Notes from the Cut

The fading light brings relief to another hot day. Four triangles of thatch consistently meet at the tops of homes and outdoor kitchens. A pot sits precariously balanced on two mud-bricks sending up smoke over fire. The glowing wooden sticks burn bright orange before turning to the ash we all eventually become. Children howl as their mothers bathe them under the evening sky with water collected from a nearby creek.  Straight from God to Man the trees are tapped for wine.

Walking through the bush has become a daily observance. Surrounded by forests, echoing many shades of green – bamboo reed, palm tree, cassava leaf – I am reminded of summers at my grandparent’s house in India. It was at the foothills of the Himalayas where I first fully explored dense green hallways and corridors. On these journeys memories come rushing back and I quickly get lost in my own jungle of thoughts.

This is my eighth – and at two weeks, longest – trip to rural Rivercess County. Leaving my insecurities behind in the city, I find myself surprisingly more at ease now for the first time in Liberia. With no electricity, phone signal, or means of communication, being cut off forces a mindset of complete presence. Willingly or not, I am discovering discipline in daily practice – controlling the mind and enjoying the little things.

The days revolve around our mission to organize rural communities to protect, document, and govern their land and natural resources. Calling meetings between clan chiefs, community people and traditional elders we seek to establish local ownership over the process. With large-scale land acquisitions(land grabs) on the rise, rural communities’ abilities to retain control over their customary land is being comprised. Building connections with our collaborators on the ground, I am starting to find my feet by stressing the importance of strong organizing practices, dedicated workplans, and a commitment to the land – and the People.

But operating in the cut means being flexible to the schedule of farmers. Between community meetings there is plenty of time to read, write, and explore. There are also the lively debates that rage between our teammates. Sitting under a magnanimous mango tree or thatch-roofed kitchen the loud, spirited – and sometimes, heated – discussions are endless. We cover nearly everything: competing conceptions of love, the impact of colonialism on Africa (and India), and War.

It helps that I have picked up enough Liberian English to sharpen my arguments. Our banter reflects the diversity of our life experiences. The phrases and colloquialisms roll off the tip of my tongue as I joke with friends and strangers alike with an ease built up over the past six months.

Deep in the cut, the adventure don’t seem to stop either. Like the other day when our jeep’s wheels fell through a bridge, getting stuck for hours. Or the night when a giant scorpion scurried in our midst sending grown men screaming to go home. And the mice that occasionally fall on top of me from the thatch-roofs while I sleep.

Despite my awkward screams in the night, I have grown accustomed to the environment, using the generous spaces of time for self-reflection and self-improvement projects. There is nothing like fresh pineapple or coconut on a blistering day. And while I do not eat everything around, I can devour fried plantains cooked with pepper and ginger, and swallow fufu until my stomach is satisfied.

Making a conscious effort to bond and build relationships with community members has added color and context to the journey. Sometimes I can’t help but smile and shake my head at the scenes and stories playing out in front of me. But as each day passes it lets me know that I am growing with it.

Half-way into my time in Liberia I have found a new sense of comfort. While acknowledging the fragility of this feeling, there is a familiarity between me and the people and the trees. Deep down I understand that each moment I spend in the bush I am building strength.  Strength that will not only see me through the rest of this journey, but will inform everything to come after. The releasing tension in a handshake culminating in a snap of fingers – the ubiquitous Liberian greeting – helps put the pieces together inside of me. Finding their way I can sense they are cementing lessons learned – and in the process forming the foundation of something like  greatness.

State of Concessions

Logs are strewn across a barren field like bones in an elephant graveyard. These trees, recently part of a virgin rainforest, were cut down by a logging company under a dubious contract. In the past months further details have arisen of fraudulent deeds (Private Use Permits – PUPS) used across Liberia to grant logging contracts to foreign companies. The PUP scandal has only fueled the discussion over how the country’s resources are being tapped.

Today, Liberia has one of the highest rates of land concession in Africa. Various reports estimate that anywhere between 45 and 65 % of the country’s total land area has already been granted or promised to foreign investors. This reality stems, in part, from the ideological orientation of the State, which sees land and natural resources as a commodity to be leveraged in order to fuel the country’s growth. The belief is that not only will capital be generated through such projects, but jobs will also be created in the process.

Following this ideology, Liberia’s immense natural wealth – including her land – is steadily being granted to foreign companies through logging, mining, and agricultural plantation contracts.  In recent years around 661,000 hectares were given to two foreign corporations for oil palm production. The same language of foreign investment and economic prosperity that was used in the 1920's to bring Firestone to Liberia (which has faced decades of accusations of violating workers' rights) is being repeated today to justify large-scale agricultural plantation.  

In agrarian societies land is the most important facet of daily life for most people. Threats to rural people’s land tenure bring along the dangers of displacement, dispossession and division.  While many across the world struggle for basic social services awaiting the trickle-down, perhaps it is time to re-examine the prescribed path towards progress.

As vast tracts of land are allocated for concessions, serious questions are being raised about this strategy towards development. What say do local communities have in the allocation of their customary land? How are benefits from these projects being distributed amongst affected communities? And, what will the long-term impacts be of increased competition for land between communities, companies, and government? The deeper you go in the forest, the more blurry the view becomes.

There are those who insist that selling off the country’s resources won’t be an effective way to achieve inclusive development. They claim that no country has successfully risen out of poverty by simply allowing multinational corporations to take over the land. There are also concerns about the impact of large-scale monoculture plantation when it comes to food security and local agricultural improvement. 

It is worth noting that the argument isn’t one for or against investment. It makes sense for a country as naturally wealthy as Liberia to use her resources towards her own progress. However, those who seek to reduce the debate to a binary one – either you are for foreign investment or anti-development – are myopic in their assessment. The issue is how that process of investment takes place.

Instead of ceding large land areas for decades at a time, the goal should be to empower communities to reimagine themselves as the owners of the development process instead of simply the eventual beneficiaries. Just as Gandhi imagined self-sufficient village republics, the modern manifestation of such an idea may be worth exploring. By building the capacity of grassroots governance structures and protecting customary land rights, over time a more equitable and sustainable path forward may be found.

Even the World Bank, historically a driver of policies that prioritize the market, recently released a report which states that when communities manage their lands, resources are protected and a higher rate of economic growth exists.

With the reigns in their hands, local communities can directly manage some of the most important aspects of their lives, from water conservation to irrigation to the shared use of forests. Additionally, they could have more say about which benefits of modernity they adapt, while protecting the important parts of their culture, practices, and tradition. The assistance of the State, and other institutions, in establishing a collective vision would be useful in places where capacities are low. However, the ability of localized decision-making to achieve success and prosperity is already being found in villages and towns, globally. 

Such a vision may be worth considering alongside the current state of concessions. After all, these decisions are not unique to Liberia. They remain relevant for developing societies across the world. Which path countries take will have profound reverberations on the lives of millions for generations to come.  

A Pocket Full of Seashells

With a pocket full of seashells jangling, we tread over sand and surf. With each step, our surroundings come alive. To one side is the Atlantic Ocean – waves crashing – undeterred by human existence. To the other – the world turns with breezy palm groves, busy villages, and new millennium homes. My eyes swallow their share of Liberia’s beauty.

Grinding bare feet into wet sand, I quickly lose myself in thoughts of the future. In a walking daydream, I marvel at the grand structures in front of me. I picture my own home one day: there are rooms with bookshelves, large windows filter the natural light streaming in from outside. Perhaps, I too will boast a balcony towards the sea.  After all, dreams are free to be dreamt by the many. 

Every so often I stop to pick up a glint that catches my eye.  My comrade laughs at me, wondering what I plan on doing with my newfound treasures. Little does he know I haven’t thought this far ahead.

We walk mainly in silence, steadily maneuvering stretches of sand. Soon we come to a giant excavation site with tire tracks leading away. Illegal sand mining: a reminder that despite the luxury of a few, life remains a hustle.

We don’t break stride climbing over sand dunes to higher ground. For the first time since arriving in Liberia, the immediate sense of urgency about my mission is elsewhere. Land grabs, community titles, and unfair agreements take a backseat for a few hours. Right now, the sun beats down on my back, the sound of children plays in my ear, and a feeling of triumph washes over me.

But it all keeps moving. Tomorrow brings a public forum on land rights at the University. And then a return to Rivercess – a place where my dreams can be their most vibrant. Deep in the forest, there are questions of how a country so naturally rich can struggle with providing basic social services? It’s then I remember the lyrics that played non-stop during my youth: “What we don’t know keeps the contract alive and moving.”

The setting sun signals our return. Through neighborhoods of thatch and zinc, we pass the skeletons of unfinished homes. Tall, green grass guards these concrete shells. Outside, big walls separate one reality from another. But dreams of the future don’t know the meaning of such boundaries. Instead, they seep through the cracks, connecting the realities of today with our hopes for tomorrow.

As my pockets hang low with treasures, I return home to see what I’ve collected. Scattering shells, seeds, and stones on my dresser, I try and translate what is front of me. I shift around these un-deciphered hieroglyphics, searching for some message.

Maybe it is as simple as realizing that the natural wealth and beauty of the world belong to everyone. That land – the single most important resource for agrarian societies – should benefit the people.  And those benefits should be distributed to ensure prosperity and dignity for all. 

Deep in the Cut

Deep in the heart of Rivercess County, the mud homes stand completely illuminated by the scorching sun. Their thatch roofs consistently prove match for the daily rains.  Above, the blue sky plays backdrop for the treetops that surround each village. The forests and trees act as a frame, allowing another world to come into focus.

It is in this corner of Liberia where I've been getting my NGO on. Baseline surveys, questions lost in translation, smiles at accents not completely understood. Under the unforgiving afternoon sun, it can be slow and tedious work. But there is something like strength in embracing the unfamiliar, trusting the process, and fighting to win.

The goal: organize local communities to receive formal ownership papers from the State for their customary lands. Land that has no title or deed, simply worked and lived upon for generations. As we seek to build the capacity of communities to manage their land and natural resources, establish community governance structures, and harmonize boundaries with neighboring clans, I realize we are talking about something revolutionary.

The importance of protecting rural land ownership rights rests, in part, on peacebuilding. These efforts are equally tied to sustainable development, social justice, and food security. The larger context is a national and global land rush with community land being sold off to foreign investors, with claims that few benefits are being distributed locally. The added nuance is that communities rightfully want basic social services – roads, schools, clinics, latrines, and employment – and are at times quick to sign agreements with companies.

The journey to the bush is an adventure in itself. Leaving Monrovia behind, the asphalt quickly turns to mud as the countryside extends its open arms. Wrestling the road ensures a constant jostle – back and forth, up and down. Any moment could mean being stuck in six feet of mud for who knows how long. There are times when the bush swallows the dirt path we are passing along, leaving green simply everywhere. After six hours my lower back begins to howl, thankful for our arrival.

The simplicity of life is tough, captured through clichés of young children carrying water along blazing paths. Here your cell phone is of no use. Electricity and sanitation are virtually nonexistent. Such realities demand reflection on the inequalities that persist in our modern age, and the benefits of balanced living.

I can remember the first time entering remote villages in the Himalayas: the sweeping sense of estrangement I felt. This time village life doesn't seem so stark or particularly romantic. This time it’s just life lived daily.  Here there are village elders, town chiefs, and forefathers to consider. At times, the bushmeat can seem excessive, the war stories – jarring. But the constantly candid conversations, strong social commentary, and laughter, ensure that the learning is endless.

The setting sun signals people’s return from their farms. Hearty smiles and handshakes initiate our gathering as we once again re-engage communities on our joint land protection efforts. As our discussions go into the night, I tilt my head all the way back to be assaulted by an unending canopy of stars. Deep in the cut years are added to the spirit. Providing guidance from above, they remind me I am here in Liberia to learn certain life lessons. Lessons I do not understand right now, but will prove invaluable in years to come.

Under the night sky, my thoughts try to keep up with all that has happened in the past few days. The kindness shown from strangers, the impassioned pleas against promises not kept, and the changing face of rural existence. Exhausted, I am given a bed that will be my refuge for the next few hours. I take comfort in knowing there is value in all that has passed, and everything yet to come.

An Evening Revisited

I arrived at Kanpur Central a little before my train was scheduled to leave. A confused 23 year-old, struggling to negotiate ego with destiny, I was more than ready to be on my way. Joining the crowd of skyward titled necks, I peered through the rust of my heart and the dust of days past to see my train was delayed until 3:35 am.  Feet planted, I stood there for half an hour in the hopes that my departure time would miraculously change. But this was no time for miracles – at least not yet.

Accepting my fate, I paced around the station becoming familiar with my new home. Eventually I walked to the platform from which my alleged train was supposed to leave. Almost every semi-clean spot was taken: by someone’s luggage, someone’s child, or someone’s body. Underneath the stairs the situation was much the same. Hundreds of people resigned to their wait, smiling and chatting, furiously eating, or simply taking the moment as it was just then and there – their thoughts taking them to other realities far from the platforms of Kanpur Central.

Here I could admire more people than one could imagine fitting into one space comfortably. Migrant laborers, traveling college students, farmers, wide-eyed foreigners, and businessmen and women. The young, the old, the rich, the poor.  Polite, congenial, passing one another by, with a host of exceptions included.

I finally found a spot on the walkway above the platforms, spread out my chaadar on the least paan-stained part of the floor, took off my chappals, and lay down. So this was my fate for the evening. It could be worse; I tried to reason, as I stuck out my head in an attempt to swallow as much breeze from my vantage point above the rail tracks. 

Below the trains continued to come and go, as people hopped on and off navigating the sea of humanity. Above was the non-stop racket of the announcement system, alternating every two seconds in Hindi and English, proclaiming the further delay of my train until 5 am.

It was almost funny that I was stuck in this station. Almost. 

What could I do? The whole walkway was lined with sleepers and dozers, watchers and listeners, just like me. When I got tired of watching my comrades at my side, I would examine those with purpose rushing by: a blur of saris and dhotis, jeans and t-shirts, kurtas and pyjamas. Between my musings I fell asleep only to be awoken by the incessant chatter from above, kindly informing me my train was to show up at 6 am. 

By this point I reckoned there was no rational reason to believe this train was going to arrive any time soon, if at all. Maybe it didn’t really exist. Maybe all of the other passengers smartly hopped on other trains much earlier instead of lounging on the prosperous floor of Kanpur Central. It was 3:15 in the morning. It was time. 

I hopped to my feet, collected my things, and strode with a self-righteous sense of purpose to the ticket counter. As I walked down to platform number one I saw a train slowly pulling away. Running alongside in my half-conscious stupor I desperately called out to the man standing in the doorway of the moving train, “Ye gaadi Dilli jaarahi hai?” He said yes. I jumped on.

I was woken up at quarter to nine by the prodding fingers of the TT. “Ticket” he demanded, holding out his hand. I fumbled sleepily for my glasses and stared at him, thinking about what to do next. I handed him my ticket, bracing for the impending cataclysm. “Did you switch your seat from another car? This ticket is for compartment S11,” he asked routinely. 

I had no clue where I was, but I quickly snatched the ticket back. He must not have noticed it was for a completely different train. “I am sorry, sir. I can go back to my section,” I blurted out, grabbing the bag I was using as a pillow. 

He shuffled through the unending list attached to his clipboard going over each name. “What is your name? Khan? Are you M. Khan?”

I didn’t want to lie to him. I wasn’t M. Khan. But now was not the time to share such revelations. I was waiting for it, for something, something that was going to bring about the eventual realization that I didn’t belong. He grunted, “Thik hai. Bat jao,” and continued on his rounds. 

I smiled. The hustle was complete.

I breathed in the villages of Uttar Pradesh, hanging out of the train as it whipped through the countryside on its way to Delhi. The past few days flew through my head: the story of the weavers, who enthusiastically told me about the cooperative they had started, the proud women who had organized themselves into a Self Help Group, the family who insisted I first tell them my story as I munched on fresh tomatoes from their fields. The laughter between strangers who know they will never meet again, yet engage each other fully without formality or hesitation. And the site of the Ganga, black, full of sludge from the countless tanneries that inhabit her banks.

I arrived in Delhi around noon. I was happy to rest my ego before my journey of service continued. As I carried my bags up the stairs towards the exit, I heard from my good friends over the announcement system my train was further delayed, and would now arrive at 5:30 pm.

As I listened closer, there amongst it all were the unanswered questions I was too frightened to confront. The answers I could not have discovered, for they were only to be found in the desperation of my discomfort on the floor of a train station at three in the morning. 

Those lessons learned remain relevant today as I attempt to keep an open heart to all that is still to be revealed in the jungles awaiting me. 

I, of the Storm

The sun’s rays crackle through branches of green. In this soft, yellow light an unusual calm washes over the scene. The trees sway ever so gently. The leaves flutter.  Through the crickets’ sirens, I try and listen to what the wind is saying.

There is no moment other than this (for every moment is one and the same – not separate – forever connected).  I struggle to remain still, following my breath. Shedding all pretenses and self-consciousness, right now it all makes sense. And I want to burst.

In stillness there is the reminder that the wind is worship.  Closing my eyes all I see is the brightest red.  Like Krishna if only I could inhale the sun. But I’m not searching for an additional god complex. Instead there is consolation in the rise and fall of my chest.

The wind whispers there are many changes to come. And while peace reigns, the reality is that moments are fleeting with a muddled mind at work. I must improve my practice for there is a nervousness bubbling deep down in the dark of my being that will claim me in the days to come if I do not tend to it.

I have found that in a life of extremes finding balance is the continuous challenge. If only I could be as still as the trees – taming the riot raging within me, weathering the storms that will rock my heart. The fading light bears witness to the sensations of breathing, as each coming moment ensures the movement continues.

The Movement Continues

The path over the past two years has taught me that there are always unexpected twists and turns along the way. From mountain passes to Sufi shrines, in the classrooms of the elite and protests in the streets, through the jungles of New York. Along dirt roads and crowded concrete. there has been heartache and victory, love, loss, and adventure, and at the end of it all a greater understanding of self. Two years. And on a sunny day in May upon the lawn of the “Ivory Tower,” we were already hailed as the champions of tomorrow.

While graduate school came to an end, the learning will undoubtedly continue. I shall return to my classroom before Columbia – rural villages, thick forests, and dusty trails. It will be on the soil, which for so many, is the single most important facet of daily life. Rural Liberia, the settler colony and nation-state once-carved in the image of the United States, will be where I search for answers.

Across the giants of Africa and Asia, vast tracts of land have been ceded by state governments for agro-industry and resource extraction. The justification is growth, progress, and development through direct investment in aspiring economies. Natural resources lie at the center of these projects from bauxite to timber to platinum. For those who reside in the countrysides, land, which has been passed down for generations, is often the most valuable resource: “the source of their sustenance, the site of their livelihoods, and the locus of history, culture, and community.” 

Land plays no small portion in the on-going struggles for sustainability, self-determination, and survival. It is often a complex, tenuous issue at the heart of conflicts. Yet too often, mainstream development discourse myopically focuses on simple economic expansion without paying due attention to the fibers that bind communities. What does development look like beyond the growth of capital and what do rights mean beyond the declarations of any state?

Beginning in the early 19^th century the American Colonization Society, sought to rid America of its’ blackness. Bolstered by the likes of Monroe and Jefferson, the “Back-to-Africa Project” believed that co-existence would never be peaceful, feared mixture, and were steadfast that a black homeland could not be established on the very land where slaves had shed their own blood and tears. There was also the danger a free black population posed to the institution of slavery. Thus a new civilizing mission to West Africa began, accompanied by the inherent hierarchies of identity that mirrored the superiority complex of white supremacists in the takeover of North America.

The result: a cycle of violence between indigenous and settler, where victim and perpetrator alternated roles over the next 400 years. Fast-forwarding to today, Liberia evokes connotations of civil war, profound loss, and amazing resilience. But alongside history and politics is the question of how can a country rebuild while respecting its rural realities? When land is at the heart of a conflict how can it be surrendered without the input of its inhabitants?

I am preparing for the challenge, the perspective, and the humbling that is sure to come. In anticipation I’m staying on my grind to be mentally sharp and physically fit. I try to picture the open expanses: the bright red of the mud, the black of the night, and the green of the trees. The inevitable tears will fall when frustration and loneliness hit hard. But I pack with me the lessons learned from solitude and service in the Himalayas. I draw strength from the wisdom of family, friends, and comrades, remembering to trust the process and having faith in the script that leads me forward.

And so the movement – for community ownership, against corporate domination – continues. In a handful of weeks my journey will take me to the forests of Liberia. The excitement and fear roll together as a creeping anxiety arises deep down from my core. And while it’s true we all must walk our own path; I continue to remind myself that we never walk alone.

Roots Run Deep

“If you know your history, then you would know where you are coming from. Then you wouldn’t have to ask me who the heck I think I am.”

From the moment I stepped off the plane there was something familiar in the air. It was the smell in the streets; it was the smiles on people’s faces; it was the feeling inside my heart. I left Babylon lost and looking – for the clarity and strength necessary to navigate modern jungles. It would be Ethiopia that would remind me of the depth below the surface. But Africa has always been good to me.

The entire country is holding its breath for the rains. But each day brings the unrelenting gaze of the sun and more dryness, in this land of 13 months of sunshine. I walk around with a constant smile on my face. It’s the intangible that speaks to me; the understanding that cannot be gained from textbooks but must be breathed in. For some of us, the blood that flows in our veins carries culture that dates back to other times. For those of us whose affinities lie in songs, stories, and struggles, our journey inevitably leads us off the beaten path.

In nearly every bar, if you stick around long enough, you can hear a 2pac song. Along roadside stalls, in barber shops, and cinema halls, you may sneak a glance of a Shah Rukh Khan poster. I knew I couldn’t be too far from home – metaphysically speaking, that is. It doesn’t hurt that you can hear Ethiopians singing Hindi songs, loving the Bollywood jams, or breaking it down on the dance floor. It all feeds the flames of my enthusiasm.

As we crisscross Addis, interviewing youths, doctors, teachers, and NGO workers, the city comes to life. The dust becomes a part of your being. These days, Addis is the site of constant construction, with Chinese and Indian money paving the way. Here too, life is a hustle. In the markets and on the pavements, the smiles and greetings are infectious. Everyone has a story. The fresh juice is delicious; the bunna (coffee) – heavenly.

Leaving the city, the countryside opens up to the heart of this land, and with it, the plurality in perspectives that defies simplistic portrayals of giants like Ethiopia, Africa, and India. The mud huts, the mango trees, and the dry fields are reminders of the dangers of romanticizing lives that we claim to understand.

The friendliness and pride is more than apparent. In the only country in Africa that was never colonized (the Italians were defeated), the same colonial hangover that is present elsewhere in the world is oddly missing. There isn’t the obsessive desire to copy the West nor is there the backlash against what is foreign. There is a strange acceptance of, or indifference to, it all.

That’s not say to Ethiopia does not have its fair share of problems. Millions struggle to have their basic needs met. First-hand we began to understand the public health challenges – especially those related to reproductive health. The heavy hand of the government has been known to restrain civil society. No doubt, the pursuit of social justice remains in realizing the chaos of a vibrant, third world democracy.

But black and brown pride is always a reason to smile. While the world grapples with the potentially destructive practices of Western interventions, there are lessons to be learned – from the past, for the future – from people who live and struggle on ancient soil.

Mama Africa and Mother India have schooled me on the depth below the surface. She has taught me patience, showed me magic, and brought me love. It has been my experiences with habeshas and desis that have allowed me to disable fear and walk tall with an open heart. Since food is love, it has been Ethiopia and India that have nourished my vision, and guided me through what I cannot always see or understand. It’s been that injera and chapatti that has fed my soul, namsayin?

When that which exists in the air is older than the cities we visit, we must dig deep to get the full story. Such journeys require an intentionality and mindfulness – to wander the backstreets, where the signs are not the same and the neighborhoods change. It’s in the villages that don’t necessarily fall along the highways where the answers lie. It’s life lived daily beyond the palaces, churches, and mandirs of tourist fame. If you can tap into the currents that run below the surface you may realize how far back the story goes. You may begin to find that roots run deep.

Panther Baby/The Human Condition

I arrived at the party inspired, optimistic, and moved by revolutionary love. The gathering, however, was not what I hoped. It largely consisted of me shouting about the lecture I had just attended: a Columbia professor, and former Black Panther, speaking on the release of his new book documenting his coming of age with the black radical community-based organization.

I left the party fiending, unsatisfied, and alone. It was as if the entire evening I was searching for something that's time hadn't come. Quickly exhausting my options for a fix, I resigned myself to the fate of going home at 2 AM empty-handed.

Ahead was the public safety bus. At least I wouldn’t have to walk the short 12 blocks home. Accepting consolation in quick travel, I boarded the empty bus, greeted the driver, and took my seat.

Looking in her rear view mirror, she said, “Please flash your ID so I can see it.”

“Right on,” I said as I took out my ID from my wallet.

“Where are you going?”

“One-oh-six.”

“One-oh-six?”

“Right on.”

After some moments passed, she looked up and asked, “Are people saying that again?”

“What?”

“Is that something people are saying again? ‘Right on.’ Do a lot of people you know say it?”

“I mean, I say it all the time.”

“I know people from the ‘60s used to talk like that. I don’t hear people saying that anymore.”

I thought about what she said. I thought about what I had been shouting about all night –the need I felt to connect to the world around me. The fire I was trying to keep going in my own heart; the reminder that it was beating.

“Well you know, actually, I went to this event tonight,” I began. “I’ve been talking about it all night. You see, there’s a professor here and he just wrote this book. He was telling his story of how he joined the Panthers when he was 15 years old. After Dr. King was assassinated, sharing his grandmother’s tears. He spoke so beautifully about the struggle.”

She seemed to be listening. And I was just getting started. I continued on excitedly explaining the jewels of wisdom I had heard that evening. “There was an understanding of community and connection. It was about the breakfast programs and health clinics. In the face of infiltration and repression, the motivation was serving the needs of the people. It seemed so right –just before I graduate, to hear Jamal Joseph break it down tonight.”

She was silent. But by this point, I wasn’t expecting anything. After all, I had been telling the same story all night and except for a few friends, no one was really trying to hear me.
I stopped talking. She reached into her bag on the ground next to her and pulled out a book. There it was. The stories I heard and been trying to re-tell all evening. There in her hands I read the cover – Panther Baby.

“Were you there this evening?” I asked.

“No. I had to work,” she said.

As we sat there, parked in front of the gates of the University she asked, “How do you think you will translate what you heard tonight into your life?”

I talked about my student activist days and what the Ten Point Program meant to me when I was a teenager. How the journey that started somewhere with disrupting high school hallways took me to villages in India as a community organizer. I talked about how roots run deep.

And then, all of a sudden, I caught myself. All I had done the entire evening was rant and rave about human dignity and social justice and knowing history and where you are going. “What is your connection to all of this? Where does your interest lie?”

“The human condition,” she responded point-blankly as we drove down Amsterdam Avenue. “The way we choose to interact with each other.”

My stop had come. As we shook hands and exchanged contacts on ripped out pieces of magazine paper I realized what I had been searching for all evening had finally been willed into happening on a ten-minute bus ride.

Throughout our lives we attract certain people. Sometimes in order to reach out across the abyss of our alienation, to share the stories that were shared with us, we need the frustration, the struggle, the persistence to find what we are looking for. And when we have nearly given up, in the places we least expect to find it, there is a reminder of what it’s all about.

An Education in Itself

It's unseasonably warm for winter in the city. A breeze that would normally sway the icicles hanging from my ribcage, instead brushes against warmer bones. I round the corner of 116^th and nod to Nabil, who is busy with a line of hungry customers congregated around his halal cart. I keep walking – past the masjid where evening prayers are ending. The street is crowded with smiles and I weave through the enthusiastic exchange of African and French greetings. Turning the next corner, I cross paths with the youngsters who make their cash on these sidewalks. An exchange of glances, an acknowledgement, and it's back home.

When I moved to New York I thought it important to be rooted in a community. To know my neighbors. To have a sense of reality. My neighborhood was the eclectic Uptown mix. From the Moroccans at the cart, to the Yemeni stores on each corner, to the Dominicans who insisted on calling me 'Primo', to the West Africans who had come from Senegal, Mali, Cote D'Ivoire, Guinea Bissau and elsewhere – it was nice to be surrounded by brown people.

Over the next year and a half, I would learn from all of them – looking, listening and absorbing life lived daily on the streets of the concrete jungle. This process would require figuring out the ins and outs of the neighborhood – reminiscent of discovering much of the same during those years spent in Himalayan villages and on continuous train journeys. Uptown, with its changing face, would become the setting of all my adventures and misadventures, and it would be Harlem that would become home.

Every day, I would attend one of the premier educational institutions of the country (with its self-proclaimed prestige, dynamic academics, and absurd tuition), but every night return to 115^th. My time in Harlem has constituted an education in itself. My experiences added texture and a dose of reality, to what I would hear about human rights, development, and poverty in the classroom. My roommate, who had grown up in the neighborhood, would tell stories about how he saw it all change. How crack had decimated the community and how the effects of addiction became part of daily life. And there remain the on-going debates over gentrification and the continuing battles over land and property.

For me, the affluent and working class cultures of Harlem have been uplifting. The legacies of past residents: Hughes and Ellison, Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey, and Baldwin, Belafonte and Robeson remain powerful. And on top of all that, the crowds on 125^th street, the bazaar-like atmosphere, and the street hawkers selling everything from scented oils to incense to bootleg DVDs would never fail to invoke memories of India. I often asked nearly everyone I met where they are from, trying to draw out their stories. However, it was those young men on the corner, who provided the sharpest and realest points of reference.

Education takes many forms, if we are open to learning from all that we see and do. On my block, there were also the addicts, the junkies, the sirens and arrests, and the not-so-nice landlady downstairs – who would blast her radio at 8 am sending shockwaves through my bedroom floor. Each has added layers to my own growth and understanding. As the pages turn to another chapter, the plan is for Harlem – the only home I have known in New York – to remain home for now. In all its ups and downs it has remained a place of learning, and in the end, what more could you ask for?