Rock These Bells

In the richest temple in the world, the clamor of bells is deafening. Dozens of tiny diyas ricochet light off of gold pillars and walls in all directions. Shoulder to shoulder, pilgrims and priests – jam-packed – jostle their way to get a glimpse of the altar. The clanging surrounds the deity, a manifestation of the Lord Vishnu reclining on a hooded serpent.

Amongst the commotion, the dim chamber takes on the feel of a time machine. The constant shift in lighting plays tricks on your eyes and on your mind, as if you have entered an almost-parallel dimension.

You cannot help but try and prolong every second in that deep chamber, if only to simply absorb the feeling .The vibrations are both ancient and kinetic down on the coast of Kerala. It is only a matter of moments, but the uniqueness of the forces around you cement themselves somewhere in your being – not so much as a memory, but as an imprint of experience.

It’s not the most familiar form of expression, yet not the most foreign. But you get it. You get that the ritual and worship is significant for many. Contained in the constant flicker of tiny flames are meanings left to ponder. Despite the prejudices that still permeate society, from unequal social hierarchies to differential power relations, we assert claim to our own definitions from fire and flames.

In those moments and the ones after, your mind takes you back, trying to understand the articulation of culture witnessed. Exiting back outside to the streets of Thiruvananthapuram, you cannot help but wonder whether that indeed was another dimension, where the sound of ringing never ceases.

***

Behind the Nizamuddin Auliyah dargah there is another, smaller dargah. Upon ascending the stairs, I am immediately greeted by a tree that reaches through the floor from the ground below. On the wall written in Urdu, Hindi, and English are prayers and recitations, reaffirming the equality of all human beings and all faiths in a spirit of plurality. As I take my seat on the marble floor, the music begins. The beats, sounds, and rhythms from centuries passed on echo the Sufi tradition of unity, love, and harmony between this world and the divine.

And there are moments, moments where I lose myself in the tunes of tabla and harmonium, in the potency of Saqlain and Jamal’s voices, which belong to a tradition that spans generations. Saqlain and Jamal’s family have been singing qawwali for over 700 years. There is something in that setting that blurs this world with another.

For some it is about personal connection to inter-connected cosmic forces, for others simply a cultural experience, but for me evenings at the dargah are all of these, as well as a reaffirmation of spiritual expression. Over the next days and weeks I will crave a return to that place of solitude within, and mystical discourse abound, all around me.

***

From South Ferry we climb aboard the boat that takes us to the stage of hip-hop culture and community. From the tip of Manhattan we have set out with style and swagger to celebrate rap legends rhyme a hardened street existence with obscene material success. We grew up watching flashing images from music videos, and listening to the clever manipulation of poetry, prose, and profanity that mocked what authority held sacred. It is the playfulness in rhyme, the nuance in satire, and the truth beyond what news reports or textbooks ever chose to reveal that constituted a large part of our education.

We have come for the soulful journey with Erykah that takes us on (and on), as part of a gathering of the masses to pay respect to the Wu-Tang Clan (amongst others). But the highlight of the evening must be Ms. Lauryn Hill. We can’t help but sing, dance, and smile along to the Miseducation that we first received as teenagers. Witnessing classic Fugees tracks performed live, our youth is resurrected in front of our very eyes. And as the curtain closes with “Killing Me Softly” it’s sorta like – “I can die happy now.” With the soundtrack in our heads, we make our way back to the city – exhausted, full, and satisfied.

***

From Hinduism to hip-hop, whether in temples or dargahs or rap concerts, whether religion or poetry or music, each setting and form holds the potential sparks for learning, sharing, and creating. While the methods and means are often co-opted by reactionary forces committed to mere consumption and soul destruction, our creation should not be compromised. The liberation of creative expression is not only a celebration of the spirit, but formation of the education and culture of tomorrow.

As the thirteenth century Persian Sufi poet Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi is to have said, “There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the earth.”

So whatever you do – whether it be a prayer to the gods, a lament from the heart, or an occupation of public space for human dignity and against corporate greed– let your song be heard. Rock these bells.

Democracy is Not a Spectator Sport

On a sunny afternoon in October, a student contingent that constituted one part of a critical mass of concerned citizens, stepped off from 116^th Street and the gates of the Ivory Tower. Downtown Manhattan was flooded. The drums provided the beat to the peaceful insurrection fomenting in the streets.

Last Wednesday, I joined tens of thousands of people near Wall Street in a beautiful display of direct democracy. Marching alongside the New York State Nurses Association, the message was clear: We the people – the students, workers, and teachers; the nurses, social workers, and veterans; the tired, fed up, and ignored – the 99% had joined hands in our common struggle. The gross concentration of economic and political power in the hands of a tiny class of elites was cause enough to take leave from whatever class we had, job we worked, or hectic life we lived.

A high school social studies teacher from Long Island, who took the day off to join the protests, explained, “This is the most exciting thing that has happened in this country in a long time. If there is going to be any change it’s in the hands of the youth. They have to make it happen.”

Downtown the air was electric, the optimism palpable. Organized labor was out in full effect. You know you must be on the right side of things (or things are just that bad) when you are marching alongside nurses, librarians and teachers. And from corner to corner, street to street, a plurality of voices had occupied every square foot of concrete.

But despite the strong showing, one critique I repeatedly hear in the halls and classrooms of the Ivory Tower is that the Occupy Wall Street protests remain unfocused and unclear. There are too many issues, too many voices, and no clear demands.

Really? Do we really need to kick the economics of it?

Over the past decade we have witnessed our taxpaying dollars being wasted on unnecessarily large defense budgets that have often been used for imperialistic misadventures across the globe. In turn, we have seen private contractors and private corporations profit through no-bid contracts, no accountability, and no end in sight.

We have been criminalized and attacked through a racist war on drugs that strains our justice system wasting significant amounts of time, energy, and money. And when our country faced a dire financial crisis many people felt large banking institutions were bailed out, while everyday Americans were sold out, as they lost their jobs, homes, pensions, watched their health care costs rise, and their (student loan) debt soar.

The Occupy Movement targets a system which prioritizes corporate interests over national ones, places profit over people and is inconsistent in upholding basic human rights. However, the concentration of wealth and power are bigger than bailouts.

We cannot look at the struggles for economic, racial, and social and political justice as separate. Each reinforces the other. Claiming a movement that identifies each of these interconnected issues is unfocused and without clear demands, is frankly shortsighted and unimaginative. And those who have worked hard enough to earn their seats and scholarships in the Ivory Tower cannot afford to be shortsighted or unimaginative. Without an imagination the whole history of human progress would be left abridged and obsolete.

Last Friday, I joined the Occupy DC movement and marched from Freedom Plaza to the headquarters of the International Monetary Fund – continuing to connect the dots for economic justice at home and abroad. In both New York and Washington there were more than some who could not help but draw inspiration from this year’s revolutions in the Middle East and North Africa.

Although others are hesitant to invoke Tahrir Square in fear of detracting from the struggles of those who overthrew repressive dictatorships, for me it was about drawing strength, and showing solidarity, with the struggles for human dignity and social justice that have resonated across oceans. While where to draw inspiration from is not limited to the post-colonial kids of Cairo, the movement is infectious. In the past few weeks alone, the Occupy Movement has spread to hundreds of communities across the United States of America.

What is striking about these protests that have captured the hearts and minds of everyday people across the country is that there is no allusion to any sort of mainstream political party (spineless or otherwise). Maybe we have simply learned that democracy is not a spectator sport. And who would have ever thought that tens of thousands of people resisting repressive regimes and struggling for human dignity on the other side of the world – the Arab Spring – would inform the American Autumn.

Despite police intimidation and city orders, the movement will continue. But not only through protests and marches. It will be the tough conversations and the community organizing on the most basic level. It will involve asking challenging questions and encouraging the individual and collective expression of our hopes and dreams. It will be with those who are tired but do not stop, for those voices are hardest to hear but still have something to say, for those who only have bones to show for their struggle.

So to all those in the Ivory Tower who see this latest manifestation of resistance as unfocused or unclear and continue to become paralyzed by the question, "But will any of this really amount to anything tangible?" You will never know unless you join in. And the truth is – it has to. The current system of unfettered consumption is simply unsustainable.

Our hearts are big, and so is the amount of love we have to give. On a sunny day in October, perhaps the collective feeling that pervaded Foley Square could be summed up in the sign that read, "This is the most hopeful I have felt in a long time."