The Decision: Vax Apartheid Edition

Each morning I wake up and reflect on the decision in front of us. With a 32-week cutoff to fly approaching: do we stay or do we go?

The original plan was to move to Kenya indefinitely. That is until we received our surprise. But life isn’t meant to be put on hold. And so, after a rigmarole to get our documents amidst a historic backlog, we crossed borders with the hubris of American passport holders.

The last four months have been life-affirming. On the coast, at the base of Mount Kenya, there’s been time and space for healing and reflection. In many ways it’s been life lived daily – not without its healthy dose of ups and downs. There have been emergency hospital visits, motorbike accidents, and elephant encounters. We’ve made new friends and watched our daughter thrive. Most importantly, we’ve been afforded the room to dream about the future we want for our growing family beyond what’s prescribed.

One of the biggest surprises here has been the culture surrounding children. Kids are allowed to be kids, even in public. There are no dirty looks or menacing insinuations when they wail in delight or despair. Waitresses will willingly play with children, strangers will watch out for your mtoto, and no amount of noise is deemed inappropriate. It’s like kids are seen as a collective blessing and not a personal burden (weird, right?).

As COVID cases began to climb in the US, we wondered out loud whether we would be better off staying put. Texts were sent to our team of supporters and soothsayers across the world. There have been moments during these discussions where I’ve felt ridiculed for even asking the question. It’s like the long shadow of American exceptionalism was cast over our conversations. The lurking assumption that because it’s the United States, everything is inherently better.

Of course, this wasn’t always the case. Our friends and family love us and want what’s best. And I get it. Kind of. I mean, vaccination rates are much higher in the US than in much of the world. We are fortunate enough to have health insurance that allows for quality care if we need emergency interventions. These are good reasons. And we are lucky to have such options.

The reality of course is that patents, hoarding, and vaccine apartheid is what is prolonging the pandemic by preventing the global majority from getting inoculated, thus allowing for further mutations and variants. The politicking over masks and public health and safety certainly doesn’t help either. In the United States, a Lancet study found that roughly 40 percent of deaths from COVID in the first year of the pandemic were unnecessary. Globally, millions of deaths were avoidable.

While the loss of life is shocking, and the economic impacts of the pandemic have been crippling for those most vulnerable, the profits being reaped are staggering. New research reveals that Pfizer, Moderna, and BioTech are making $1,000 a second, $65,000 a minute. It’s not just pharmaceutical giants. The pandemic has led to a precipitous rise in inequality. Globally, the total wealth of billionaires increased by $5 trillion since March 2020, while millions were pushed into poverty. In the US, their wealth grew by 70 percent or $2.1 trillion. In India last year, the income of 84 percent of households dropped while the number of billionaires grew. In Asia as a whole, 20 new “pandemic billionaires” emerged while 140 million people fell into poverty due to loss of livelihoods. 

This is the shock doctrine Naomi Klein warned about. When crisis hits, corporate interests abetted by politicians exploit the moment to advance their own agendas and policies while the larger population struggles to respond and resist.

What does it say about our society that during a global pandemic the super wealthy are allowed to make obscene profits while basic public needs – access to healthcare, housing, and safety – remain unmet?

Notably, the same countries sitting on vaccine recipes, are also historically responsible for the majority of greenhouse gas emissions driving the planet to an ecological tipping point. As natural disasters and extreme weather events intensify, the climate crisis disproportionately impacts countries in the Global South and low-income communities of color – precisely those who have contributed least to the crisis. The continued failures of global leaders to mandate binding action to limit global warming to 1.5 degrees exposes the pathological nature of capitalism that ignores the writing on the wall in pursuit of endless growth.

Similarly, the pandemic has exposed the cutthroat nature of a system that demands people work when they’re sick, denies them adequate care, and disdains those who question whether our profit-motivated priorities are appropriate.

George Bush (the First) stated that the American way of life is non-negotiable. And that’s how we’re living. Killing ‘em softly to consume more and more.

Nowadays between walks in the forest, we read our incoming messages and look at the news with trepidation. Our loved ones are infected. Cases are surging to record levels. Hospitals are slammed. There is a marked difference in the tone of our conversations with folks back home.  

We are fortunate though to be able to cross borders with relative ease. For so many, seeking safety, security, and dignity involves embarking on dangerous journeys increasingly imperiled by walls, bullets, and cages. Ultimately, migration is a form of adaptation; one that people have employed throughout history as a response to changing environmental, economic, and political conditions.

Unfortunately, rich, high-emitting countries are militarizing borders and criminalizing migration instead of addressing root causes. Under the Biden Administration, immigration detention has swelled (so much for campaign promises, huh?). There are currently more than 22,000 people locked up in migrant detention centers – many of which are private, for-profit institutions – up from 14,195 when Biden took office. Since January 3, there has been a 793 percent increase of COVID cases in ICE detention facilities where social distancing is essentially impossible.

Now before y’all start with that anti-national talk, I love my countries – but not the creeping fascism. After all, I came up on hip-hop. Fell in love to neo-soul. The NBA has more parity than ever. What else do you want? A pledge of allegiance? I gave that up at 15.

Seriously though, it has been the communities of care that have emerged through growing solidarity and mutual aid networks that speak to the foundation of the future we should aim to create. The nature of the common threats we face require rejecting trickle-down myths of bootstraps and rugged individualism and realizing we are better off embracing solutions rooted in our collective uplift.

Don’t get it twisted, home is home (even when home is where the hatred is) and I can’t deny the excitement that accompanies my apprehension. We’re taking our talents to Silver Spring – for now. But I got a list of demands: a global vaccination distribution plan, a Green New Deal, universal healthcare, a reduced military budget, and safe pathways for migration.  

We’ll see you on the other side, plague permitting.

Saluting an Elephant

One

On a sunny New Year’s Day, I set out for my daily constitutional into the forests surrounding Mount Kenya. As usual, I ended up walking father than intended. You see, my legs have their own agenda. Once they start going, they need to do their thing. It’s like there’s a lag between when my brain tells them to turn around and when they accept the message.

Inevitably when I wander off like this, I get a bit lost. But I’ve spent so many hours getting lost and found that I wasn’t really worried. I had a general sense that I was headed in the right direction. The birdsong keeping me company. As I made my way back through the wilderness, a sharp pain shot through my foot. I pulled off my shoe to find an acacia thorn lodged in my sole. I tried to pry it out but it splintered in two, a piece buried somewhere in the rubber.

I found and followed a meandering path that led to the smallest of clearings. Catching my breath, it took a moment to spot where the tread continued. When I finally spied a mud track snaking through the brush, I lumbered forward, snapping the twigs and branches that closed in on my ankles and elbows. And that’s when I heard a hasty rustle hidden among the trees.

My immediate thought was that there was someone else nearby, though I rarely see anyone on my walks. Occasionally there are women carrying loads of firewood on their backs, a singular strap across the crown of their heads bearing the brunt of the weight, their arms arched backwards to hold on to ropes. There are shepherds that bring their cows and sheep to graze. But the cows and sheep wear bells around their necks and you can easily hear them jangling from a distance. They don’t venture into dense bush, preferring wider tracks.

I carefully stepped closer. Again, the crashing of branches shattered the silence, sending a charged current through the air. It was clear by the sheer force and velocity that no human could cut through thick jungle like that. I took flight.  

I had no idea where I was going but something told me to get the hell out of there. This time my legs got the message promptly. After a wild scramble, I tried to calm down. There was no sense in really getting lost. A part of me questioned what even just happened. Maybe it was wishful thinking that I had come across an ellie. I doubled back and soon found myself again at that mirage of a path plunging into the wood. Now my senses were on high alert.

I crept along the trail and, and as if sensing my presence, another boom of branches rang out. I crouched low, peering into that mosaic of dark green and earthen brown. What I think I saw looking back at me were two long, sullen eyes, those inimitable flaps, and a fine gray trunk. I didn’t wait any longer to make sure I got it right. I bolted. Again.

When I reached another clearing, I frantically called Keith, a resident forest expert. He told me to head to open space. I stumbled through the bush, the acacia thorn reasserting itself every few steps. Eventually I made it out to the spacious cattle path. I trudged home exhausted and bewildered, in desperate need of water, trying to make sense of what I was feeling. The current still clinging to me.

The next morning, I got a text from a friend who had just come across relatively fresh elephant dung in the same patch of forest. I felt vindicated. Especially since I knew I had my doubters. The night before Roxanne told me, “I don’t think it was an elephant you saw. They’re so quiet. They could be right next to you and you wouldn’t even know.”

Even that morning Keith had messaged to let me know that the folks who forage for firewood said there was no elephant yesterday. He suggested maybe it was a buffalo or waterbuck. But here was fresh dung confirming my encounter. My joy overflowing.        

I wrote the episode down in my journal and set off, hopping over the Karichota stream, ducking beneath the elephant wire. Within a few minutes I came across a stinking mountain of evidence. This one was fresh-fresh, buzzing with flies. I couldn’t help but marvel at its size. Now I’m no expert – just a worshiper of fat layers of moss – and figured the mound in front of me was from the day before, further proof of my run-in.

I walked on for a few more minutes when I heard that unmistakable rustle. I slowed down, taking each step deliberately, only to look up, awestruck. This time there was no question.

I stood there entranced for almost a minute. My feet planted amongst all the others in the forest. While my eyes remained transfixed, my ears were alert to a shuffling in the jungle beside me. I was acutely aware that I was not alone. Almost on cue, the hidden one began trumpeting. Another language I couldn’t follow. I had no idea how far or close it was. And I didn’t stick around to find out.

Two

Not gonna lie: I was shook. Like, there were a few moments where I felt unprecedented panic. I don’t know if it’s something primal that takes over. But before I had time to process the situation, I was running with no idea or care for where I was going. My scattered steps burdened with the thought that a tusker may be on my heels.

Maybe its instinctual, some component of your body or brain that recognizes that you’re in the presence of a wild animal. Your heartbeat sound like sasquatch feet. What’s terrifying is that with such little visibility, even when running away, you’re aware of the possibility that you may stumble upon one around the next turn.

Ever since we arrived at the foothills of Mount Kenya, the forest has been a refuge. Over the past month I’ve mapped the trails and trees that inhabit this space, imprinting the topography on my brain and improving my shaky sense of direction. I’ve learned the names of a few birds and how to identify many of the trees that define the landscape: lavish podo dripping with lichen, lotus-leafed water-berry, twisting olive, unfurling cape chestnut, stoic cedar, and remarkable strangler fig – or mugomo – which “holds a kaleidoscope of meanings within Kikuyu cosmology” serving as “a conduit between people and god, binding humanity and nature, manifesting coexistence and connectivity, and representing power, life, and fertility.”

Between the trees and the babbling Burguret river, the forest is teeming. It’s always a pleasure to be hailed by the Colobus monkeys. Their white fluffy tails looking like puffs of cotton candy hanging from the canopy. They jump – all four limbs outstretched – with arboreal expertise. At night the hyrax shriek. By the sounds of it recording their latest screamo album in the alfresco studio. (Fun fact: hyraxes, despite looking like gophers, are thought to be one of the closest living relatives to elephants.)

But there’s something about elephants that invokes a wondrous curiosity. I can’t say I’m adept or know much more than the basics: Their outstanding memory. A marathon gestational period. The tender way they mourn their dead. I’m into it, though. So much so that a couple months ago I insisted we got to Amboseli – the national park known for its elephant population. While friends and strangers alike suggested Maasai Mara or Tsavo for a wider array of wildlife, I was there for the ellies. Under the gaze of Kilimanjaro, we beamed as they strode through the savannah.

When we shifted to the outskirts of Nanyuki, I joked that I would love to see elephants out here in the forest. I was surprised by how serious the responses were:

“Trust me, you don’t want to see an elephant in the bush.”

“Elephants are faster than human beings – you don’t want to contend with them.”

“There are people who have encountered them that are seriously traumatized.”

I keep coming back to the almost primitive fear I felt. Initially, there was a part of me that was mad I didn’t stick around longer to see what was really good. But then again, I was on their home turf. It was an away game for me, so to speak.  

It’s taken me a few days, but I get it. While I faithfully continue my daily pilgrimage, I’m unable to get so easily lost in my thoughts. Now any scurry through the understory or flutter of wings snaps my neck around. There are times when I am surrounded on all sides by shades of dark green and I feel the electricity return.

And I have to admit, maybe all those warnings served their purpose.

Three

Human-wildlife conflicts are intensifying as stressors on natural habitats increase from agricultural and industrial activities. The climate crisis has exacerbated these conflicts as competition over land, food, and water grows. Hundreds of people are killed each year by elephants, alone. In response to the destruction of crops and property, and threats to food security and livelihoods, wildlife is killed in retaliation.

As human-wildlife conflict mitigation strategies are considered, especially in and around conservation areas, local communities should be part of the process of developing context-specific solutions. The FAO states that involving local communities in the management of, and benefits derived from, conservation areas, is crucial to addressing human-wildlife conflicts.

Yet too often local communities are marginalized bystanders in the big business of conservation. While tourism from conservation efforts generate huge revenue, local – often Indigenous – communities face dispossession, violence, and eviction. Recent research finds that the creation of protected areas and national parks continues to drive widespread human rights violations. This model of fortress conservation, based on the belief that biodiversity must be kept in isolation, absent from humans, should be replaced with community-led efforts rooted in an understanding of the critical role communities can – and in many instances already do – play in forest and wildlife protection.

Four

I dip below the elephant wire and sink to my knees. Now that I’m back on familiar ground, I shake my head in wonder before sending my offerings up in a cloud.

I lean back against an ancient trunk and listen. Each day the forest reveals a little bit more. I’ve learned to accept the advice embossed in cyphers of moss and lichen. They are continually dispelling self-doubt and planting seeds of imagination, reminding me that there is enchantment in this world.

After all, the natural world is the original inspiration for all arts and crafts, sound and color. Western-centric, Enlightenment thought has succeeded in deceiving us to believe that the key to that ill-defined goal of progress is humans’ domination over nature. As if human beings are somehow divorced from the world we inhabit. As if our fate is separate from the ancestors that inhabit the forests, rivers, and streams. The frightening results of such thinking are now being felt with intensifying tremors all around us.

Follow the signs only you see. Trust that they’ll take you where you need. Pay respects to the interconnected webs of life.

Receive elephant blessings.

Masala 2016

With the passing of another Roman calendar year comes prescribed moments for reflection. 2016 brought tremendous upheaval. Ongoing slaughter in Syria, a mounting refugee crisis, a rise in xenophobic and nationalist movements, Brexit, demonetization and the continued politics of thievery in India, continued murder and criminalization of  human rights defenders across the globe, and certainly not least, the election of Donald Trump.  

This past year also saw the passing of an inordinate number of cultural icons. In my own life, the significance of Muhammad Ali and Prince must be noted. As a kid I remember my dad – who was a boxer himself in his youth – tell me, “Whatever it is you do, remember to leave your mark on this world – just like Muhammad Ali.”

Personally, 2016 brought more opportunities to lend my voice in support of struggles for democratic expression, climate justice, and community land and forest rights.

Some highlights from the year: 

February – Hindustan Times: As with Bush in US after 9/11, so with JNU now

The arrest of Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) student president Kanhaiya Kumar on charges of sedition, and the larger debate around anti-nationalism in India, triggered country-wide protests. In Delhi I spoke with students at JNU, listened to rallies on campus, and participated in a march in favor of democratic expression.  The myopic discourse on patriotism and dissent was all too familiar, reminiscent of the days of protest and anguish after 9/11 in the US.

July – The Guardian: India should follow China to find a way out of the woods on saving forest people

Over the past year there have been intensified efforts by local communities, activists, and civil society organizations to implement India’s landmark – yet poorly utilized – Forest Rights Act.  It has been shown that forests are better sustainably used, managed, and conserved when in the hands of local communities – as compared to governments or private entities – and therefore an effective strategy for climate change mitigation. December 2016 marks the tenth anniversary of the FRA.

August – Vice: Liberia’s Land Law Could Protect Forests, People, and the Climate

Liberia’s legislature had the opportunity to pass a new law – the Land Rights Act – which would recognize the land rights of communities across the country. After spending a year on the ground in Liberia from 2012-2013 collaborating with local communities to document, manage, and govern their traditional lands and forests, it was with an open heart I returned to support my friends and colleagues in their ongoing struggles. The Land Rights Act will be in front of the legislature again in January 2017.

October/November – The Wire: How Gujarat’s Maldharis Are Asserting Their Rights Over The Banni Grasslands

Towards the end of 2016 I had the opportunity to visit pastoral communities in the Banni Grasslands of the Kutch region of India.  The Maldharis have been organizing to have their rights to their traditional grasslands recognized through theForest Rights Act. My trip coincided with the annual pashu mela (livestock fair). The result was an enriching and eye-opening journey into a unique culture navigating their path to maintain their traditional way of life.

December – Knife At the GunFight: Episode 1 – The Struggle for the Future

After much persistence from the homie Dr. Fitz, we collaborated on a new podcast: Knife at the GunFight. The inaugural episode features a report back from Standing Rock, where indigenous communities in the US have been resisting the construction of an oil pipeline through their ancestral lands, and discusses the larger struggle for indigenous and community land rights around the world.

To new friends and old, 2017 will certainly require renewed dedication for greater coordination, organizing, and resistance in the face of new threats to marginalized communities at home and abroad, sexual and reproductive rights, and the larger environment upon which we all depend. Looking forward to seeing you out there.

Masala Justice 

Beyond Bernie: The Limits of Electoral Politics

In the circus-like spectacle that is the U.S. Presidential Election the rising popularity of Bernie Sanders has been a welcome surprise. On a platform seeking to address income and wealth inequality, provide universal healthcare and education, and reject the hubris of US militarism, Sanders’s calls for a political revolution are aimed at reinforcing the principles of democracy rather than the will of affluent campaign funders. This has resonated widely amongst a spectrum of voters in a race that was anticipated as the coronation of Hillary Clinton.

But Sanders’s campaign should also serve as a reminder that it requires popular collective action to create lasting social change, not simply campaign donations.

Perhaps what is most striking is the breadth of support Sanders has captivated: from the generally apathetic to those whose politics lie farther left of the Democratic Party.  Credit is due. Not only for presenting an electoral alternative in a structurally-flawed two-party system that has become synonymous with super-delegates and electioneering, but also for financing a campaign without support from corporate donors. 

The thought of a Sanders presidency has been promising. However, it should also remind us that tangible social change rarely comes through electoral politics. Too often we want the heavy lifting done for us. We want to place an individual on the top that will benevolently make the difficult decisions necessary to place people over profit and absolve us of our own agency to realize a more just society. This has been one of the disappointments surrounding the Obama presidency.

While we are often directed towards the legislative legacy of the Civil Rights Movement – the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 – it was the grassroots actions of multiracial coalitions of everyday people which inevitably led to a tangible change of hearts and minds, as well as laws and policies. It required youth riding interstate buses in the segregated South, sit-ins to integrate lunch counters and schools, and civil disobedience demanding an end to systemic violence and discrimination. The hard-fought battles that took place in the streets, in courtrooms, and among friends, strangers, and neighbors are a reminder that there are no shortcuts for the hard work necessary to bring about lasting societal transformation. Change rarely comes from the top down.

This important realization is reflected in Sanders’s stump rhetoric through his calls to build a critical mass of grassroots support. But despite the widespread enthusiasm behind him, there are questions regarding his approach on issues of race, criminal justice, and foreign policy. There are also criticisms that his campaign in itself is not suited to bring about the political revolution which he espouses. However, Professor Dr. Cornel West suggests, “He’s a politician that needs a social movement behind him.”

The role of such movements is to create the fertile environment in which real systemic change takes place – with or without the complicity of elected officials. In recent years the Occupy movement, the Fight for $15 minimum wage, and Black Lives Matter have catalyzed public discourse on structural inequality, economic justice, and police accountability. Such movements recognize that their power does not come from representing a singular voting bloc, but from serving as the moral conscience of a nation facing its deepest contradictions.

It is no wonder then that neither Sanders nor Clinton have been able to tap into the most dynamic social movement of the day – Black Lives Matter – which does not trust that meaningful transformation will come through reforms from elected representatives. It instead acknowledges the deeper struggle required to dismantle a larger system of racism and inequality. After all, ballot boxes represent only the narrowest form of democracy.

All of this is not to say that elections don’t matter. They matter significantly for millions in terms of health and housing policies, environmental protections, and international affairs. And this election serves as another reminder that just as the goal of the Sanders’s campaign is not to push the Democratic Party to the left; his campaign itself is not the destination. It is instead a vehicle to achieve the long overdue social change that many hoped for during the Obama years.

What’s required then is diversity of tactics that recognizes elections as only one part of a larger strategy. As Michelle Alexander explains, it is equally important to build a movement that can hold the Democratic Party – a party that has been accused of abandoning its progressive ideals – accountable, along with building viable alternatives at local, state, and national levels. But for this process to be effective there will have to be the day-in and day-out community organizing and difficult conversations with those whom we do not agree.

Because if Sanders is not elected President there will be the forces of either near-fascism or neo-liberalism to fend off.  And if he pulls off the upset and is elected, we should know by now that, the same hard work will be necessary to hold him to his promises and realize the platform he is running on.

Last month, I changed my party affiliation in order to vote for the first time in a Democratic Primary to select the delegates in favor of Sanders’s political revolution. I knocked on doors and made phone calls. In the weeks and months to follow however I know that what is really required is not simply my vote, but a committed engagement to democracy – in all of her participatory venues. 

Masala Journalism

I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Polluters or protectors? Farmers in Himachal Pradesh fight for their rights over forests
August 16, 2015 || Scroll.in

Farmers are rallying for the implementation of the Forest Rights Act, which gives them the right to govern forest resources, as a High Court order brands them 'polluters'.

On July 25, around 2,000 farmers gathered in Himachal Pradesh’s remote tribal district of Kinnaur to highlight the threat looming over their land, forests and livelihoods. Against the background of green hills, they thundered chants as local leaders gave rousing speeches. When the assembly dispersed, the farmers were still unsure if they had been heard, whether their demand for the implementation of the Forest Rights Act of 2006 would be met, particularly after a recent High Court order. || Full article

***

Odisha diaries: the struggle for community control over land, forests and natural resources
April 25, 2015 || Down to Earth

No matter how much compensation is promised, companies will need ‘a social licence’ to conduct business on the land of the people

For the past 20 years, local communities across the eastern Indian state of Odisha have engaged in numerous movements to protect their customary lands and forests against industrial and government interests. Several have captured global attention, documenting resistance from some of India’s most marginalised communities in the face of dispossession and displacement. Now, Odisha’s communities are mobilising once more to assert their rights over the resources that define their culture and survival, using modern technology and India’s Forest Rights Act of 2006 (FRA). || Full article

***

An Opportunity to Get Conservation Right
February 25, 2015 || Thomas Reuters Foundation

At People’s Rights Conference, Nepali communities affirm their rights to resources in a recently declared conservation zone

The hall burst into applause as the final declaration was read out. The audience, composed of community forestry user groups from Nepal’s Chure region, Indigenous Peoples, women’s rights groups, Dalit advocates, and youth vowed to continue the movement that had brought them together over the course of the past seven months.

Echoing in the hall was the demand to start including Chure’s people in determining the policies that govern the fate of the forests, land, and water they have depended upon for generations in the Himalayan country. || Full article

Return of the Himalaya

All I want to do is walk. Any chance I get, I take off. It doesn’t necessarily help that six seven hours a day are spent bumping around in a bus or in the back of a jeep. We ride parallel to rushing rivers that are voraciously being dammed. Beside, the headquarters of hydro and cement companies sprawl. It isn’t long before the asphalt disappears and gives way to more humble tracks upon which to tread. We slowly climb up and eventually back down lush green hills. And while the winding dirt roads mean travelling at the snail’s pace, it still feels like I’m going too fast.

My eyes try as best they can to feast on my surroundings, but more often than not they are fixed upwards, glued to snowcapped peaks. I can’t help it. There is something about those sharp, jagged edges that arrest, keeping me in awe, aware of my size. When they move out of view, I take in the breadth of the landscape. Another world defined by a direct relationship with the land comes into focus. As soon as we stop for tea or reach our destination in Kinnaur, in Kullu, in Mandi, my legs take over. Every free moment I can steal away, I want to take in these hills and streams and staircase villages.

So every evening after heated discussions on community forest rights, I leave my new activist friends behind and begin to wander. It’s only on my own two feet that I feel like I can move slowly enough to feel everything that this place stirs inside. My mind is engaged in constant conversation with itself; I am only a bystander at this point, quietly listening to the back and forth banter inside my head.

Climbing up worn pathways, I quickly get lost trying to find my way to an arbitrarily picked destination way above where I stand – a temple, an orchard, a waterfall. Amused villagers ask where I am going and I excitedly reply that I’m simply going for a walk. It’s not long before I am again sitting down with strangers, drinking tumbler after tumbler of sweet pahadi chai.

I know these moments mean more because of those summers I spent as a kid exploring a similar setting in Kangra. Sent to my Nanaji and Nanima’s house, the monsoon welcomed me.  I know it’s because of the memories that come back from that year in Kumaon that makes it all the more meaningful. And now, with a few more years on me and a (relatively) more stable head on these shoulders, I keep my ears open, attuned to the secrets being whispered.

I no longer try to compartmentalize or label the feelings that arise. Rural life with all its beauty, generosity, and hardships stands directly in front of me. Not asking for anything, yet still demanding all of my attention.  The smell of wood-fed fires brings waves of nostalgia and inspiration that wash over me, making it all so dangerously easy to romanticize. Standing atop of a world that at once seems familiar, and yet one I know I cannot claim to fully understand.  It is here I recognize there is too much upon the hills and below the surface that I am unable to put into words.

But just as is with every return to the Himalaya, internally there is work being done. Inside, I can only hope my heart is being soaked, and wrung, and washed anew. That somewhere, though I cannot see it – only vaguely feel it – there is a realignment taking place.

The Waking Hours

In a flash your eyes open in a sharp, fluid motion. The room is dark except for the moonlight pouring through a window. Somewhere in the distance you can hear various calls to prayer. In a foreign language they echo across the night gently pulsating inside the cavern of your head. Coaxing you to pay closer attention to not that what you can’t understand, but to what you already know to be true. You sit up puzzled with the amount of energy you find reverberating in the dim. Coming to your feet you spy the moon, framed through the window pane, bearing witness to creation.   

The benefits of jet lag are these solitary moments. While the whole world around you sleeps, you are free to sit down with your muse. Sure, your mind is enveloped in a thick fog that shrouds your thoughts in that what feels surreal. A bit confused, your circadian rhythm is desperately trying to place itself. Is it time to wake up or go back to sleep? Is it time for dinner or rather breakfast?

In the waking hours you face yourself head on. All distractions dissipate in the darkness. And here you can take inventory of your ongoing battles and self-created enemies. In the perfectly-still silence you exhale your inspiration: for all the things you know are yet to be achieved. For the knowledge that the struggle will continue.

Wide awake you are free to dream. Nothing stirs and so there is nothing to dissuade you in these dangerous instances of self-assurance. The deeper you dive the clearer the revelation becomes, crystallizing in the film behind your eyelids. These aren’t grand visions – rather a list of what is to be done.  

These dreams:

                Of self-awareness
                                and less addiction;

                Of improved practice
                                and healthy breakfasts;

    Of colorful stories
                                and leafy gardens;

                Of realizing the fruits of love
                                and building the tribe that follows

You have never been so sure that they will come true. And when it all comes to pass it will be because of these moments. If you dare dream. 

For LIB

These days Liberia is stuck on the brain. It was only a year ago that my daily tour of Monrovia would commence soon after returning to the house sandwiched between Gurley and Randall Streets. The evening would be buzzing with the chatter of the line in front of the hand pump and pots hissing with preparations of palm butter, pepper soup, and potato greens. After stretching my legs I would race along the coast soaking in the sights and sounds of the city.

Passing Miami Beach, I would weave through the congregation of pam-pam drivers with neatly folded red, blue, and green bills tucked between their fingers. A chorus of Colloqua, Krio, French, and Mandingo would ring out through the revving of motorcycle engines. Somewhere unseen the Newport Street masjid would sound the call to prayer. Many of these young Liberians lived through a generation of war. But a whole generation can’t ride bikes forever. Many others came from neighboring Sierra Leone and Guinea – to hustle – taking advantage of a poor country that insists on using the US dollar as one form of currency. Now they say the pam-pams are banned in town.

Ahead would be the city’s prime real estate, where the first settlers began to create Africa’s oldest republic bringing inherent identity hierarchies over from North America. Today, Monrovia’s fanciest hotels occupy Mamba Point catering towards aid workers, ambassadors, and international business people with sushi dinners and all-you-can-eat buffets.

Leaving the hotels and hawkers behind I would climb the hill leading through the fortress that is the US Embassy. Charging downhill, the past splendor of the Ducor Hotel would float somewhere above the city. Along the way my eyes would swallow boutiques displaying the bright greens and oranges of traditional dresses, old cars being fixed by older mechanics, and children chasing after flat soccer balls. My finish line would lie ahead of me in Water Side – the entrance to West Point, the largest slum in Monrovia.

That was a year ago. These days, I run through the tree-lined streets of my suburban Maryland neighborhood. Almost inevitably, I unconsciously begin to compare the driveway basketball hoops and luxury SUVs with my previous home. I cannot shake the feelings of trepidation that follow. The latest news coming out of Liberia only intensifies the anxiety.

Every day now there are reports of growing tensions and apprehensions. There are reports of teargas, a forced quarantine for the next 21 days, and an attack on an Ebola outpatient clinic, all in the same West Point community of 50,000. All outbound flights may soon be ended, as the country could enter a virtual lockdown. These scenes strike nerves too close to home in a society still seeking to rebuild after a decade of civil crisis.

My phone suddenly vibrates, interrupting the music pouring from my headphones. It’s a message from Sis Teta in Monrovia: You guys are running away from Ebola like June passing by July.

In the past week I’ve attended a poetry fundraiser to support Gaza after a month of massacre and war crimes, and a protest in support of the ongoing struggles in Ferguson against the violence and repression of the new-age American Police State. But what does it mean to stand in solidarity with Liberia in the face of a growing epidemic and continued political malpractice?

Friends paint a picture of a government unable to tackle the epidemic with inexperienced doctors and nurses, a lack of supplies, and no proper logistical operations. One that has maintained a lasting peace, but provided what many see as little in terms of basic social services.  A recent editorial from a leading Liberian newspaper demands international support immediately to combat the epidemic, claiming a legacy of corruption has led to mismanagement of the unfolding situation.

So  many of the lessons learned that year were about understanding the psychology of conflict and trauma, the costs of a donor-driven agenda, and the limits of foreign investment, as the country’s land and natural resources are continuously being sold off at a staggering rate. It is estimated today that around half of the country’s land has been promised to foreign companies and investors.

I tried to understand how a country so naturally rich, so inundated with foreign aid, could still struggle with providing electricity, running water, and roads. In that process, I found a society struggling to trust. Chapters of ‘growth without development,’ corruption and nepotism, and violence, have all contributed to a pervasive lack of trust. As a friend reports:

Liberia’s history of bad governance and foreign exploitation explains citizens’ reluctance to trust the intentions of government officials and international health workers. Years of extortion by police, vast and highly visible inequalities in wealth and a sense that even aid workers arrive to enrich themselves have taken their toll.

Perhaps we now know too well to think that the 21^st century will swiftly bring just solutions to the crises of the world, especially those facing black and brown marginalized people at home and abroad. The repeated call from Liberia is one for international support. But for the West, what is the proper response when you can’t simply send airstrikes to eradicate Ebola? It seems that Liberia needs (what Iraq and Afghanistan also needed) an army of doctors, professors, and public health experts who are ready to join hands with local champions for justice.

After leaving, it took months to even begin processing the rawness and realness of everything I experienced. Nearly a year later, I find myself thinking of her every day and my heart shakes at the scenes playing out. Running past the privilege of my neighborhood I can still see the city on its hustle, the women selling butter pear and palm nuts and the pam-pam boys raising their eyebrows ready to give me a lift.

What form can love and compassion take to leave dark days behind and step into a better tomorrow?

The Air Up There

The air up there is thin. Struggling to reach 15,000 feet, my heart rapidly knocks against my chest, rattling my ribs and threatening to smash through my sternum. The dry climate reflects itself in the jagged brown mountains that stare all-knowingly. Rising up to meet the clouds they are only dwarfed by even sharper edges – snowcapped and silent – towering above. At these heights the oxygen is increasingly scarce. And the air, parched and crisp is poised to pierce through any ego.

Bouncing around the backseat of a van, the ceremonial is passed to me as we make our way along winding roads to the departure point. My handlers are young, hip Ladakhis, continuously on their hustle to make the most from the steady flow of the tourist season. These months bring the height of their income; for the rest of the year the region is largely cut off and buried in snow. Eyes glued to the other side of the window, at any given point the mountains encompass us circling 360 degrees of the horizon.

My companions are two 22 year olds. Another NRI who has also come to this corner of Kashmir on vacation, and our guide, a local college student whose summer climbing supplements his tuition fees. Before we set out, we sit with our handlers at a makeshift tea stall planted at the foot of a small stream. Once more the ceremonial is passed around, this time with the first of many bowls of Maggi which will mark the journey through high mountain passes. The masala stings my already weathered, chapped lips nearly 12,000 feet above sea level.

All week I’ve prided myself on my ability to adjust to the pahadi culture and high altitude. In the cutest Hindi imaginable, I repeat, “Chalne ke adat hai pechle janum se.” My certainty brings laughter and skepticism from my new friends. And with the final slurps we are off – to conquer or be conquered by the Himalayas.

Our first day is four hours of steady climbing. By early evening we reach “base camp” – a series of tents set to house wandering tourists, and the locals accompanying their adventure tourism. It seems as if this site is a staple of the trekking economy. Unable to keep my eyes off the imposing view of Stok Kangri, I begin to meet my fellow travelers.

There is the French physiotherapist who has quit his job to wander India for the next six months. He has taken to Buddhist philosophy and provides surprisingly good advice on watching where impulses and desires come from. His girlfriend is off practicing yoga poses. In full Surya Namaskar, she intermittently appears prostrating in front of the Himalaya. Soon enough they both wander off amidst some boulders to meditate.

There’s also the Tibetan immigrant who has made India his home. Over the subsequent hours, accompanied by several glasses of rum, he tells his incredible story. After fleeing Chinese occupation of Tibet, he made his way to Nepal where he climbed with the Sherpas for nearly a decade.  Following his time in Nepal, he came to India and has subsequently travelled the subcontinent north to south, east to west, even venturing out to remote islands. Now, Ladakh is home where he has become a self-made anthropologist, geologist, and historian of sorts. Scrolling through his digital camera he explains how he wants to bring scientists to see the isolated parts of the region he has explored, where he has discovered fossilized remains, as well as documented local traditions and practices.

At night, the stars shine ferociously. Like a million tiny specks of silt burning through the sky transmitting the Light we are searching for.  In between those aerial fires are wisps of the Milky Way, like curling smoke upon a nocturnal canvas.  At the rooftop of the world, the villages are few and far between to cause any type of light pollution. Once again I tilt my head backwards as I brush my teeth, inhaling starlight.

All was well that night, that is, until that sudden 4 am wake up. You know the one where you get up with a start and sense of purpose. Unzipping the double layers of my tent, I quickly zigzag between the dozen or so encampments sprawled across the cold ground. I shine my flashlight up the hill, illuminating my destination. The makeshift structure is three walls of neatly stacked, level, rounded stone. I dart around to the open face to gratefully find smooth ground with a single hole in the center.

***

I swear I died at least twice that day.  With nothing left in my system, the lack of oxygen became even more noticeable along the steep hike. Over two hours of incline, I was forced to stop literally every twenty steps. My heartbeat – pounding – ricocheted off my eardrums making each lumbering step thunder in my head.  Sucking wind, I bargain: if the sins and substance abuse of the past years can be released through my pores then this is all worth it.

My pride gets me through, refusing the assistance of any man or pony. Atop the Ganda La Pass, prayer flags flutter in the cold wind. Below, the valley is illuminated by the still rising morning sun. The Himalayas stand stoically, asserting their stature, ignoring our minute achievement. Besides me, a group of American college students pull out a bottle of Old Monk to celebrate the ascent. I decline as shots are taken of the sweet-syrupy rum to mark the occasion. And then down we go.

The remainder of the day is spent walking through the stark and beautiful landscape. Jumping through streams, walking into narrow rock corridors, and marveling at the majesty.  After a few hours, I lodge my protest at taking a step further while the sun is at its highest. Finding a collection of bushes I drop down, immediately falling asleep for the next hour.

By evening we reach the village that will be home for the night. The local monastery stands on top of a small hill and we once again climb up to pay our respects. In Ladakh, the cultural and religious dynamics are defined by Tibetan Buddhism, which has been predominant for well over a thousand years.  Our home-cooked dinner is momos stuffed with local vegetables – the antidote needed for deep sleep.

Returning down through the evolving landscape brings us face to face with the dust and concrete of new construction. Roads and bridges are slowly coming to connect the trekking routes and villages that are becoming popular. Reaching the River, I jump in a raft alongside scores of Israeli, European, and Indian tourists as we battle rapids to where the Zanskar meets the Indus. Jutting up to kiss the sky are the brown and unmoving mountains, keeping steady, watching all along. 

Dilli without the Rains

Delhi without the rains is deserted dust rising from the asphalt. A stifling heat so complete it bears down without discrimination or mercy. Hotter than an eight percent growth rate, it is a blinding white light that reflects a city on its hustle. All at once fighting to eat and chasing every latest fashion with a consumerism that would put New York City to shame.

Delhi without the rains is coming home the first night to find the plastic of your toothbrush melted.  Its three baths a day, where the water from the tap is always hot – percolating in metal pipes for hours at a time. It’s the ruin of the Fair and Lovely – and once more turning the color of the earth from the sun kiss, a welcome reminder to confused travelers returning from distant shores.

It means walking through a ceaseless cloud of hot air expectant with humidity. In an ancient city the monuments from the past pop up without warning. And despite the ubiquitous warmth, the beads of sweat that suddenly appear take you by surprise. They trickle down your forehead in a perpetual stream, tracing the shape of your upper lip. You never realized your body could pour buckets of sweat. Sweat that stealthily runs down your back, clinging to your clothes.

Perpetually damp, it’s only the privilege of air-conditioned rooms that bring the controlled climate you have known. And when then electricity goes, it means sleeping on the terrace like you did as a child on strange summer adventures in the houses your parents told you they grew up in. The distant hum of generators reverberating off the cooler stone below, gently lulling you to asleep.

Delhi without the rains is the buildup before the burst.  Above, the clouds quietly congregate. With eyes tilted skyward our gaze carries the hopes for our collective stupor to shift: from an intense malaise to an outpouring of gratitude.

And with these final keystrokes, it begins first as a drizzle. Yet within minutes the downpour has become torrential. Before you know it, the rain has ceased to fall downwards. It whips like the wind, horizontally pulling everything in its path, bringing down trees and telephone poles.  If only it will last. If only it will return again tomorrow.

And so Delhi remains what it was and always has been.  A house where my Nanima consistently chastises me for not taking one more roti, not having one more spoon of dal, for never eating enough.  A resting place along the journey where I ensure the flicker of the TV alternates between reruns of the Mahabharat and kitschy Bollywood music videos. It is, amidst the chaos, a repeated site of reflection. A reminder of yet another opportunity to make sense of these thoughts and these words and these footsteps that only move forward.