The Pink City Series: ‘We Don’t Need No Education’

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“Life is not a continuum of pleasant choices, but of inevitable problems that call for strength, determination, and hard work”

-Indian Proverb

 

As some of you may know, for the next week I will be writing from Jaipur. I am working for a social development programme, taking place in a daycare centre and women’s empowerment class. Today I am writing particularly about my work at the daycare centre and life in the slums of Jaipur

Work began in the ‘Anagwadis’, the government funded daycare programmes that run through the slums of Rajasthan. Here, up to 18 children (aged from 2-14) congregate in a small room (the size of the average UK bathroom) to learn English, Maths and basic conversational skills. The kids that I taught in the Kathputali Nagar slum of Jaipur were simply inspiring. The children flocked to the classroom, willing and eager to learn, and so desperate to get a taste of the foreign culture that was being brought directly to them. They adored everything about the UK, from the accent to what they had heard about the food and fashion, and of course- The Olympics. Having spoken to a child, Roshan, who, at aged 14 had managed to visit New Delhi, he was hungry to learn more about the world around him; supplementing every question about the UK with an anecdote about his three days in  New Delhi. As insignificant as a trip to New Delhi from Jaipur may sound, Roshan is the class advisory for all things foreign, with children asking, ‘What do they eat in New Delhi’, ‘Is it hot in New Delhi at this time of year?’. The most disturbing fact is that no matter how passionately these children strive for a life outside the slum, many will live the remainder of their lives there.

Education ought to be the tool to provide these children with the tools for socio-economic elevation, but sadly it remains an almost insignificant addition to life in the slums. Throughout my time working in Kathputali Nagar, many men, sitting next to one of the Angawadis, questioned the children’s place at the facility. And despite attending school, and enjoying the lessons there, the state funded education system is already saturated with children (many of whom are irregular attendees) and not enough teaching staff (with up to 52 in one class with a presiding teacher).

As education is erratic in India, this causes the levels of education to become blurred with age. Throughout my time at the Angawadi, I taught classes that combined 8 year olds with 13 year olds, abiding by the same syllabus, and therefore many are simply held back, with no room to push forward. Thus the children here are at an immediate disadvantage, with many not even being able to read and write basic Hindi by the age of nine!  Their options are null and void and they and their children are confined to a life in the slums.  As attendance has been so erratic during my time here, it has been hard to form a strong connection with all the children in my Angawadi, but so many who long to learn are trapped by an environment that cannot foster a value for education. There are about thirteen children who would visit the Angawadi every day, and we would all sit together, often outside on a picnic blanket, because the ongoing monsoon season ravages the classroom in the evenings, occasionally flooding the whole room, and rendering any supplies affected useless.

Yet the outside area is usually worse, with the heat of the morning and early afternoon causing the flies to descend upon the children and the teaching area. What’s more, many of the children are famished upon arrival, as they don’t eat until 11:30 am (one of the two meals they eat during the day; the other being at around 7:30 pm) they find it hard to concentrate, and in the case of the infants, stop crying.

As I mentioned in my last post, medical assistance (or lack of) is, as expected, the primary source of deteriorating health and infant mortality. Yet one of the contributing factors is the scarcity of clothes, chief of which is trousers/underwear/diapers. For infants in the slums, a diaper is synonymous with waste. The aim of those living in the slum is sustainability, and a disposable diaper is an unnecessary expense. Yet diapers/underwear for infants is such a vital source for good health. To have a pair of shoes or shorts would greatly reduce the spread of infection. Yet this is simply a luxury that, for those in the slums, isn’t worth indulging in.

Although it seems that I am criticizing life in the slums, what I noticed in Kathputali Nagar was nothing to be criticized. The inhabitants are already disapproved of by Indian society, as the slum areas aren’t ‘attractive’ nor do they adhere by state rules, with regards to utilities in particular. But these inhabitants are independent, resourceful, friendly, generous and hospitable. They work hard to rely on themselves. Whilst many find it hard to find work, they continue to pick up small jobs around their vicinage. Many families also use livestock (goats in particular) to create an income; making life in these slums wildly efficient.

Whilst my time in the Angawadi has been stressful, hot, chaotic and demanding, it has also been truly insightful, and truly beautiful. To have seen such warmth, community spirit, and an appetite for success, prosperity and improvement was, (however clichéd it may sound) life changing.

Stay tuned for the rest of the series and a photo update as I continue blogging directly from Jaipur this week! 

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The Pink City Series: Out and About in Jaipur

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As some of you may know, for the next week I will be writing from Jaipur. I am working for a social development programme, taking place in a daycare centre and women’s empowerment class, and will be writing about my work there. I thought I would take this opportunity to also write about what I have managed to see so far (in the tourist sense).

 For the past two days I have been fortunate enough to get a glimpse of the city of Jaipur and absorb the life of a city that is as beautiful as it is chaotic.

As you step off your flight the smog-mottled sky and the muggy air are oddly welcoming. There is a warmth and sense of welcoming in the heat and thickness of your surroundings. At this time of year the ‘monsoon’ season descends upon Jaipur, although it is horrendously hot at every hour of the day. The city of Jaipur is so seductive because of this sweltering entropy that manages to tick the ‘authentic Indian experience’ box. I tried my luck at getting a rickshaw to take me around the old city area of Jaipur (where its most famous markets are located). I visited Jahori market, notable for its ‘knick- knacks’ and jewelry. The streets in India have a reputation for being, how shall I say… ridiculously dangerous. This is down to the driving, and in Jaipur it isn’t particularly different. Yet one thing that should be mentioned is how although horns blare and cars swerve to get to the correct side of the dual carriageway, these drivers perform their stunts with sheer nonchalance and calm. Unlike the west, the UK in particular, a horn used equates to fierce road rage and anguish. In India a horn blared is a warning signal to ‘please avoid my motorbike with three children and a dog hanging to my shirt sleeves.’ In India, people drive with the lunacy and carelessness of others in mind, and it works magically and efficiently.

Walking around the old city yesterday, a friend and I were approached by a rickshaw driver claiming ‘I will take you to markets and places for fifty rupees, there and back’. My friend and I jumped in, enjoying the helpful hand from a driver, who wasn’t taking advantage of tourists. Although this may sound ludicrously un-safe, a rickshaw in India is one of the city’s best inventions, the drivers are simply looking to earn money and help friends who work in various professions that interest tourists. Our driver was a delight. He took us to one of the infamous family jewelers in Jaipur (Sting and Christy Turlington often frequenting the jeweler when they make a visit to India). We were met with precious stones and a butler to offer us chai, coffee or ‘Thums Up’ (the blissfully misspelled Indian ‘Coca-Cola’ with an almost salty tang). The service is all part of a fantastic sales technique; being treated like royalty means that you feel guilty for taking advantage of a service and walking away with nothing. The technique works beautifully, and it is rather cynical to state guilt as the driving force behind buying because you walk away pretty happy from the ego-massage and great buy.

Jaipur, like other Indian cities is unfortunately plagued by the heinous inequality that ravages its caste system. I have been working in the community run day care facilities in Jaipur. Here local women of various districts who visit the slums daily to teach the young children basic numeracy and literacy skills, as well as basic hygiene run these inspiring initiatives. The visits of these women are the only opportunity of the day whereby the children get to vaguely clean themselves (by washing their hair, hands and face), and they are also able to brush their teeth with the new toothbrushes the women buy everyday (due to the irregularity of attendance by the children). These children are bright, perky, longing to learn and be shown just that extra bit of attention, as many of the children bring their younger siblings with them to ensure that they are cleaned and taught as well. This morning we sang and danced, we taught the children what different types of animals were native to India, and we managed to give all the children in attendance a quick check-up, to dress and clean any wounds, and try and get them hospital appointments in the main city. This was considerably easier than any other weekday, as ‘Friday Fun Day’ means that the children can enjoy a more relaxed environment in the classroom.

Medical assistance (above anything else) is, tragically, one of the major pitfalls for these young kids.  India’s medical system is based on ‘cash up front’ which is simply not an option for these slum families. These parents are trying to do the best by their children, and give them a fighting chance to better themselves, so they don’t have to end up living in the slums for the rest of their life. Ultimately this trip seems to truly be one of insight and perspective, as having planned my lessons for next week, I am ready to begin getting to know these children and their families, and hopefully gain the confidence to push forward and absorb the world around them, all the while improving their chances of leaving their current situation.

 Stay tuned for the rest of the series and a photo update as I continue blogging directly from Jaipur this week! 

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The Culture Blog on Music…’Friends’

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Band: Brooklyn quintet ‘Friends’

Members: Samantha Urbani, Lesley Hann, Nikki Shapiro, Matthew Molnar, Oliver Duncan.

On Wednesday night I ventured to see a band that I had heard only a few times (and those occasions were all through my iPod). It is rare that I would go to see a band that I hadn’t listened to or read up on. I was, however, pleasantly surprised with a band that had a raw, sultry sound, but also this unique stage charisma that was electric and powerfully magnetic. The venue was the infamous Camden club, ‘Dingwalls’, a perfect setting, with its demure lighting, intimate layout and a buzzing atmosphere and a good crowd to rebound off.

Friends are a band with a sexy and stylish panache that exudes into the audience. They work hard to create a polished sound that mixes a heavy disco beat and 1990s R&B influence (you can hear musical allusions in their work, from Prince to TLC). On Wednesday night they produced a small set, but approached it with a seductive vigour and a smoky sound, that when married with the thick bass, sporadic percussion and heavy drum beat, created something close to indie-funk/pop magic. They jumped in, wooing the crowd with their confidence and overwhelming sassiness, beginning with a down-tempo funk fest such a ‘Mind Control’, Friends ultimately show that they are a band who aren’t looking to grab or harass into listening to their work, but they focus on their stellar calm and unity as a group, to create a laid back and reveling sound. This praise is partly down to the mesmeric Samantha Urbani and her serpent like seduction of the crowd; which included walking through the crowd during ‘Friends Crush’ and creating a powerful tryst with members of the audience she had never met before. Urbani is somewhat reminiscent of a young Gwen Stefani, in style and attitude, with the impressive vocal talents of Cyndi Lauper and Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam. She avoids a hokey and sensational sound, preferring a mysterious and elusive vocal technique that is easy to lose oneself in.

Friends’ songwriting is something that deserves routine applause, not least because they manage to focus on relationships, without providing us with a sappy, lovesick account of a failed relationship. Friends stick to the sources of power behind keeping a relationship strong, a musical couples counselor. Indeed, the song ‘I’m His Girl’ on the album ‘Manifest!’ is a singing pamphlet of advice, “So if you love someone, let them be free. I know I don’t want no one suffocating me, don’t settle for ownership”. Friends focus on the minutiae of a relationship, the often neglected and discarded aspects of songwriting. By mixing a warm sound of jingling percussion and a buzzing bass line they created a sound that revels in its perfectly conjured mastery, shown in their hypnotic performance of ‘Ideas on Ghosts’ and ‘Home’. Friends gave the audience a ‘Dingwalls’ an excellent UK debut, using their powers of effortless cool and their magic of in-synch seduction to dazzle the audience. Ultimately the Brooklyn five-piece should be proud of such a polished and well-executed performance that introduced many to their unique sound, and a new act of funk decadence.

‘Manifest!’  -The album is out now

Supporting act: ‘Reptar’- a weird and truly wonderful Georgian quintet. The drunken love child of ‘Vampire Weekend’ and ‘Black Sabbath’. An unusual but wholly satisfying mix.

Reptar’s album ‘Body Faucet’ is out on July 2nd (our favourite song was ‘Please don’t kill me’).

The Culture Blog on Film…’Once upon a time in Anatolia’

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Cert (UK): 15

Runtime: 157 mins

Directors: Nuri Bilge Ceylan

Cast: Firat Tanis, Muhammet Uzuner, Taner Birsel, Yilmaz Erdogan

Rating:

*****

Nuri Bilge Ceylan has been described as an artistic genius, having developed an interest in photography from the age of 15, his films have been described as ‘high art’. Indeed Once upon a time in Anatolia is a work of art, perhaps best related to a Damien Hirst, something that will allow us to discuss, debate, whine and ponder. This film is not for everyone. A blunt statement that may seem clichéd, but I am absolutely certain that this film will divide viewers.

Overall nothing seems to happen in the film. The plot anchors itself with the search for a corpse, through the guidance of two prisoners guarded and led by police officers, the state prosecutor, and a medical examiner. They lead them into the eerie expanse of the Anatolian steppe: the plain where Asia reaches west into Iran, Armenia and Turkey. It is here whereby the majority of the film takes place. The use of the vast landscape is cinematographic genius; deserted plains, embellished with luscious greens allow the landscape to act as a symbol for the veritable hopelessness of the journey.

The team (including the murder suspects) is forced to work through the night, allowing tempers to be tested and rationality to be rendered senseless. Yet these are the moments in the film whereby the obvious drama comes to a diminuendo and is mottled in what seem to be irrelevant absurdities. Yet despite their absurdness, the various comments made, (particularly that of the prosecutor’s likeness to Clark Gable) add to their questioning of their lives, and most importantly the emptiness of their own lives.

Ceylan however has seemed to have made the mistake of timing, the film runs for two hours and thirty seven minutes long, and at times the elongated script seems to rely on brief instances of humour to break up the long instances whereby Ceylan relies heavily on his various artistic methods from the atmospheric silences, which become haunting emblems of the spiritual and physical quest they are all on, to the use of regular shots of characters from the back, to add the sense of an enclosed, claustrophobic space contrasting with the vast landscape.

Whilst there is no doubt that Ceylan has produced a visual masterpiece of a raw and arid land that is symbolic of the torment of human emotion, it seems though that Ceylan has dressed the piece with questionable methods. The sluggish core of the plot seems to feel comfortable depending on the subtle instances of beauty and nuance that unfortunately do not compensate for the overall puzzlement that the audience is faced with. To commend Ceylan is apt, but I do not feel is his not his best work to date, Anatolia does not match up to ‘Distances’ and ‘Three Monkeys’, but has allowed Ceylan to show his artistic prowess once again, and that certainly does deserve praise.



The Culture Blog reviews… ‘Hajj: Journey to the Heart of Islam’ at the British Museum

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It is rare that an exhibition acts as a religious and polemical hammer to those too ignorant, uninterested, and all too unwilling to engage with the history and beauty of a particular religion. Even today the Islamic faith is routinely misconstrued and is the subject of a worldwide divide. This exhibition acts as a veritable backhand to those who are simply unaware of the beauty within Islam.

The Reading Room acts as the perfect setting for the exhibition. Through the winding passage, and the serenading tones of the call to prayer, leading us to the main part of the exhibition, we are almost transported through the various and at times unknown beauties of Islam. The Hajj is the fifth pillar of Islam and is a pilgrimage to Mecca and is a religious duty that Muslims should undertake if they are able, at least once in their lives. It is both a collective undertaking and a deeply personal experience. The exhibition traces the suppliers of travellers’ provisions, the organisers of camel caravans, the queen who left a legacy of a chain of wells and rest houses, and the builders who constructed railways especially for the pilgrims.

What is truly moving is the fact that over two million Muslims are gathered in one place for one thing, simply to enhance their spiritual connection with Allah. The purity and spirituality of this cause is simply incredible. Islam means surrender or submission to God, and this framework helps to connect the individual Muslim to the wider Islamic community, known as ‘Umrah’. The exhibition moves further, taking us through the development of Islamic culture; from jewelry to the history behind the Hajj. The Hajj is ultimately a journey of spiritual awakening. Pilgrims return home determined to live by the principles of Islam move faithfully than ever before. Indeed as the British Museum’s director (Neil McGregor) has stated, ‘The hajj is the fifth pillar of Islam, and the only one which non-Muslims are not welcomed to observe or share. The purpose of the British Museum when it was founded was to enable its visitors to understand the world better, and this must surely meet that objective.’ The exhibition is a veritable feast for the visitor. We can devour such a beautiful array of Islamic gems. The exhibition includes the travel diaries and photographs of several outsiders who did go on the hajj, including the explorer and writer Richard Burton, whose account of his travels in disguise in 1853 became a best seller. Although the exhibition includes ancient textiles which once hung over and inside the Ka’bah, and a little leather pouch of dust gathered from its floor, there is no image of the interior of the shrine about which outsiders have always been curious.

Unfortunately the exhibition is rifled with a substantial amount of text that, at times is overwhelming. Yet this is a minor quibble concerning an exhibition which is like nothing that London will have seen before. The Hajj is a journey that attracts Muslims from all walks of life, and is a journey that people are compelled to take, not only as part of their religious duty but to understand more about the beautiful land of Mecca and to understand the level of sacrifice for a single journey of importance, for the mind and soul. I applaud the curators for pushing an inspiring exhibition that works to show the intricate beauty of a culture that has been misunderstood and has not been given the time for us to appreciate.

‘My Own Private Syria’- A country which is engaging in the greatest war it has ever faced- that with itself.

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First it was Hosni Mubarak, then Muammar Gaddafi, now the all too haunting stare of Bashar Al-Assad is plastered throughout news bulletins over the world. What is surprising is the sudden level of interest, shock, horror and disbelief that has ultimately climaxed this year, despite Arab unrest having spread to Syria by March of last year. Yet there is something overwhelmingly haunting about the unrest in Syria; something that neither Egypt nor Libya seemed to evoke. It’s the absolute passion for freedom, the absolute depravity (and in some cases destitution) of the people of Syria that clashes with the terrifyingly quiet demeanour and reserved smile of Bashar Al-Assad and the glimmer of terror that shines in his eyes. Al-Assad carries himself with an assured and humble demeanour and is a man of few words, something that the dictators of the past year hadn’t perfected as well as Assad. Yet I suppose this overwhelming fear stems from Al-Assad’s history as prime-minister, and as a member of the notorious Al-Assad family. Al-Assad had inherited Syria’s harsh dictatorship from his father Hafez al-Assad, and at first wavered between force and hints of reform. He was popular, intelligent, quiet and seemingly unassuming and was set to free Syria from the shackles of its tyrannical captors. Bashar initially inspired hopes for reform; a “Damascus Spring” of intense political and social debate took place from July 2000 to August 2001. The period was characterized by the emergence of numerous political forums where groups of like minded people met in private houses to debate political and social issues. Political activists, such as, Riad Seif, Haitham al-Maleh, and Aref Dalila were important in mobilizing the movement. Damascus Spring ended in August 2001 with the arrest and imprisonment of ten leading activists who had called for democratic elections and a campaign of civil disobedience. This was the start of the slippery slope that has led Assad to the pit of slaughter, surveillance and subjugation of his own people.

Al-Assad has smiled uneasily, and slithered around Syrian politics, dealing with any murmur of outspoken behaviour and any complaints regarding the viability of his so called ‘democratic’ rule with horrifying violence as a lesson for those considering similar contradictions. Indeed the people of Syria are faced not only with the heinous disregard for human rights and welfare that Al-Assad displays, but these citizens feel tricked, duped and foolish for ever thinking that their rights were to be heard by this family ever again. Bashar was appointed leader of the Ba’ath Party and the Army, and was elected president unopposed in what the regime claimed to be a massive popular support (97.2% of the votes). What is left is a one-party state which continues to believe in its right to govern, dictate and move forward with treacherous onslaught.

The fear of Syria’s people has now reached new heights (if at all possible). Those who have been caught up in the rebellions have been in some cases quiet families simply looking to keep their heads down, but have felt the unmerciful hands of the Syrian Army. One man (a salesman fromHoms) says having fled to a Syrian ghetto with neither running water nor any clothes nor money, his new-born child will not be able to withstand the damp. The salesman also faces the possibility of having to lose his wife (due to the lack of medical care she received upon giving birth to the new born child). Yet this story managed to chill me to the very core, upon learning that this man’s eldest son (age 11) was murdered by the Syrian Army when they had burst into his home and threatened to murder his son if he did not leave Homs with his family immediately, and despite having told the soldiers that he would leave that very minute, they murdered his son in the living room of the humble salesman’s four room house.

 What’s more women fleeing the district told a BBC television reporter in video broadcast on last Monday night that government forces had rounded up and killed men from area, where armed rebels and army defectors had resisted days of government artillery, sniper and tank fire. Now, nearly a year after the uprising began, the opposition remains a fractious collection of political groups, long-time exiles, grass-roots organizers and armed militants, all deeply divided along ideological, ethnic or sectarian lines, and too disjointed to agree on even the rudiments of a strategy to topple Mr. Assad’s government. While Assad routinely denounces the rebellions as a ‘foreign plot’, his people have refused to bear his sullen treason and disregard for the very essence of human life.

            While Bashar, an English speaking army doctor is both quietly terrifying, the world watches to see what will become of the Al-Assad dynasty, a lineage that his wife Asma, joined. Asma is a character of complexity, to say the least. A British born and bred investment banker, she married Bashar in 2000, (the year he took over his father’s role as leader), and despite witnessing the atrocities that were carried out by Hafez al-Assad’s regime, it is possible that she too managed to fall for Bashar’s reserved nature that was set to reform Syria. Yet critics have argued that she is simply an accomplice to a vile dictatorship, dubbing her as the ‘Marie Antoinette of Damascus’. As and onlooker it is simply baffling to watch Asma stand by the tyranny as a woman, who is supposedly intelligent (a computer science and French literature graduate), but also a British born Syrian, despite witnessing the atrocities that were carried out by Hafez al-Assad’s regime whilst living inBritain.

The United Nations, the United Statesand countries around the world have condemned the crackdown and President Assad rigorously, with criticism has come from unlikely quarters, like Syria’s close neighbours, Jordanand Turkey, and the Arab League. Syriawas expelled from the Arab League after it agreed to a peace plan only to step up attacks on protesters. In November, the league applied wide-ranging sanctions. In December 2011 and late January 2012, Syria agreed to allow league observers into the country, but their presence did nothing to slow the violence. Just last month the death of Marie Colvin and Rémi Ochlik resonates as a reminder of how still the intervention of the truth is refused by Bashar Al-Assad, and any possibility of the heinousness trickling outside Syria is dealt with violence against the bearers of truth.

What we can safely say is that Syria is imploding as each day passes, from the savage massacre of its people, to the crumbling buildings and cry of desperation from its people. It has now been a year since the Arab Spring blew its way into Syria, and the upsurge of Tunisia, Egypt and Libya evoked something amongst its people. It was on March 6th of last year that a small group of teenagers sprawled graffiti on a wall in the Syrian town of Dara’a reading- ‘The people want the regime to fall’. Indeed these people (Assad’s fellow citizens) have made it clear that this regime can no longer continue shedding the blood, despair and brutality it has done for over thirty years, it is time for this regime to fall, but unfortunately the city, the country and its people will have to fall with it.

Hello world!

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WELCOME TO ‘The Culture Blog’!!! Here there will be reviews, comments and articles regarding  all things ‘culture’. Now this broad blog will encompass politics, art,music,theatre,film and the world around us. Keep it here to get the lowdown, and follow me on Twitter (@shraipopat). 

Thank you and happy blogging and reading!!!

 

S