

Even though my American peers and I all know about single-parent households, divorce, remarriage, and blended families, there is a legitimacy behind it all, a logic telling us that what matters is not how a family is made, but the definite love and respect between a family's members. We carry this knowledge like a badge of superiority, an assured and assumably accurate claiming of life experience and maturity. Sure, bad things happen; sure, marriages end and parents divorce; sure, many teenagers navigate the quicksands of dating and relationships at the same time that their parents re-enter those same assailing conditions, but that's life. We act out, we drink too much and do drugs, we go to therapy, we become promiscuous, we cry on our friends' shoulders, and then, eventually, we trudge on with the business of growing up and getting over it all. Throughout these battles, our reverence for love and marriage remain intact.

Apparently, it's a different love story in the Philippines.

There is no divorce in the Philippines, no empathy for unwed mothers or their bastard children, no faith in the loyalty of men, and no hope in happily ever afters. A hard crust of distrust coats the layers of bitterness which enshroud the Filipino's romantic experience, and try as they might to shake off the negativity, "common sense" and experience have taught their lessons well: the only happily ever afters are the ones that exist after you've contorted your romantic ideals into an unrecognizable blob of compromise and resignation.

Women are expected to fulfill their supportive and nurturing role of "girlfriend" or "wife" regardless of their partner's loyalty or lack thereof; cheating and adultery among men is not only accepted, but expected. When a woman cheats, she's a slut or a whore or a lunatic. But when power-wielding men do it, when down-and-out men do it, when young men do it, and when old men do it, the common reaction is "But of course!" Either they do it to show off their power, or to show that they still have some kind of power, or because they have the power of youth, or because they're losing the power of youth. One thing is clear: love in the Philippines is an epic power struggle, and women are not the only ones losing.

Children grow out of these relationships feeling awkward and uncertain about their worthiness of love and their claim on a legitimately successful life. They question the value of romantic relationships and doubt their own ability at finding everlasting love. They half-believe what the culture dictates: that they are somehow less desirable as human beings because their parents do not have a storybook romance and marriage. It is in this climate of hostility that far-fetched notions of acceptable loves are brewed and the significance of the institution of marriage is devalued.

Because there is no divorce in the Philippines, and also because women who have children out of wedlock sentence themselves and their offspring to eternal criticism and condemnation, there is a pervading sense that the solution to the mistakes of romance is not to learn from it all, grow, and move on, but to get married and stay married. And even though some teenagers are lucky to have a teacher deplore this ill-advised measure, the idea of marriage as panacea has sunken deeply into the core of Filipino culture. Shame on you for having sex before marriage. Shame on you for having children before being wed. Shame on you for being born out of wedlock. Shame on you for separating with your spouse and shacking up with someone else. In a country whose culture dictates that everyone know everything about each other and that they all wield the power of judgment, shame is powerful. For these reasons, marriage becomes a last-chance or last-ditch-effort at keeping one's life together and not a lasting tribute to love.

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

It is not all about money, folks. When it comes to international disaster relief, yes, money is the big thing, but it is not the only thing. If you cannot send money, then please spread the word around among your friends, family, and co-workers; maybe someone will be able to. Right now aid agencies are saying that they are not looking for money more than relief materials from the public.

I have decided to donate my one-week online earnings to Save the Children for their work in Haiti. You know during times like this, it is the children, women, and people with disabilities who suffer the most. As a mother, I was drawn toward children.

Here is a list of organizations now accepting online financial donations:

Save the Children

 Yéle Haiti

SMS text “HAITI” to 90999 to donate $10 to Red Cross relief efforts 

You can also visit Google's Haiti crises page for more. And here is part of a  press release I received from Tampa, Florida, just to show that every bit helps:

Spinelli, president of the Association to Conserve Tampa Water, and Aquafree Toothbrush will be joined with Kalos International and the Haitian Association Foundation of Tampa in a major press conference today with emergency officials announcing local efforts by Tampa residents to assist in the earthquake that caused a major disaster in Haiti. The press conference will take place today, Thursday, January 14th at 12:00 p.m., Hillsborough County-John F. Germany Library, 900 North Ashley Drive  in Tampa. The city of Tampa recently went through a water shortage, which is happening in Haiti right now. Over 100,000 water-less Aquafree toothbrushes invented by a local resident will be handed out to children and families in Haiti.

Bhumika Ghimire

Yesterday marked the "Ninth Annual No Pants Subway Ride," wherein thousands of exhibitionist New Yorkers got down to their skivvies and boarded the subway. For what, you ask? Well to get a date, silly.

"It's a place to meet people that's not your traditional bar scene," said Brady Kirchberg, 26, who was taking part in his third no-pants ride. At least we singletons now have another option beyond eight-minute dating and online dating. It sorta eliminates a lot of awkward moments later on, no? Though I should note that the temperature hovered at about 20 degrees yesterday, so you'd have to take that into account.

As you'd expect, most New Yorkers were fairly blasé about the whole thing. Gintas Norvila said, "It's the first time I've seen it. It looks very interesting," and went back to reading Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground.

Here's a clip from last year's No Pants Ride.

Jacquelin Cangro

According to Reporters Without Borders

"Arrested in December 2008, Liu spent nearly a year in prison before being formally charged with subversion on 12 December. His trial on 23 December was accompanied by a high degree of police surveillance. Dozens of foreign journalists, foreign diplomats and Liu supporters were kept away from the courthouse. Liu’s wife, who had wanted to attend, was prevented from leaving her home.

This is not the first time that the Christmas period has proved to be particularly dangerous for Chinese human rights activists."

 

Jonathan Fryer, a freelance writer who writes for the BBC and The Guardian, has also commented about Xiaobo's sentence in his blog. He calls the whole episode shameful.

"Shameless governments have a habit of doing nasty things over Christmas, when they hope most of the world’s journalists aren’t looking — or are on holiday. Think the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, Israel’s Operation Cast Lead and now China’s disgraceful sentencing of the dissident writer Liu Xiaobo to 11 years in prison for his political and human rights activities. Perhaps best known abroad as the founder of Charter 08, the Chinese group calling for constitutional reform, Mr Liu has been a sturdy champion of fundamental rights since he took part in the quashed 1989 pro-democracy movement. His jailing, for an unusually long time, is a moral outrage which should be protested most strongly by all decent politicians and NGOs around the world."

Here is Xiaobo, speaking to the PEN American Center about free press and freedom of speech. This video is at YouTube.

With all China has achieved in last decade, it is really shameful that they chose to end it by sentencing for eleven years a man whose only mistake was advocating for freedom. China has successfully integrated capitalism into its communist structure; how long will take for the country to embrace and integrate democratic values too?

Bhumika Ghimire

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

New Yorkers have very specific fears that don’t necessarily translate to other parts of the country. But for some people, the paranoia gets the better of them. Just a few days ago, a man who’d had it with roaches decided to exact his revenge by spraying the hell out of them with extra-strength Raid. In fact, he sprayed so much of the stuff in his tiny apartment that one lit match ignited it, blowing out the front windows and charring more than 80 percent of his place. At least the roaches are gone.

But New Yorkers’ fears aren’t limited to the vermin/rodent category. Here are some other things that freak us out (in no particular order): getting run over by a bike messenger; a transit strike; a black-out during a heat wave; George Steinbrenner; falling debris from high-rise construction work; the mysterious steam that comes out of those orange cylinders in the middle of the street; and, oh yeah, Al Qaeda.

A very pregnant friend tells me that she hyperventilates at the thought of going into labor on the subway. She has reason to be worried. She knows the story of Francine and baby Soleil. Francine, pregnant with her first child, starts feeling a little uncomfortable, so the doctor tells her to come to the hospital to be examined. Without enough money for car service, presumably, or thinking she has all the time in the world, she hops on the F train with her husband, Max.

By the time they get to the East Broadway stop, Francine is feeling much worse. Max tells the conductor who radios ahead for an ambulance. He ushers Francine, who is by now having serious contractions, onto the platform, and the train leaves the station. Then New Yorkers, who love to be in the middle of everything, spring into action. They lay Francine on the platform (blech!) – a man offers his briefcase as a pillow, a woman holds her hand, several people give their clothing to the cause, another man runs to the street level to guide the EMTs and, as luck would have it, a nurse steps off an arriving train and lends a hand. In fact, Wendy Brown, a woman from the Bronx who offered moral support, noted at least four trains came into the station and some people from every one stopped to help. When baby Soleil makes her appearance, all the passersby applaud and jump on the next arriving train.

What a welcome to the world! 

Jacquelin Cangro

What I do know is that in order to get to my aunt’s neighborhood, you have to take a series of one-way streets. This is the reason that my brother doesn’t know how to get home from Malabon: he always gets confused from all the one-way streets. My aunt accompanied us home, and when we reached the neighborhood in the video, whose name, by the way, roughly translates into “messes with you” – AND I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING ABOUT THAT – my aunt tells us a not-so-sweet little story.

Years ago, my aunt, Tita Quel, was in an Oner with her brother-in-law, Tiyo, and they were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the rough part of town. There was a traffic officer at the intersection, and because the Philippines is the land of corruption and irony, the fact that the traffic jam was as bad as it was didn’t seem out of place. Tita Quel had her purse on her lap, and she looked out into the sea of traffic with weary eyes. Night was only now taking root in that part of the world, and the dusty sidewalks looked like they belonged on the set of a Clint Eastwood western.

A man made his way through the crowded street. He was non-descript, even slightly attractive. He wore neatly-starched and -pressed clothes, and this wasn’t some thread-bare outfit either. The fact that he was walking through traffic was as normal as the fact that roosters were fenced in on the tiny triangles of grass that divided the wide boulevard. Tiyo faced the front of the car, but his eyes scanned the entire scene: a police car was about 75 feet away; a few Oners were scattered in the crowd, easy targets because of their lack of doors; one Oner had two female passengers who wore lots of jewelry.

As the well-dressed man made his way through the crowd, Tiyo muttered under his breath that Tita Quel should put her purse in the middle console. Quickly, she did as she was told. The good-looking stranger walked past and, though she found him attractive, she couldn’t help but shiver with fear as he neared. She covered herself with the curtains that clung to the car where doors should have been. She held her breath, hoping that she wouldn’t be noticed. She smelled predatory instinct in the air: danger, blood-lust, potential violence, and sweat mingled in the sweltering humidity. Her eyes followed the stranger as he deftly maneuvered through the muggy cacophony of mufflers, voices, and exhaust fumes.

The stranger stood by the side of the Oner that had the two bejeweled passengers. He brandished a knife, and held it to the neck of the closer woman, who sat in the passenger seat wearing a purple dress. He instructed the woman in the purple dress to give all her jewelry to her driver friend, who wore a pink dress. With shaky hands, the purple-dressed woman did as she was told, and then the man said something that made her begin to cry. Her lips quivered as she looked from the man to her friend, who also began to cry. The man tauntingly danced the blade close to the woman’s face, then slid his penis out of his trousers. The woman sucked him off while the crowded street of cars watched. No one tried to stop it.

Tita Quel’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. She couldn’t help it: her voice, raised an octave, began to squeal on the stranger.

“Sshhhhh!” admonished Tiyo. He warily eyed the traffic officer, who was probably in on the scam and purposely keeping the cars in gridlock. Who knew who else was in on the assault? The officers in the police car? Passengers of other cars? Were men hiding in bushes? Did the stranger have accomplices milling in the traffic? Anything was possible. A shoot-out could occur from a single concerned act. “Stop. Looking.” Tiyo said, glaring at my aunt.

She did what she was told. The stranger came in the purple-dressed woman’s mouth, then zipped up as if he’d just taken a piss on a public wall (another common occurrence here), and told the pink-dressed woman to hand over all of the jewelry. He sauntered off into the crowd. The cars had hardly moved. My aunt had barely breathed. The Philippines had only proven its tough-as-nails image.

Until this day, my aunt wonders about the purple- and pink- dressed women. Did they seek counseling after the incident? Were they able to go on with their lives just as if nothing had happened? And what about the stranger: Was Tiyo right? Were the police officers and the traffic cop in on the assault and robbery? Or was the stranger a lone criminal, taking advantage of the fact that people would assume he had accomplices? What would have happened if someone had rushed to the aid of his victims?

I feel like, if that same incident happened today, I would say something, do something, do anything. But who knows? Being here makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself. 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

The New York Times has a very interesting account of Sami al-Hajj, a Sudanese man who spent seven years in Gitmo.

"The journalist, Sami al-Hajj, was working for Al Jazeera as a cameraman when he was stopped by Pakistani forces on the border with Afghanistan in late 2001. The United States military accused Mr. Hajj of, among other things, falsifying documents and delivering money to Chechen rebels, although he was never charged with a crime during his years in custody.

Now, more than a year after his release, Mr. Hajj, a 40-year-old native of Sudan, is back at work at the Arabic satellite news network, leading a new desk devoted to human rights and public liberties. The captive has become the correspondent."

Here is what Al Jazeera said about al-Hajj's arrest and subsequent release in 2008.

"Despite holding a legitimate visa to work for Al Jazeera's Arabic channel in Afghanistan, he was handed to the U.S. military in January 2002 and sent to Guantanamo Bay.

Al-Hajj, who is originally from Sudan, was held as an "enemy combatant" without ever facing trial or charges.

Al-Hajj was never prosecuted at Guantanamo so the U.S. did not make public its full allegations against him.

 

But in a hearing that determined that he was an enemy combatant, U.S. officials alleged that in the 1990s, al-Hajj was an executive assistant at a Qatar-based beverage company that provided support to Muslim fighters in Bosnia and Chechnya."

Al-Hajj is back at work at Al Jazeer. He is a correspondent for the Arabic language channel.

Here is my take:

Bhumika Ghimire

I was 15. Or 17. Or 19. Or 22.

I was in school and/or working or bumming around.

I was in a steady relationship or hooking up with random guys or a victim of sexual assault.

At some point of my life, I was all of these things. Does it matter, really, when I had the abortion? This is my experience, and this is what matters:

I found out I was pregnant and knew immediately that I wasn't yet ready to become  a mom. I didn't have to think very long or hard about it; I knew that, given who I was at the time, I simply did not want to give birth to a child.

I Googled  "abortion clinic New York City" and found a professional facility. I also found tips on looking for reputable abortion centers, which I committed to memory.

Next came the phone call. "I'm pregnant," I said to the kind yet mature female voice on the line (this kind of voice was a sure sign, according to the tip sheet, that I had found a sound clinic). "I need not to be."

The woman asked the date of my last period, then told me I wasn't far along enough to have an abortion; I had to wait another three weeks. We set a date, and she told me where to go, how much it would cost, and what time to show up. Then she asked if I had any questions and also asked me to describe my appearance. I told her that I didn't have any questions, then I explained my build, my coloring, and my height. She counseled me not to wear any bulky clothing or things in my hair; this struck me as odd since it was a muggy August in New York City. At that moment, as I swam in my thoughts, I thought of the movie If These Walls Could Talk, and especially the last scene, which was a shooting scene. I thought of picketings and bombings and shootings that happen at abortion clinics; the tip sheet had warned me about these happenings, and I wondered how I would react if they happened on the day of my abortion.

 The following three weeks were full of nausea and fatigue. I felt bloated and my libido sky-rocketed. Also, my hormones were all over the place; not only did my mood swings indicate this change, but the barrage of sexual attention pointed at me reached new heights.

I thought a lot about my decision, about the morality behind taking the potential life of a human being and about the selfish decision I'd made. I wanted so much out of life, and I didn't want the complications of pregnancy or motherhood to deter any of my aspirations from becoming realities. I wasn't yet ready to give anything up, not for anyone or anything, especially if it could be avoided.

But, then again, I knew that I didn't want to be a mom; but what exactly did that mean? Even then, I'd learned enough about epistemology to realize that knowing was a subjective and abstract verb and not a literal and definite one. I thought about becoming a mom, and the more I thought about it, the more I knew that it just wasn't for me. Not at that time, possibly never.

I'd set up the appointment and I'd keep it. 

It was a rainy day in August when I went to get my abortion. The clinic was in an intimidating-looking high-rise in midtown Manhattan, and amidst the doorman and elevator staff, I kept on expecting to see protesters and picket signs. Thankfully, the latter two were absent from my entire experience. In their places were instead many respectful and caring health professionals: the technician who took ultrasound photos of my fetus; the therapist (social worker? Psychologist? Psychiatrist?) that interviewed me and made sure that I did indeed want to get an abortion and wasn't being forced;  the anesthetist and doctor and nurses who made the process quick and painless.

In terms of anesthesia, there were two options: partial anesthesia, in which I would be cognizant of everything happening but unable to feel below my waist, and the knocked-out kind of anesthesia, which greatly appealed to me. I wanted to close my eyes, open them, and magically not be pregnant anymore. Pretty much, that's what happened. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the finality of signing legal documents stating that I intended to abort my baby, or the anesthesia, but as I closed my eyes, I felt resolute in my decision. This was it. There was no backing out now.

The moment I opened my eyes,  a wave of serenity washed over me. I felt giddy, euphoric, completely at ease. I knew I was no longer pregnant, and I was certain in that moment of tranquility that I had made the right decision.

I was led to a waiting room, where I was to meet with nurses before being allowed to go home. I sat there, smiling like a Cheshire cat, triumphant in all of my perverse glory.  I remember wondering if I was indeed happy, or if I was just feeling the effects of the drugs. Then I saw her: another girl who'd had an abortion. Crying. Weeping. So obviously and completely upset at herself for having killed her baby. When she was led out of the room, I asked the nurse if she, too, had been out cold when getting her abortion. The nurse had silently nodded, a grave smear of worry rearranging her kind features. 

I went home that day and proceeded with my life as per my usual custom. I thought about my abortion, about my dead baby, about the life I took, and I didn't feel the least bit upset. I wondered if that fact meant that I was a sociopath in the making. Surely, it meant that I wasn't supposed to be a mom. What kind of mother didn't care about killing her child?

But then, sometime later, I decided to become a mom.  It all happened so suddenly, and there was no simple explanation as to why I was ready this time around. Like love or hate, the maternal instinct invaded my every cell, and I knew without a doubt that I wanted to be a mom. I had a very easy pregnancy and labor and delivery, and as my son, my boyfriend, and I learned how to be a family, I found my dreams permeated by thoughts of my aborted would-be child. Could I have mustered the maternal energies to be a good mom to that person? Did I do the right thing? Is there ever really a "right" or a "wrong" anyway?

There are times when I find myself staring at my son and being in complete awe of him. I wonder what life would be like if he'd had an older sibling. I wonder what I would be like, how different things would be. Undeniably, there is a sense of loss when I think of the baby I could have had, but it is short-lived and superficial. It is a loss that echoes in the memory of my bones but is also couched in too many hypothetical situations to be granted much importance. 

One thing is for certain: I made my decisions, and though I'll always wonder "What if?," I'll never doubt my happiness. In the end, that's what it's all ever about anyway. 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio