International Political Will

This week: the number 1 – my last post – and the most obvious one thing I could think of.

“For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”
–Matthew 18:20

My interpreter, Hasib, helped arrange a meeting with Mufti Siddiqie Musleem, Afghanistan’s senior mullah on the Dar al-Fatwa, or the “House of Fatwas.”

You know, a fatwa. That thing where those evil Muslims sentence infidels to death for writing a book or drawing a cartoon. Think Salman Rushdie.

[...Afghanistan's Mufti Musleem...]

We got out of the taxi in Old Kabul, and melted into the mass of people, eventually finding our way to a decrepit concrete building next to the raw sewage that once passed for the Kabul River. The unarmed security guard at the gate barely checked us as we passed. No metal detectors. No dogs. No bag checks. Just a casual “Salaam” greeting.

What was I walking into?

We found an open door in the back of the building, and worked our way through long, dark concrete hallways. The men in the hallways wrapped in heavy scarves were heating water for tea on small open fires, and they greeted us as we passed.

We removed our shoes and entered a small chamber with a ring of old, long-bearded men sitting on a typical red Afghan carpet. This was the Dar al-Fatwa, and these clerics comprised the court that decides what is halal (permitted) and what is haram, or forbidden. They are perhaps more powerful than the Afghan Supreme Court, since they essentially act as religious advisors to the secular courts set up since 2001.

We exchanged greetings around the circle, and then one of them beckoned us to follow him into the next room. We arranged ourselves in chairs around a low table, and a young man brought in hot tea and dried sweets.

The cleric Musleem is considered a solid pro-woman voice in Afghanistan. With Hasib interpreting, we discussed issues related to female development and what the Quran really requires of Muslims. Musleem – a learned cleric who has spent his whole life studying the Quran – believes the so-called “Muslim” terrorists are acting against the word of Allah.

As the interview came to an end, Musleem said he was glad to meet another American and that one day the world, both Christians and Muslims, will live as brothers in peace.

As I shook his hand again, I agreed and replied with “We are all children of the God of Abraham.”

That needed no translation. Musleem paused and looked at me, then wrapped both hands around mine, and smiled.

“Allahu Akbar,” he said, still grasping my hand. God is great. Except he didn’t yell it in the “I’m going to cut your head off” way we are used to seeing in Hollywood movies. He said it in a “Man, that’s cool” way.

The exchange reminded me of a bible verse from Sunday school when I was young:

“For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”
–Matthew 18:20

Was God there in that room with me and the Mufti?

I grew up Christian, and still identify myself as one if asked. Yet I don’t go to church, don’t “pray” in the literal sense of the word, and certainly don’t believe in dogma or adhere to practices required by many denominations.

But that hasn’t stopped me from searching for the truths of religion, understanding the value of the prophets’ teachings (Moses, Jesus, Muhammad), and, especially through my time living overseas, realizing that we are all talking about the same one God.

Yet if all “gods” are essentially the same, how can American Christians fulfill their mission without imposing their worldview or lifestyle on others?

It starts with reinterpreting the Christian mission and what it truly means to share one’s faith in God.

“As the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without deeds is dead.”
–James 2:26

In high school, I went on yearly mission trips with a church youth group to build homes for the poor in the slums of Tijuana, Mexico. The families we were helping appeared very different from us – at least on the surface. They not only spoke a different language and had different skin color (at least from mine), but lived in homes constructed from old garage doors, lacked adequate sanitation, and survived in poverty.

We called these trips “missions” – but they had nothing to do with trying to “spread the word” or convert anyone. We were simply there to help others. Conversion or proselytizing was never part of the agenda.

Because the focus of the mission actually wasn’t “them” – it was “us.” The trip was about us growing spiritually, about us learning to love thy neighbor, and sharing ourselves and our time with the less fortunate.

The experience in Mexico was life-changing – especially as teenagers. But to truly experience these situations required engagement, understanding, and moving beyond stereotypes and fear. They were experiences with the “Other” – and ones that bridged differences. They connected Us with Them over geography, economic barriers, and culture.

Jesus was a man of action – of social justice, of compassion, charity, tolerance, and love. He made no distinctions between men – there were no classes, no races, no genders, no foreigners, no “Other.” Surely his followers should do the same.

But can Christians be the only religion with a mission to serve others?

“And if God has so willed, He could surely have made you all one single community; but [he willed it otherwise] in order to test you by means of what he has given unto you. Vie, then, with one another in doing good works!”
–Qur’an 5:48

Now that’s a religious war I’d like to see – the world vying with each other to do good deeds. A sort of ecumenical Olympics.

[...Sai Baba is a revered late-19th century Indian mystic. He never disclosed whether he was Muslim or Hindu..]

Missions of compassion can transcend religious differences. They teach us how to seek our own spirituality while engaging in acts that connect people and make the world a better place. There is unlimited potential in “mission” experiences – USAID, Peace Corps, AmeriCorps, teaching English to new immigrants, volunteering at homeless shelters…

When two or more people gather to show compassion for fellow man through good deeds, then we have found the true spirituality that we all seek in God. Does it matter if one is Catholic, one Lutheran, one Muslim, one Jew, one Hindu, one Buddhist?

Isn’t loving thy neighbor our mission – not as Christians, Jews, or Muslims – but as humans?

Are we really so different from the Other? Can we simultaneously seek to judge our neighbor’s religion or try to convert them – while at the same time truly loving them?

It’s time for American Christians to move forward and fulfill their true mission. As a nation, whether Christian, Jew or Hindu, we must seize opportunities with the Other that can overcome differences and fear. We can show the world that love is what drives our country – not an intolerant dogma, military power, neo-imperialism, economic ideology, or racial superiority.

So the only question left is: Can Islam coexist in harmony with Christianity?

Mufti Seddiqie Musleem thinks so.

And if Afghanistan’s Dar al-Fatwa sees the light, why can’t we?

On May 25, I will return to the United States after four years abroad. I am doing a countdown from 10 – starting at 10 and ending with 1 the last week of May when I depart India. And then that’s it – the end. I’ll ride off into the sunset where all the other former bloggers have gone, where we all comfort each other in the realization that no one noticed…

This week – the number 2, and the two things I miss most about the United States.

There’s things I don’t miss, to be sure, but I’ll avoid mentioning them in an effort to keep this post positive. But let me just say that America’s blissful ignorance, political “choice” between the GOP and Democrats, obsession with guns, and consumerism are things I don’t look forward to returning to.

There. I feel better.

That and the Tea Party.

Okay. Seriously…moving on.

1.    Clean air

I remember growing up in the Sacramento Valley in California and those unbearably hot summer days. It must have been 20 years ago when the meteorologists on the news started reporting the PSI index, a measurement of the particles of pollution in the air. They had a nice color-coded scale – and I think anything above 100 or so was considered “unhealthy.” Some summer days would reach the red “unhealthy” zone, and the news would warn us to stay indoors.

By the late 90s, the PSI index was replaced by the Air Quality Index, but the numbers were still relatively the same (more than 100 = bad). California started “Spare the Air” days in the summer when the index would exceed healthy levels, and they encouraged you to avoid going outside or to at least use public transportation (public buses were free on those days). To be honest, though, I never really noticed the air being particularly bad. Hot, yes. Polluted…not really.

And then I moved to Mumbai.

The PSI/AQI measurement in Mumbai on most days of the year is above 350. But you don’t need a color-coded scale to know the air is shit. You can see it. Literally. It’s like a white haze that sometimes is so thick it reduces visibility across the street.

[...LEFT: shot from my flat in Mumbai on a "clear" day (maybe 4-5 times a year). RIGHT: the same shot on an "average" day...]

Your throat hurts. You develop nasty coughs. Headaches. It sometimes smells (though, usually, that’s just the sewage). A nice coating of dirt, dust, and soot settles on everything in the house in only one day. The only reprieve is during the monsoon, where the rain washes the city, the winds blow out the pollution, and it actually seems…well, clean (except for the increase in water-borne illnesses and lack of potable water).

The U.S. and Japan both have made amazing strides in combating air pollution over the past 30 years. Cities like Los Angeles and Kitakyushu used to be polluted and on the road to environmental destruction, but civil society, government regulations, and an educated public cleaned things up. (This doesn’t mean that the U.S. is still not producing a disproportionate share of the world’s greenhouse gases – because we are. But we’ve figured out how to manage it so that it doesn’t affect our health as much.)

So when I step off the plane in San Francisco next week, the first thing I’m going to do is breathe deep.

And then thank Richard Nixon for his wisdom and foresight in promoting environmental conservation in 1970.

2.    Food

Eating might be what Americans love most, but an overweight America gorging on hot dogs and soda is not the image I wish to evoke. Imagine instead the vast immigrants that comprise America: Mexican, Chinese, Italian, Persian, Brazilian, French, Middle Eastern, Thai, German, Japanese, Nicaraguan, Ethiopian, and so on.  And then think about the many foods that all these immigrants bring with them in their quest for the American dream.

It’s the freedom to sample and experience so many different foods in each of these situations that is truly American. The ability to interact with people from so many different places, backgrounds and religions connects an entire nation every day at mealtime.

[...I know - it looks good. But when every meal entails some combination of these, you get tired of it...]

Restaurants are just the beginning. Many cities have independent grocers specializing in goods and spices essential for cooking meals from the many countries represented in America. The stores are hard to find, usually tucked away on a small street, with no bright neon signs to attract attention, no club cards or express lanes. They are family-run businesses, and still retain that atmosphere with their customers, regardless of what language they might speak. Inside the few shelves are overflowing, and most things are labeled in indecipherable languages.

What is this? Is it meat? Do you cook it? Eat it? Drink it? Set it free?

Is it even legal?

In a country made of immigrants, these stores are a history book, documenting the social interaction of nation as it relates to food. How many countries can boast such a variety of people, and myriad of foods?

The short answer? None. No other country has our diversity (except maybe Canada…but let’s be honest – it’s only a matter of time before we invade and take it over…).

It’s not just the hamburgers I miss, or the steak dinners, or apple pie. I miss the golden tacos and marinated pork super burritos from Los Altos Taqueria, the heavenly pad thai with fried tofu from Chada Thai, the green, crisp salads with olives and (real) feta cheese from Helios, and the cheesy shrimp sauce inside the crepes from Danielle’s.

What I miss is the menus that Americans can choose from.

[...Mmm...calorific American burger drive-thrus...]

Or country is made of immigrants. Every family who came to our shores, and every family who will in the future, carries with them the backbone of their identity, of their ancestry. Food is something we all share, something we all can relate to.

Each evening, as we decide what’s for dinner, we have the freedom and diversity to choose from which American story we want to hear, or remember.

That’s what makes America stand out among other nations.

Well, that and potable water.

On May 25, I will return to the United States after four years abroad. I am doing a countdown from 10 – starting at 10 and ending with 1 the last week of May when I depart India. And then that’s it – the end. I’ll ride off into the sunset where all the other former bloggers have gone, where we all comfort each other in the realization that no one noticed…

This week – the number 3, and the three Bollywood movies I recommend.

First, there are a few things to keep in mind when selecting and watching a Bollywood movie:

• Don’t read the back of the DVD cover. They tend to explain the entire plot – including the climax and conclusion.
• For that matter, don’t actually ask an Indian what a movie is about. They’ll tell you the entire movie and ruin the ending (and Bollywood movies are infamous for plot twists).
• See the songs and dances for what they are – expression of emotion. Unlike American movies that use dialogue to convey love, regret, sorrow, friendship, or reconciliation, Bollywood eschews a script in favor of a song and dance. So when the music starts, look for the emotion being portrayed – and then enjoy the visual splash of color, movement, and choreography (and the inevitable rain showers during love songs…).
• Don’t go see movies in theaters in India. Many Indians don’t realize their cell phones have a “vibrate” mode, and they think it’s just fine to answer and have a normal conversation in the middle of the movie. They don’t even pretend to feel guilty about talking on their phone during a film…
• Wait. I take it back. Overall, Indian theaters are superior to American ones (for reasons other than the $3 ticket and $1 popcorn). They also have “cup corn,” a small cup of fresh-steamed corn with your choice of butter, salt & pepper or masala for about $1. There is an intermission in the middle of movies, where waiters come down the aisle and take your refill and snack requests. All seats are reserved, so you don’t have to show up early for a good seat. And of course there is the anti-climactic Indian national anthem sung before each movie.

1.    Fanaa

A “typical” Bollywood movie, with requisite singing and dancing, plot twists, action, romance, and tragedy (and, of course, a wet sari scene).

A beautiful blind woman, and slick poet-cum-tour guide, and true love. Throw in some nuclear terrorists for good measure, modern medical miracles, a parachuting-turned-snowboarding chase, unbelievable geographical coincidences, and a tragic twist that Shakespeare would be proud of, and you have one of Aamir Khan’s best films.

Every Aamir Khan film I’ve seen has been excellent – and if you like Fanaa, it’s worth seeing Gajini (a different take on the Guy Pierce flick Momento that adds a great love story), Mangal Pandey (a historical account of one of the leaders of the First Indian War of Independence in 1857 – and one of the few Bollywood movies with a decent white actor), and Earth (a somber, well-made movie about the partition of the Punjab in 1947 and the violence that engulfed much of the region).

2.    Dasvidaniya

If Slumdog Millionaire was a look at life for the 56 percent of Mumbai that lives in the slums, Dasvidaniya is a peek at how the other half of Mumbai lives. The film feels very realistic, and I think accurately portrays middle-class Indians. The scenes, the interactions, the worries, the stress, the expectations, the values, the leisure time – all are representative of middle-class India (which is not, as many would have us believe, simply a carbon-copy of American consumerism).

But more than that, it’s simply a great story, with superb acting, writing, and directing. The title is a play on the Russian word for “Goodbye” (do svidaniya) that uses the Hindi word “das” (which means the number 10). A young man is told by his doctor he supposedly has terminal cancer, and makes a list of 10 things to do before he dies.

Dasvidaniya is not “typical” Bollywood (I think there is only one song…and no dancing), and is made in more of a western style. But it easily ranks among the all-time best movies ever made – regardless of where it was filmed.

3.    Kabul Express

The director Kabir Khan previously made documentary films about Afghanistan, and although Kabul Express is fictional, it is more realistic than most movies about the region. It follows two Indian television reporters in post-9/11 Afghanistan, who hire an Afghan driver, pick up a female American reporter (ignore the white actress – she’s horrible), and eventually, are taken hostage by a Pakistani Taliban fleeing the war.

It’s so rare to see a movie in America about Muslims that actually portrays them as human (for one recent example, see the Pentagon propaganda film The Hurt Locker). Kabul Express is an atypical Bollywood movie (no singing and dancing that I can remember), so should play well to an American audience, if they are willing to move beyond the image of Islam and Muslims stereotyped by American media and politicians. The message of the movie is one that seeks to understand, not to ostracize the “other,” and the movie isn’t going to “wow” audiences with spectacular gun fights or war heroes. It’s simply a look at the human equation of the war in Afghanistan.

The star actor John Abraham (whom I tend to not like due to his promotion of “fairness cream”) displays he can play more than the hunk, a role he made famous exposing his muscle-bound body in what borders on pornography in a country like India. If you like Abraham, check out New York (a “typical” Bollywood movie with singing and dancing that, somehow, manages to seriously deal with the treatment of American Muslims after 9/11) or Water (the same director as Earth, this time about the plight of widows in pre-Independence India).

On May 25, I will return to the United States after four years abroad. I am doing a countdown from 10 – starting at 10 and ending with 1 the last week of May when I depart India. And then that’s it – the end. I’ll ride off into the sunset where all the other former bloggers have gone, where we all comfort each other in the realization that no one noticed…

This week – the number 4, and the four things I’ve learned living overseas the past four years:

1.    Even India, ranked #134 on the Human Development Index, has better health care than the U.S.

Speaking from gastro-intestinal experience, Costa Rica has superior health care, too. And of course Japan’s universal coverage just makes the system in the U.S. look like a joke.

But India – a country with 1 billion people and rampant poverty – is somehow able to provide me (a non-Indian citizen) with very inexpensive healthcare. And, contrary to the usual myths regurgitated by the uneducated right-wingers who scream “socialism,” I have:

• Never waited in line longer than 20 minutes for a doctor
• Never been denied access to specialists
• Never received sub-par medical care
• Never paid more than $6 for a doctor’s visit
• Never paid more than $5 for a prescription(s)

Considered a “middle-class” Indian by virtue of my salary, I pay about 10% of my income in taxes. The Indian government isn’t forcing me to buy private health insurance or face penalties and fines, yet somehow they’ve managed to provide affordable medical care.

But don’t think Americans can take advantage of developing countries’ superior healthcare with “medical tourism” trips much longer. Indian hospitals are now tracking the foreigners using their services – and eventually will probably exclude coverage for tourists. It won’t be long before the rest of the world, too, decides that their citizens aren’t going to subsidize Americans’ medical care with prescriptions from Canada or elective surgery in Thailand just because we can’t get our act together.

2.    India’s school children are not “passing U.S. students by”

You’ve heard it before. U.S. students are falling behind, especially in math and science. Even Obama, during a 2009 town hall meeting, said:

“We can’t afford our kids to be mediocre at a time when they’re competing against kids in China and India who are actually in school about a month longer than our kids.”

Arne Duncan, the Secretary of Education, echoed those sentiments days later noting we are at a “competitive disadvantage”:

“It doesn’t matter how poor, how tough the family background, socioeconomic challenges,” Duncan said. “Where students have longer days, longer weeks, longer years — that’s making a difference…Our children…competing against children in India or China, and they need to know how they stack up.”

I can’t speak for China, but let me say now, based on first-hand experience and knowledge of the school system, that India has no chance of passing us anytime in the next century. None. Nada. Zip. Why? Because most Indians are far too poor to attend anything other than the public schools.

And India’s public schools are pitiful. Students attend for 4 hours a day. There are so many holidays that 4-day weeks become the norm. Teachers are habitually absent, abusive, or incompetent (often a mix of all three). “English medium” schools are nothing of the sort. Passing is considered 35% (yes, that’s right – 35). Cheating, copying, and plagiarism is not only ignored, it’s encouraged. Facilities are decrepit, unhealthy, and neglected. Resources are non-existent (Computers? One seat per child would be a first step.). And EVERYTHING is rote.

Now if you come from a rich Indian family (which perhaps makes up about 5-10 percent of the 1 billion on the sub-continent), it means you likely attend private school. Which means maybe you go to school 6 hours a day. And there might be computers. And the teacher probably even uses English in the classroom. And they actually test students and demand something closer to 60 or even 70 percent. But rote learning is still the norm, and cheating/plagiarism is still largely ignored.

Duncan could not have been more wrong about “socioeconomic backgrounds” not making a difference. In India, socioeconomic background means everything.

U.S. public education is not without faults, and favors students from wealthy areas with the property tax funding system. But make no mistake – India is not going to pose any large-scale educational competition in this century.

3.    Guns do not keep you safe

Japan has a homicide rate of 0.4 per 100,000 people (only Singapore is safer). Germany is 0.8, France is 1.6, and even war-torn Bosnia (1.8) and Serbia (1.4) are lower than the United Kingdom at 2.0. Iran is 2.9, and India is 2.8.

All these countries have gun control laws, making it extremely difficult to possess a firearm (especially handguns).

The United States, with all those guns we need to either kill British Redcoats or protect our family, has a homicide rate of 5.4.

Mumbai, a metropolis of about 20 million people and more than twice as big as NYC, has less than half the number of homicides each year. Tokyo, Dubai, India, Cambodia, Bangkok, Kampala, Kigali…all these places are safer than U.S. cities, and all have some form of sensible gun control. What other possible explanation could there be for America’s high homicide rate than its culture of guns?

Using the logic that “guns don’t kill people, people do,” we might as well start selling nuclear missiles at the grocery store and expect everyone to be “responsible.” (TERMS & CONDITIONS: This offer does not apply to brown people or non-Judeo-Christians)

Because Weapons of Mass Destruction don’t kill people…

4.    The rest of the world doesn’t hate Americans…they just hate our foreign policy

They hate that we allow our government to invade, occupy, and wage war on countries over natural resources and strategic locations. They hate that our military bombs innocent civilians and then claims it was unintentional and “collateral damage” – and that we should therefore be exonerated from guilt. They hate that our government stands by and watches mass murder, human rights abuses, and even genocide if the autocrats perpetrating crimes against humanity are helping assure American economic interests. They hate that our government seems to value white, Judeo-Christian lives over others.

But hate us personally? I’ve never met anyone who hated Americans as individuals. Most people around the world seem able to disconnect us from our government. The thing that surprised me most in Afghanistan was that everyone was happy to meet an American. In the desert of the United Arab Emirates, on the streets of East Africa, in the Muslim quarter of Mumbai, in the souks of Dubai, and in the mosques of New Delhi – as an American, I have only ever felt welcomed and safe.

But for how long can we expect the rest of the world to make a distinction between us and our government? How long will people continue to forgive us for letting our government to run the world like an empire? At what point will the rest of the world decide to hold us – voting citizens who freely choose our leaders – accountable for the policies our government implements abroad?

We vote. We decide. We are free to choose.

How long can we claim that, as individual American citizens, U.S. foreign policy is out of our hands – and still expect the rest of the world to give us a free pass?

(Change of plans – departure date has been moved up one week, so I’ve skipped #6.) On May 25, I will return to the United States after four years abroad. I am doing a countdown from 10 – starting at 10 and ending with 1 the last week of May when I depart India. And then that’s it – the end. I’ll ride off into the sunset where all the other former bloggers have gone, where we all comfort each other in the realization that no one noticed…

This week – the number 5, and five people I will never forget (for very different reasons).

1.    Hasib

Hasib, my soon-to-be interpreter, came recommended by one of the drivers, and we met in the back of a white United Nations SUV one afternoon. He was young – probably only 21, but eager, extremely polite, and excited about the opportunity. Turns out Hasib had aspirations of becoming a journalist himself.

And so for the next week, Hasib was my constant companion each day. We tracked down people, sources, meetings, and events around Kabul together, and his interpreting – as well as his insight – helped enormously.

One time over lunch and a cold Mountain Dew, Hasib asked me “Do you know The Dew?” When I told him it was an American soda, he was surprised; because of the Arabic label and popularity in Kabul, he had assumed “the Dew” was a Middle Eastern drink. Funny how no matter where we live, or who we are, we tend to assume the world revolves around us.

I haven’t had contact with Hasib in months. The last I heard in 2009, he was working for a cell phone company in Kabul, with daily access to a computer, and was e-mailing me frequently. Now my e-mails go unanswered. So either he no longer works there – or something worse. But I won’t forget him, and for seven days in Afghanistan, my life was in his hands – and he risked his by working with an American. Wherever he is, I wish him and his family well.

2.    Mister Donut Lady

Some people in Japan don’t particularly like foreigners. I got used to riding on crowded trains, while the only two empty seats were on either side of me (cause no one wants to sit next to the gaijin). I tried not to get angry at how Japanese would cut in front of me in line (but only if I was the last person in line – because they wouldn’t want to also cut in front of other Japanese). I didn’t dwell on the couple of times where people flat-out refused to serve me at restaurants.

And I could deal with the school children who, with mouths agape, would point at me on the street and ask (in Japanese) “Are you a foreigner?” Stupid question.

But I will never forget the woman at Mister Donut.

Mister Donut is a nice Japanese chain store. I used to stop by after lunch and grab an old fashioned doughnut for dessert. You take a tray, move past the shelves of pastries loading on your selections, and then slide the tray down to a cash register.

So there I am, with my tray and two doughnuts on the counter next to the cash register. The helpful young clerk is telling me how much, asking if I want them heated, etc.

And here came this middle-aged woman, nudging me aside with her elbow, carrying her tray of doughnuts.

I looked at her, but she refused to make eye contact, and instead tried to subtly push me out of the way without ever acknowledging I was there.

And then, unbelievably, she SET HER TRAY DOWN ON TOP OF MINE, SMASHING MY DOUGHNUT. She asks the employee “How much?”

I lost it. A few choice English curse words flew out of my mouth loud enough to silence the entire restaurant.

The young employee behind the counter politely pointed out to the rude woman that “this man was first” and moved the tray from atop my flattened doughnut.

I fought back the urge to pound each of the woman’s doughnuts into crumbs with my fist.

Japan’s elder generation still retains much from the past - and not all of it is good. The aura of superiority that drove the WWII generation still lingers, but younger Japanese are moving beyond racial or ethnic divisions and interacting more with gaijin as they build a new and different relationship between Japan and the rest of the world.

But until then, guard your doughnuts.

3.    Anand

I first met Anand, now 13, in 2008 when I started teaching English reading and writing to his after-school study group in a neighborhood of Mumbai. I distinctly remember him angry and throwing a plastic chair across the room at several students, while hurling verbal abuses in Hindi so loud that you didn’t need a translator to know the meaning. I tried to restrain him, and ended up with either a deep scratch or a bite mark on my hand – I’m not sure which.

He’s your classic ADHD kid, but with no avenues for proper treatment or support. When he’s focused, you can see his amazing intelligence. He has the kind of natural ability most of us only hope we could have, even if it doesn’t always find a positive outlet.

But he’s often not focused and gets distracted by anything and everything (and in Mumbai, there are plenty of potential distractions). I’ve had to literally drag him out of the class (sometimes by his hands, sometimes by a foot) to keep him from disrupting other students.

And then, a few weeks ago, I gave him a copy of the book “Where the Red Fern Grows,” a book I remember from my own childhood. An hour later, I assumed he must have just left, because I didn’t hear him talking, yelling, or disrupting. I glanced around the class, and there was Anand: sitting in a corner by himself, silently reading.

Twenty minutes later after class, I was out on the street in front of a snack shop talking with a couple of the other students.

Here comes Anand, walking through the bustling alleys of Mumbai (barefoot, as usual), dodging rickshaws and pedestrians, with the book in front of his face. The last I saw of him that day, he was standing on the side of the road waiting for the bus, the book still open and reading intently, oblivious to anyone around him.

No word yet on if it he actually finished the book.

4.    Tomoko

Tomoko was probably in her early 60s, and a regular participant in a daily English conversation group in Japan. A retired dermatologist, her English level was quite good, and she had an opinion on everything (a rarity in Japan). After several months, however, she let a bomb drop.

I had gone around the circle, asking each student “How was your weekend?” and getting the usual boring responses: “I go shopping.” And then I got to Tomoko.

I don’t have the exact quote, but it included:

“A government agent pushed me down a stairwell.”
“The government was putting some poison in my shampoo last year to try and kill me.”
“I had a notebook with some important formulas in it that the government stole from me.”
“I need the notebook back with my formulas.”
“They want to silence me because I know these formulas.”

It went on like that for a while. I couldn’t really stop her (not that I wanted to – this beat the hell out of the standard Japanese boilerplate reply of “I go shopping”). And the others students, being good Japanese citizens, were too polite to interrupt.

So I just sat for a few minutes, listening with my mouth agape, realizing that no matter how much time you spend with someone, you just never really know them.

Over the course of a year I probably spent 200 hours teaching Tomoko. But no hour was quite as entertaining as that one. Then again, maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe dermatology was just her cover.

5.    Ice-cream-cone girl

There’s a little beggar girl, maybe about 8 or 9 years old, that I sometimes see in my Mumbai neighborhood. She stands out because one eye is frosted over and blind.

One evening after dinner, she came up to me asking for change. My partner was already planning to get an ice cream cone from a sidewalk vendor, so we decided to get an extra one (I know, the little girl didn’t really need ice cream, but I don’t like giving money, and after all, what 9-year-old girl doesn’t want an ice cream cone?). I stood outside of the café next to the girl, and told her to wait one minute.

Then the café’s chowkidar, a sort of security guard/watchman, came over and yelled at the girl, telling her to get lost. I understand it’s a part of his job to keep beggars away from customers and the storefront. But technically, she wasn’t on their property.

The girl stood her ground, unwilling to forgo the possibility of ice cream. The watchman shouted again, and raised his hand in a physical threat.

The girl didn’t move.

I gestured to the chowkidar, trying to insist it was okay. But he ignored me.

And then he hit the girl in the back of the head. Hard. Hard enough to make her stumble.

I took a step forward and (without actually speaking Hindi, of which I know almost none) voiced my displeasure at the man.  He ignored me, and raised his hand to strike again.

So I grabbed the little girl’s hand and stood there staring at the watchman, wondering if this grown man would again strike a little girl for nothing more than standing on the sidewalk and looking “poor.”

Apparently me holding the girl’s hand convinced the chowkidar he had better move on.

After my partner gave her the cone, the little girl split, bolting down the sidewalk and disappearing in the crowds. I’m not sure if she was going to share it with her friends and siblings, or, more likely, heading for a secluded spot where she could eat it herself in peace.

But what a life: nine years old and having to endure physical abuse from random adults, all just because you are poor. And there are so many tens of thousands like her on the streets of India.