Blog

Women Muslim leaders shake up old traditions in Europe


 

AP says

"Yassmine el Ksaihi doesn't see herself as a feminist rebel. She covers her head and wears modest clothing. She learned to read the Quran at age 5 and promotes traditional Muslim values.

Yet there is something pioneering about her nonetheless: At age 24 she is the administrator of a large mosque, an unusual position of authority for a young woman in the world of Islam, even in Europe."

Woman wearing a hijab (Muslim veil or headscarf) at the 2006 Arabic Arts Festival in Liverpool. (Image source: Wikimedia Commons)

A New York Times article published in 2005 on European Muslim women says that education and an open environment are providing a generation of Muslim women a new identity and strength in Europe.

"For many, the key difference is education, an option often denied their poor, immigrant mothers and grandmothers. These young women are studying law, medicine and anthropology, and now form a majority in many Islamic studies courses, traditionally the world of men. They are getting jobs in social work, business and media, and are more prone to use their new independence to divorce. Also,French, English, German or Dutch may be their native languages."

But some old traditions still haunt Europe's Muslim women. Abuse, forced marriage, and honor killings are still practiced by European Muslims. An MSNBC report on Muslim women in Germany says that many women are being abused by their families, trapped inside their homes, cut off from society, and pressured to live a life of extreme seclusion.

Long way to go before these women can live a truly free life.

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Blog

What’s cooking?


My wife and I took our dog, Mabel, to a dog park for the first time this morning. It was an odd experience. There were maybe 30 dogs running around in an area about the size of a baseball field. I’m not sure what was more interesting: watching the dogs or watching the people.

It was an interesting collection of people at the Lake of the isles dog park in Minneapolis this Easter morning, at least one of whom was already drunk at 10 a.m. I respect the determination and/or stamina it takes to be stagger-around drunk before noon, and this gentleman had the added benefit of a supply of odd, strangely interesting stories.

"My Ralphie," he introduced himself with, stumbling slightly as he approached and gestured vaguely at three or four nearby dogs. "My Ralphie ain’t fat. He’s sturdy. Like them Fleet Farm girls." He looked at us. "From the Sunday ads," he said, prompting us, waiting for a response. "Them Fleet Farm girls. They’re sturdy, just like my Ralphie. The vet said he could stand to lose some weight, but just told him he’s sturdy."

What’s going on with this guy? I couldn’t help but wonder. What’s his story? What’s cooking in his mind, or in his life that has brought him to this exact place at this exact time? And why have those events conspired to make our lives intersect? I guess you can ask those same questions about anybody, but I felt like this guy was a Harvey Pekar character or something, with a similar backstory.

In this month’s issue, we take a look at what’s cooking in a several different contexts. We start with the campus of the University of Illinois at Urbana/Champaign, where Karoliina Engstrom tells about a recent strike in her piece Marching for more than money. Vivian Wong gives us a literal answer to the question in her article From petrol to tacos. In South America’s best-kept secret, Brendan van Son shares his experiences in Ecuador. Himalayan poet Yuyutsu R.D. Sharma shares three poems in ‘A threadbare foreword to the fleshy book of living and dying.’. Finally, Jacqueline Barba reviews Ted Conover’s latest book in her piece, titled The road as metaphor.

I never did find out much back story for the gentleman I met this morning. I learned he was married and the color of his wife’s hair when he said, "I married a redhead. You’re nothing but trouble. Happy Easter," to a startled middle-aged woman as she walked past. And got one more story.

"My neighbors come over the beginning of last summer. They’re both designers at some place downtown. They trying to get a permit from the city to build a chicken coop. Ask me if I care. They’re nice guys, so I tell them to have at it. They spent two grand building this chicken coop. Mahogany and brass. Nicer than what most people in Haiti have. They special order these special roosters, Rhode Island Reds, whatever, and take special care of them. I come home one day and they’re both out in the driveway, hugging each other and crying. So I go over and I ask them what’s wrong. ‘Raccoons!’ they say, and sure enough, I look in there and there’s nothing left but blood and feathers and a few bones. Them raccoons made short work of them special roosters," he said, and then laughed. "Felt bad for those two guys, though. Pretty shook up."

I bet they were.

I am a writer/editor turned web developer. I've served as both Editor-in-chief and Technical Developer of In The Fray Magazine over the past 5 years. I am gainfully employed, writing, editing and developing on the web for a small private college in Duluth, MN. I enjoy both silence and heavy metal, John Milton and Stephen King, sunrise and sunset. Like all of us, I contain multitudes.

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Commentary

From petrol to tacos

My quest in bringing authentic Mexican cuisine to Hong Kong


Trained as an oil equity analyst, I had seen my life for the last three years revolve around oil prices day in and day out, often hopping through different countries and telling clients what to buy and sell. While the work was challenging and exciting, it lacked a certain fulfillment. I always felt that to be a top-notch analyst, I needed to have some real operational experience. It was then that I toyed with the idea of creating a business of my own, something that truly embodies me: my very own taqueria, which I named “Mr. Taco Truck” after beloved counterparts dotted throughout California, offering the authentic yet affordable taste of Mexico one taco at a time.

Blessed with parents who excelled in Chinese cooking, I was spoiled with quality food from an early age and had developed a palette that demands to be excited. Over the years as a self-proclaimed foodie, I sought culinary delights here and aboard, and none has left a more lasting impression than the vivid flavors of Mexico.

As a Hong Kong native, I discovered Mexican cuisine rather late — during my college years in California. While it was not love at first bite thanks to diversions like Taco Bell and other Mexican imposters, I was blown away when I discovered the flavors of authentic taquerias. From mesquite-grilled carne asada to fresh homemade salsa and horchata, casual mom-and-pop shops are where Mexican cuisine is at its best and where I went at least a few times per week, especially after late night drinks. Subsequent travels to the country have further reinforced my love affair with the culture and its cuisine. From coast to coast, Mexican flavors represent a true fusion of the old and new world.

Since moving back to Hong Kong, there is nothing I missed more than hanging out at those taco stalls. Despite the abundance of other international flavors, authentic Mexican cuisine has yet to establish a foothold here because of a shortage of options.
So I decided to bring it from across the ocean home to Hong Kong. I dreamt up the colors of Baja for my very own taco shop on a street corner amid the concrete jungle.

Despite doing so without reservation, running a restaurant is not an easy task. Learning as much as I could along the way, I came to a new sense of appreciation for any established small business. While previous experience may have prepared me for the planning side of the equation, hands-on day-to-day operational involvement is a totally new challenge. From front-of-house items such as restaurant design, graphics, advertisements, and marketing to back-of-house kitchen setup, menu development, and food preparation, all aspects require personal attention to the finest detail. This is especially true for a kitchen novice like me.

I never saw myself fit for a kitchen, and my relationship with cooking has always been a love-hate one. Don’t get me wrong, I love cooking. My curiosity for culinary delights has always drawn me to experiment. However, full command of a kitchen demands skills and composure drawn from years of experience and knowledge I didn’t have of ingredients while a desk jockey. I therefore made it my mission to improve my cooking and overcome technical difficulties in order to bring authentic taqueria-quality tacos to Hong Kong. At least good enough that I could eat them every day.

While I did consider hiring a cook, the lack of local experience with Mexican cuisine meant I needed to take a much bigger role in food preparation. Everything had to start from scratch.

After leaving behind my desk job, I traveled to Ecuador for four months to brush up on my Spanish — Yes, you better speak Spanish if you own a Mexican restaurant! — and Latin culture. Afterwards I sampled my way from San Diego to San Francisco, California, looking for the best tacos on the U.S. West Coast and secured key ingredients and authentic recipes. Although tomatoes and meat would be localized in Hong Kong, I sought the right type of dried chilies and corn flour to ensure that my creation would not be a watered-down version that caters to local taste. I wanted to bring back home as many important little touches as I could.

The preparation of the food demands a great amount of time. The hours after the shop closes for the day are spent preparing for the next, including cutting meat chunks into appropriate sizes and perfecting the marinade. Every night beans need to be mashed, fresh salsa has to be made, and corn tortillas have to be pressed. Although I am not a perfectionist, I do pride myself at creating everything from scratch. You will not find canned refried beans or prepackaged guacamole in my kitchen. Cooking is a labor of love, and there are no shortcuts to quality.

Many people I know were surprised by my decision to trade away my thriving office career to a vocation of never-ending labor and physical commitment. Is it hard work? Totally! Vacations and happy hours no longer exist in my vocabulary. All my time is poured into the restaurant. Yet as any entrepreneur can attest, despite the grueling work and long hours, the creation of something that is one’s own is gratifying and draws on one’s adventurous spirit that no stable career can offer.

On any given afternoon, the aroma of grilled meats and Spanish tunes
fill the air from our corner in Hong Kong’s Quarry Bay among towering office towers and apartments. Our tacos, enchiladas and horchata now vie with wonton noodles and Chinese milk tea.

Encouragement and excitement from those longing for such food as I once did now bring me satisfaction, as do the smiles of first-time taco eaters who tomorrow become regulars.

 

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Reviews

The road as metaphor

In his latest book, intrepid reporter Ted Conover ruminates on roads from Peru to Palestine


One great challenge in writing about roads, Ted Conover explains in the epilogue of his new road-themed nonfiction release The Routes of Man, is to avoid inadvertent use of the casual road metaphor.

“So essential a part of the human endeavor are roads,” he writes, “that road- and driving-related metaphors permeate our language. Who among us hasn’t come to a fork in the road or been tempted by the road to ruin? Speed bumps, in the newspapers, are faced by everyone from Middle East peace negotiators to baseball teams making their way to the playoffs. Leaders who are asleep at the wheel routinely send our enterprises into a ditch.” Point taken. But Conover’s not done. In fact he fills an entire page with turns of phrase — 37 clauses and as many clichés —rooted in the concept of the road.

In doing so, he lands on a crucial point: A road is not just a way of getting from one point to another. It means something more, not only in our everyday vernacular but also in our collective consciousness. The road is an instrument of entry and escape, a means to an end, a symbol of progress. And a winding foreground for drama. 

Conover’s past books narrate adventures into pockets of American culture: he has ridden the rails as a hobo, ventured across the U.S.-Mexico border with illegal immigrants, and, perhaps most famously, worked as a prison guard in New York’s Sing Sing prison. In The Routes of Man: How Roads Are Shaping the World and the Way We Live Today, he applies the same narrative nonfiction lens to the stories of six roads in six countries — six roads “that are reshaping the world.”

Conover begins in Peru, riding in a big-rig along the road that carries mahogany to global exporters — an unpaved and unpredictable mountain route that might eventually be put out of use by the building of the Interoceanic Highway that will link the Amazon basin with the Pacific Coast of Peru. From there he treks the frozen river chaddar, a forty-mile surface trail in Zanskar, India; then the Kinshasha Highway through Tanzania, Africa (along which the AIDS epidemic is said to have traveled and spread); the elevated 60 Road across the disputed land border in the West Bank in Palestine; the sleek, modern Guangzhou-Shenzhen Superhighway in China; and lastly, the congested Apapa-Oworonshoki Expressway in Lagos, Nigeria.

For Conover, the story of a road is rooted in the story of those who travel it. He writes with gracious honesty and great interest about his travel companions — among them truckers, ambulance workers, road-trippers from China, teenage students from Zanskar, and Israeli paratroopers — and adeptly employs their individual narratives in the service of a greater concept: that of the road as a means of personal and cultural self-discovery. A road presents its traveler with ample opportunity for moments of revelation. Conover’s prose is simple and elegant in relating his own experience of such moments, as in the following passage about a steep descent through the Andes Mountains in Peru:

It was all downhill, with every turn seeming to bring a little more warmth, a little more humidity, plants and trees we hadn’t seen before. The view was still limited until one particular turn revealed the sudden vista, one of those spectacular places through which you come to understand the shape of the planet: the wrinkled green mountainsides spread out before us, dissolving suddenly in the vast, smooth green sameness of the Amazon basin, a flatness that stretches two thousand miles to the sea. Interrupting the mountainside below were little brown threads, glimpses into the same road we were on, a thread that writhes back and forth like an earthworm held by the tail.

This is the great promise of the road: the quick turn that affords you an unexpected view and, with it, a new perspective.

Of course, roads are not all romance and revelation. They present threats of pollution and danger, casualty and corruption, and the spread of disease. And there is also the more generalized threat of globalization, the eradication of local culture by the global market. Nowhere in Conover’s book does this threat seem more acute than in Zanskar, where teens who hope to further their education must leave the village for the first time by way of the chaddar, a trail across the slippery surface of a frozen river.

Through Conover’s eyes, the chaddar is certainly beautiful, even magical — but its route is also perilous, difficult to navigate and subject to the whims of the weather. In recent years, there has been talk of building an all-season road along the chaddar to give Zanskarians a simpler way out of the village — and, in turn, give outsiders a simpler way in. Conover notes that most Zanskarians seemed in favor of the road. Politically and economically, its construction makes sense. Zanskarian teacher Tenzin Choetop shared his feeling that an all-season road would “liberate” his students and provide them with an escape from the “small-mindedness” of their isolated upbringing.

Outsiders, however, are more likely to have a different view: that of the road as an intrusion upon a still-intact, indigenous culture, a Western bastardization of Shangri-La. Writes Conover, “I was not eager to see a road built through the chaddar … Bad things were bound to come in; life would change, and not always for the better. But Zanskar was not a museum … [and] Shangri-La was not a local idea. It was a Western idea, a symbol of what we lost when we advanced, a seductive nostalgia, a dream.”

Conover applies the same clean and comprehensive logic to all of the communities he encounters: from the recreational driving clubs in China, whose members flaunt driving as an inborn right, to the stopped-up go-slows (traffic jams) of Lagos that transform, organically, into open-air markets. These and other stories come together in The Routes of Man to create an enlightening and engaging chronicle of the way roads shape the people who travel them and the places where they live.

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Commentary

South America’s best-kept secret

Finding volcanoes and meaning in Ecuador


As I stand patiently in line at the dusty immigration office awaiting my prized passport stamp, I am drawn to the thoughts and memories of my time in Ecuador.  I first arrived in the country knowing absolutely nothing about it.  Let’s be honest: when imagining Latin America, we see Christ the Redeemer in Rio, or the Mecca of Machu Picchu. For most backpackers, Ecuador is nothing more than a small country sitting north of Peru.  And as selfish as it might be, part of me hopes that it never becomes a highlight, because right now it feels like I have it all to myself.

A welcoming place

I have traveled South America extensively, and Ecuador reminds me a lot of a couple of its Central American cousins: Costa Rica and Guatemala.  Ecuador has all the tourism potential of Costa Rica, but it has somehow managed to fend off the mob of backpackers and resort-stayers that now dominate its Central American counterpart. Like Guatemala, Ecuador has a varied population of people who are eager to welcome you regardless of your particular origins.  People here wave to passing cars, welcoming their passengers without a second thought.

Insignificance and awe

Towns like Baños de Agua Santa offer everything a backpacker could ever need and more. It sits in an ideal climate where the temperature is never too hot and rarely cold. In this lush mountain town, I spend one day jumping off a bridge, attached only by a not-so-reassuring rope, and the next day rushing down swiftly moving rapids on a six-person raft. The prominent features of cloud and water are inescapable.  Images of the cloud forest lend nostalgic notions of scenes from Hollywood movies, where tall volcanoes, over 5,000 meters tall, stand guard over countless towering waterfalls.  The clouds hang carelessly low among the lush green mountainsides.  They billow into puffy white and grey cotton balls, seemingly in constant motion, as if they have somewhere important to be.  In a world where most cultures and societies worship the sun to some extent, in the cloud forest you learn to cherish the rain.  In the cloud forest, the rain means life:  it greens the foliage, fills the rivers and feeds the valley’s impressive myriad of tall, whispering waterfalls.

Ecuador’s share of the Amazon basin also leaves visitors standing with a sensation of overwhelming insignificance and awe.  At the surface, the endless valleys of green shrubbery in la selva (the jungle) appear shallow and monotonous in color and form.  But as you dig down beneath the numerous layers of the forest’s canopy you can only begin to understand the diversity and character of the Amazon basin.  As I hike through a narrow canyon surrounded covered by the thick canopy, a troop of squirrel monkeys chants above me and bats shriek as they rush past my ears.  The jungle is never quiet.  The rain forest is constantly breathing; it is full of life and, in turn, provides more than we can imagine.  To us, the jungle usually provides a setting for adventure, reserved for the likes of Indiana Jones and Lara Croft, but to the indigenous people, their trees, flowers and their food all come from this tropical provider.  As is the case with the cloud forest, the jungle is one of those places so rich with beauty it can leave you at a standstill, and even cause you to forget to take a picture. Most people spend their time trying to add meaning and significance to their everyday life.  But in travel, we spend our time trying to find the places that make us feel insignificant; Ecuador’s piece of the Amazon gives that to us.

The hustling, bustling stillness

In Ecuador, one should not forget to experience the cities as well.  The urban enclaves of Cuenca and Quito combine the benefits of the modern world with the charm and character of the colonial era.  Stuccoed houses with balconies and narrow, cobbled streets line the old, colonial parts of these cities.  I wander through the cities’ massive, hallowed churches, government buildings and bustling plazas, which form the social centers of the cities and I realize that these parts act as the heart and the lungs of Ecuadorian society.  In these plazas and squares, people seem to still have to time simply to sit, share, and converse as the world continues around them.

Interconnected

Like any adventure-oriented travel destination, Ecuador still provides volatility and intrigue.  The indigenous people of la selva still often set up roadblocks intending to slow the damage to their home and their local natural environment, on which they so greatly rely. Less than 15 years ago, the country was still involved in both inter- and intra-state conflicts, many of which still seem to simmer in the undercurrents of Ecuadorian society.  Natural disasters are still a part of everyday life. Mudslides, torrential downpours and earthquakes are all a possibility at any given moment.  Moreover, many of Ecuador’s volcanoes are still very active.  In fact, the large volcano which guards the entrance into Baños has been growing steadily in activity, and spews off large amounts of lava on a regular basis.

Ecuador remains just a small blip on the global tourism radar.  However, its rawness is, in large part, what makes this country such a jewel.  It is well worth the exploration, time and challenge.  In Ecuador you can find yourself navigating your way down narrow, waterfall-lined canyons one day, rafting down segments of the Amazon basin the next, and then soaking in the urban colonial atmosphere the following night. Regardless of its lack of a Machu Picchu or Carnaval de Rio, Ecuador has a diversity and untouched beauty that may make it South America’s next hot travel destination — much to my dismay.

For more of Brendan’s adventures, go to: http://www.brendansadventures.com

 

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Fiction & Poetry

‘A threadbare foreword to the fleshy book of living and dying.’

Prayer flags and dowdy dot coms.


Ma Dreams

“Get a job now, son,
got to build our house.
Get me a bride too,
one for you
and one for  your brother.”

Pouring hot tea
on the stale crumbs
in the Chinese bowl
for her cat, throwing
abuses at the intruding
dogs, the mother speaks.
Her words fall softly
on the feverish bottom
of my sinking heart.
“Got to build a brick house.
Can’t work anymore,
lying on life’s threshold,
waiting for the dark
word to drop
from the heavens…
Can’t bring water
from the distant wells.
Can’t carry heavy
water pots. Last time,
I fainted near the well,
fell flat in the slimy ditch
beside the water well…
aging you know!

Get a job now,
get me a bride too,
one for your brother
and one for you…”

The cat’s lucent
tail curls in the air.

Bridge

Rickety bridge
a lonely heir to my secret world

Rickety bridge
an abandoned leaf in forest of my gloom

quaking like
shoulders of a hillside porter

thrumming like
strings of a blind singer
 
waking from the sleep
in the slums of screaming cities…

Exasperated, I approach
wet spongy openings of your breezy body
 
moistened mouth
of a water spout oozing energy
 
rim of
a hotspring’s bellybutton

odor
of earth’s secret sex

waft of fragrance
stemming from a forest

buried
beneath centuries of snow

Rickety bridge
lonely heir to my secret sanctuaries

palaces of pleasure
in the hidden valleys,
 
and rain forests and plateau beyond

a threadbare foreword to
the fleshy book of living and dying.

Return,
(Taramarang)

Return from
the valley of the Buddhist flags

and singing monks

return from
the brass pitchers of millet wine

and silver pipes
singing songs of the hidden Himalayan canyons

return from
the fragrance of juniper

Himalayan maple
and larch and the forests of rhododendrons

return from wilderness and sweet potatoes

carrot slices drying
on the stone slabs of the monastery

beside a lurid chorten
aflame from a parakeet’s yellow tail

and singing thrush’s laugh.

Return from
a world of bright colors

Green, Blue
Yellow, Ochre, White, Black

to the cities
of noisy sirens and

drab,
dowdy dot coms.

 

Links of interest:

Author links:

www.yuyutsu.de

http://yuyutsurdsharma.blogspot.com/

www.niralapublications.com

Related links:

Prayer flags: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prayer_flag

Bhuddist Bhutan warns that felling trees (to make prayer flags) is a threat to happiness:
http://in.reuters.com/article/topNews/idINIndia-42386620090911?rpc=401&

Tibetan singing bowls: http://www.bodhisattva.com/about.htm

Chendebji Chorten: http://www.cs.unm.edu/~shapiro/BHUTAN/MIDSIZE/nepalesestupa.html

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News

Marching for more than money

Graduate students strike at University of Illinois


Last November was unusually warm and sunny at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign until the morning of November 16, when a crowd of graduate students sporting ponchos, rain boots, and GEO signs and buttons swarmed the main Quad in the chilly rain. It was almost 7:45 a.m., and very few of us were used to being on campus that early on a Monday, or on any day.

The 8 a.m. teaching times are hardly coveted. We had prepared for this, though, and would not have missed it: we had been exchanging e-mail and Facebook messages on where to find the best raincoats and ponchos, and what to bring for snacks (and figuring out where we might use the restroom); we knew to have T-shirts, buttons, and signs, but that nothing with sticks were allowed.

During this kick-off of the Graduate Employees’ Union (GEO) strike, we could hold umbrellas to shield ourselves from the icy drops, but those umbrellas would have to be folded when we broke into groups to picket the large campus buildings around the Quad. It should have come as no surprise to the administration or the local and statewide media that the graduate students turned out in such numbers under such conditions, and not just because of the lingering, “Yes we can” mentality from the Obama campaign, or the rebellious allure of standing up for ourselves during a time when so much in the current economic and academic environment seems out of control, and definitely out of our control.

Trouble brewing

Disseminated over the previous week, the plan was clear: The administration’s representatives would sit down for a bargaining session — the 19th over this contract — with GEO’s bargaining unit, lead by history graduate student Kerry Pimblott, the weekend before the pending strike, and should they not reach a tentative agreement, we would strike.

Despite its distance from campus, a few hundred graduate students gathered for a rally outside the Institute of Aviation at Willard Airport, and several dozen crammed into the negotiation room a very small lecture hall. The issues on the table were various, and they seemed to reflect the economic mood of the country in general, and the state of Illinois in particular: The key points of the contract aimed to preserve current labor opportunities and tuition waivers.

The ‘f’ word on everyone’s mind in late 2009 was furloughs — mandatory time off work without pay — which no other union on campus had been able to negotiate out of their new contracts, and perhaps this would be the stickiest issue to hammer out. However, by the end of the long evening at the airport during which an agreement was reached on increase in the university’s contribution to graduate student healthcare premiums, on parental leaves, on dropping furloughs from the proposed contract, and on gradual raises to the minimum salary, the final point of contention between the administration and GEO had become the contract’s language regarding tuition waivers. Presented by the administration as a non-issue, the security of tuition waivers supports the very ability of the university to attract top graduate students as well as the ability of the most talented and deserving students to pursue graduate education.

The debate seemed further complicated by the verbiage that GEO demanded clarified: The existing language did not explicitly guarantee the waiver of the entire tuition amount, only the base rate, and this posed a threat to the graduate students from other states as well as other countries whose rate of tuition could have jumped higher than the minimum salary, making graduate school simply unaffordable for many current students. We were happy with the advances our bargaining team had made, but there was no way that we would accept a compromise on tuition waivers.

There had been previous signs of trouble on that front: the university had considered eliminating tuition waivers for graduate students working the least hours as graduate assistants (and thus making the smallest salary); they had rescinded tuition waivers to undergraduate TAs in chemistry. For some this seemed like a petty point, and I heard more than one undergraduate complain about how graduate students already got paid to go to school, and now they insisted on free tuition as well. I did my best to explain how it all works, that we don’t in fact get paid to go to school, but to work. We teach over 23% of all the undergraduate classes at UIUC. I usually teach four classes a year, two each semester, and if I deducted my tuition from my annual pay, I’d be left with –$4,247.

The strike begins

So we kicked off the strike in the rain, and continued to picket in the rain all day. The lines consisted not only of graduate assistants but also their partners, former graduate students, non-tenure-track faculty, and professors. Further down the line from me was English professor Cary Nelson, the President of the American Association of University Professors, who had called graduate students and collective bargaining “the only hope for the universities of the future” the week before at a GEO rally.

We each marched during the shifts we’d signed up for, and I suspect that many of us spent time at the picket lines outside of those shifts, too.  (We’d later Facebook about our various pains and aches, declaring it all worth it.) Facebook and Twitter updates about how the strike was going, sent from cell phones in picket lines, kept everyone informed, and the comments of encouragement and solidarity came not only from current students at UIUC and elsewhere, but from former graduate student workers as well whose leadership and hard work had created our labor union in the early 1990s, and whose efforts made these negotiations possible since the GEO was voted in as the official representative of graduate student labor at the University in 2003.

The second day of the strike dawned as rainy and windy as the first, but the picket lines remained strong and loud, with anticipation for new from the next bargaining session set for that morning. Looking around me, I saw perhaps even more enthusiasm than the day before. There was not just marching and chanting, but also singing and dancing.

Still, standing and walking around in the cold and the rain was getting to me a bit, but mostly because I felt misunderstood. While the campus newspaper was publishing accounts from both the administration and the GEO, but I was frustrated at what I called “the fear talk,” regarding the strike. After all, GEO had informed the media about the strike, and we’d all talked to our students about it ahead of time.

Yet the picketing itself and the empty classrooms were depicted as frightening: One headline for The Daily Illini answered valid questions about what undergraduate students might encounter during the strike in a piece that purportedly addressed “the rising fears about GEO strike” (none of my students or the students I saw walking by — and crossing — the picket lines seemed intimidated). Similarly, some undergraduates posted video they’d shot on their cell phones on the Quad. Seemingly enjoying themselves outside of class, one of the students laughs and she tells the camera that the “TAs” are being “loud” and “scary.” It was at times frustrating to see these students, of whose education we are such a crucial part, think of the strike as gratuitous. I hope, though, that seeing their teachers in the picket line and having to think about what that meant might have been useful higher education for some of the students.

By early afternoon, the news was spreading to suspend the strike and gather around the Foellinger Auditorium at the heart of campus to hear that GEO negotiated a side note guaranteeing the current tuition waivers for the duration of the contract and thus reached a tentative agreement. The celebratory crowd, with their banners, drums, and chants, had a few hours until GEO’s largest general membership meeting in its history came together to hear the details.

The strike was suspended, and over the three remaining days before the fall break, GEO members voted on ratifying the contract. It was strange how much we noticed being away from our respective buildings for just two days, but we were also happier than ever to be there. The dim halls of the English building sure seemed brighter Wednesday morning. I felt I had actually earned my right, in a more profound way, to work in that building. Walking across the street to the University YMCA to cast my vote felt like decompression after the intensity of the picket lines.

The after effects

Given how significant and controversial the strike was on campus, the attention to it among the general campus community seemed to wane rather quickly. Perhaps the tryptophan helped wash away the immediacy of the two-day strike over the Thanksgiving break. Only one of my students mentioned the outcome to me, as small talk when came to ask me about an assignment. But among the graduate students who picketed and had a hand in bringing about the best possible contract for us under current conditions, the effects of the strike lingered, and not just because our pay might have been docked to the tune of 50 bucks or so for the work missed during the strike.

We’re beginning to see the changes we have collectively worked for. As I write this, furloughs have resurfaced in the news over the past week or so, and it’s good to know we won’t face them even as we feel for those having to basically take a pay-cut under a slightly fancier verbiage. For some reason, the strike reminded me more than anything about the prospective graduate students I’ve shown around campus as they visited their potential new school.

We’d often talk about money, and where to live, and what grad school is really like, but we, the more experienced graduate students, talk about GEO. It might not register amid the whirlwind campus visits, but this one thing makes a world of difference. Our organized effort — the rallies and phone calls and meetings and activism of each of us, of those former grads who I barely remember from my first year — continues to make it possible for these new students to come here, and for them to show someone else around in their turn and tell them about the union that has helped them win a more fair contract.

 

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Anti-Obama madness now turning into domestic terrorism


 

Extremist groups are taking rightful grievances against the government and President Obama to a new level by threatening elected local officials. 

The Associated Press says

"The FBI is warning police across the country that an anti-government group's call to remove governors from office could provoke violence by others.

A group that calls itself the Guardians of the Free Republics wants to "restore America" by peacefully dismantling parts of the government, according to its Web site.

As of Wednesday, more than 30 governors had received letters saying if they don't leave office within three days they will be removed, according to an internal intelligence note by the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security…"

 

There were many who cautioned against the way anti-Obama sentiments were getting racially charged and turning violent, and this was just after he was elected. But then, their concerns were brushed aside. Now, the situation is truly scary.

This group, Guardians of the Free Republics, is an extremist fringe group. According to their website, it is clear that they see Obama's government and his election as "illegitimate" although do not explain why they believe so.

Homeland Security cautioned against the rising threat of domestic terrorism by lunatic groups like these last year. If you remember, the DHS Secretary was criticized for that report. Well, she was right. Sadly.

 

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Ladies, need a lift? Try a Pink Taxi


 

The private cab company, Pink Taxi, was backed by the Mexican government late last year in an attempt to help women feel safer taking cabs. And a lot of feedback has been positive. A 17-year-old student named Melissa Ayala said in an interview, "Mexico is going through a difficult time; insecurity is part of our lives. The fact that these taxis can be found outside nightclubs makes our parents more comfortable. It was the first time I sat back and relaxed in a cab." Twenty-one-year-old passenger Joss Roco agreed with the need for harassment-free transportation, stating, "It's uncomfortable to ride with a man who looks at you like a sex object just because you're wearing a skirt; I felt calm and confident being driven by a woman."

 

In addition to making women feel secure hopping in a cab, the service has helped empower spades of women drivers by opening employment opportunities and dispelling stereotypes in this machismo-driven culture that women can't drive or fix their vehicles. Rocio Nava, one of Pink Taxis' 60 drivers, said that her training included 180 hours of defensive driving, self-defense, and basic mechanics.

 

Still, for all the praise the women-only taxis have gotten, feedback isn't always all roses. For one thing, many are galled by the chosen color, vibrant pink, and state that the fact that each cab is equipped with GPS and a make-up kit does more to cement negative connotations of women rather that help them. 

 

Despite all this, women-only taxis only seem to becoming more popular, not less so. Puebla intends to expand its fleet to 300 cabs, and similar services have cropped up in locations as far away as Lebanon and Moscow. And women seem to be responding. Ayala said, "I was eager to use Pink Taxi not only because it's safer, but also as a way to support other women who are trying to improve their economic situation." 

 

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Overheard on the subway, part 5


Evening rush hour on the 2 train: A middle-aged woman dashes between the closing doors and trips over a seated man's foot.Woman: Sorry.

Man nods, doesn't say anything.

Woman, touching her forehead a little flustered: I'm sorry I ran into you.

Man: No worries.

Woman: I just saw my son on the platform. Out of the blue. Of all people…

Man, now with an unmistakable British accent: I ran into a mate of mine from Leeds on the L train.

Woman: Isn't that the strangest? It's like kismet or something.

Man: You think being in New York you can escape. You can't. It's like an alternate universe. It's the smallest city in the world.

Just then I take a sideways glance at the woman sitting next to me. We're both reading the same book (Three Cups of Tea — highly recommended) and we're reading the same page at the same time. You better believe this city is small.

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