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 can sneak a glance of a Shah Rukh Khan poster. And 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, and breaking it down on the dance floor. It all feeds the flames of my enthusiasm.

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

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 say otherwise. Millions struggle to have their basic needs met. 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?

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."

Secrets of the Himalaya

It was all a dream. I was back; back at the foothills of the Himalayas, many moons since that first year when the lens shifted and the whole world began to look a little different. Walking like my legs never forgot I took each hill in stride, plucking peaches, apples, and grapes fresh off of trees and vines. I lost and found myself in mountain jungles as I made my way back, to the village that was my first home, and to the people that opened their lives to me.

From the vantage point of higher hills, smoke rises up from the houses below. The smell of burning fires and fresh gobar, the sight of warm cups of chai and familiar faces, and the sounds of animals and laughter are enough to overtake you. Everyone has jokes. And while the mountains unceasingly define the backdrop and claim the horizon, it’s about more than just the view. The purpose, dedication, and natural surroundings all add up to something that is powerful, yet not tangible.

Maybe that is the secret of the Himalaya.

Being in the presence of such natural power means going beyond what simply meets the eye. After all, what is immediately striking about mountains is their enormity. There, towering in the horizon, reminding us of forces much stronger and permanent than ourselves, lay peak after snowcapped peak, cut with sharp edges, reaffirming the meaning of earth, mud, and stone. But is it simply the sheer magnitude of mountains that move us? Or rather, is it what is inside those hills and what is inside us that meet and take us beyond the earth, mud and stone that is this body?

From such altitude, the busy streets of Babylon seem far, and all seems safe. One cannot imagine that concrete jungle as a place where we lose ourselves and become so easily distracted that we are consumed from the inside without even knowing it. That is, of course, if we do not remember secret Himalayan recipes.

That evening we sat around the wood-fed fire, in conversation and silence, once more crossing barriers of language, class and culture. The reflection and reconnection flowed in and out of me as I remembered the days when this was my home – and my classroom. Amongst people and panchayats there are always lessons to be learned about strength and bonds and struggle. Catching up on new developments of the village, discussing the never-ending work required for daily life, sharing arbitrary details of the days in between our brief time together – we added the ingredients of the night – organic vegetables, freshly-ground spices, and mutual respect and affection. They say food is love and in these parts it always tastes better.

In the morning when it was time to leave, ten year-old Jyoti walked me to the forest where I would spend the next couple hours searching for the right path back. After we began going our separate ways, she quickly turned around, and with a frown on her face she scowled, “Next time you come, you come and stay for a week, you hear me?”

How do simple words pierce organs? Why is it so easy to connect with what remains so radically different? What does it mean to melt? We want to grasp what cannot be held; we want to know for sure what we don’t understand; we want it all to make sense some day.

The questions come much easier than any answer. But I suppose some secrets are better worth keeping.

Monsoon in Four Parts

I

The fattest drops made the biggest splashes. Rolling, dark clouds creeping over the hills were the first sign. The gusts of wind followed. Every other summer or so, me and Vikram found ourselves transplanted to our grandparents’ home at the foothills of the Himalayas. Every other summer or so, in a village in Himachal Pradesh, our dreams were watered from above.

The isolated existence those few weeks brought meant constantly having to find different ways to pass the days. Buried in a family album somewhere there is a picture. There is my brother, and there am I. We are only children. In Montgomery County Recreation Department t-shirts and baggy basketball shorts, we squish mud between our toes as our education takes form through dance and laughter. There we stand soaked, smiling, and without knowing it building a relationship – with land and soil, trees and roots, mountains and sky, heaven and earth.

II

After days and weeks of unrelenting sun, what we have all been waiting for has finally come. And the sudden downpour leaves the city pacified. Not so slowly the roads turn to ponds and lakes. The brown water lagoons emerge as if they were from the soil beneath the asphalt, instead of the visible manifestations of sewage, pollution, and unsustainable living. But the monsoon’s message is lost upon us, as we continue on unaware of what the puddles are trying to relay through frantic vibrations of splashes and ripples.

The morning downpour makes Delhi’s traffic only more hectic. But no one complains. We are each lost in our own reflections as we gratefully accept the shower, simply thankful for nature’s offering.

The auto-rickshaw drivers maneuver in a dream-like state, weaving their ships across the sea. The on-lookers standing beneath awnings and gazing atop balconies stare as if they are lost in thoughts belonging to another dimension. And those rushed souls, who have forgotten their umbrellas look silly compared to those others who have also forgotten their umbrellas, or perhaps never intended on bringing them, indifferent to, or unaware of, the washing taking place.

III

In another portion of Himalaya, the precipitation never ceases. It has been weeks now. The peaches have spoiled. The landslides increased. But homecomings are well worth whatever mild inconveniences that must be incurred. Upon hilltops the entire valley glows neon green. The clouds hang in arms reach. Once more I reacquaint myself with mountain trails and unending forests, walking like my legs never forgot.

In rapidly changing villages, a new generation seeks the gains of development and progress. Land is bought and sold as hotels and summer homes sprout like specially engineered grains. But it is the people and places that taught me so much that make it all worth it. The love, and hard work, and reminder that our lives still remain dependent on a healthy relationship with the earth, shapes the form of reflection and reconnection. And as I feel humbled by it all, I know that thick jungles and fat layers of moss are worth worshipping.

IV

After the rain, after the stickiness sets in and summer passes, when seasons eventually change and the journey must continue, what will having our dreams watered by the monsoon yield? We can only hope that in some way our memories will remember: what it sounded like when our laughter splashed against stones and when the streets turned to rivers and when the village reclaimed one of its own. We can hope that these memories will continue unconsciously informing our choices and unknowingly shaping the dreams we continue to dream when the chaos and strange beauty of New York City returns.

Departing Harlem: Celebrating Malcolm X's 86th Birthday

“Malcolm! X! Malcolm! X!” As I walked up to 1-2-5 one last time before I left Harlem for the summer, I was quickly drawn to the chants and critical mass of marchers. After a year in Harlem studying international affairs and human rights “up the hill”, the opportunity to honor the legacy of an American civil rights legend seemed a fitting way to spend my last day.

The lasting impact Malcolm X has had on American society cannot be understated. Many a teenager reads The Autobiography of Malcolm X at one time or another, following the incredible transformation and development of a man fighting for dignity in a vicious society. Malcolm’s ever-evolving philosophy and the story of his struggle for civil rights, social justice, and human dignity is not only a story of the United States of America; it is one that characterizes the complex nature of the turbulent times that often surround revolutionary movements.

Malcolm’s own evolution from hustler to community organizer to political leader, and his eventual split from the Nation of Islam and later political vision, no doubt form many parts of a captivating narrative. Malcolm’s scathing critiques of the violence, racism, and hypocrisy, that pervaded his time have never failed to be thought-provoking, even decades after his assassination.

In the words of late Columbia Professor Manning Marable:

“Malcolm X was the most remarkable historical figure produced by Black America in the 20th century. That’s a heavy statement, but I think that in his 39 short years of life, Malcolm came to symbolize black urban America, its culture, its politics, its militancy, its outrage against structural racism, and at the end of his life, a broad internationalist vision of emancipatory power far better than any other single individual...”

Transitions often mark appropriate opportunities for reflection. As I followed the red-black-and-green flags through Harlem, and looked back at the past year, Marable’s assessment of Malcolm X seems more than relevant. Malcolm’s intentional efforts to connect the struggles of black Americans to the struggles of liberation movements in Africa and Asia embodied solidarity in the most practical sense. His commitment to emancipation and ability to understand the importance of connecting movements at home and abroad could not be more salient at the moment.

Today, Malcolm’s message continues to resonate with a diverse array of people: from high school kids in Harlem, to Black Panthers, to African storeowners, street vendors, random passer-bys (and at least one bougie grad student with his fist held high). To witness this plurality in celebration is both encouraging and endearing.

However, we also see Malcolm’s beliefs in basic human dignity, human rights, and freedom, across oceans. We see a similar fire in Mohamed Bouazizi’s self-immolation and the revolt that literally shook the stones in Tahrir Square. The revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt, and the continued uprisings, embody the potential of true people’s power.

In the words of (another) Columbia Professor Rashid Khalidi:

“Egypt is now thought of as an exciting and progressive place; its people’s expressions of solidarity are welcomed by demonstrators in Madison, Wisconsin; and its bright young activists are seen as models for a new kind of twenty-first-century mobilization. ... The Arab states have a long way to go to undo the terrible legacy of repression and stagnation and move toward democracy, the rule of law, social justice and dignity, which have been the universal demands of their peoples during this Arab spring. The term ‘dignity’ involves a dual demand: first, for the dignity of the individual in the face of rulers who treat their subjects as without rights and beneath contempt. But there is also a demand for the collective dignity of proud states like Egypt, and of the Arabs as a people.”

The Arab Spring in its most inspiring forms is a manifestation of the potential of collective action aimed at re-shaping societies in line with values of social justice, freedom, and dignity; as well as an unequivocal rejection of violently repressive, morally corrupt, and illegitimate regimes that, as Khalidi explains, hold their own citizens with contempt. The battles against oppression that are igniting hearts and minds across the world, are the same that Malcolm and many others before and after him have fought in this country. Malcolm’s message of solidarity to connect what is happening overseas to our struggles at home cannot be lost on us now.

Marching through Harlem, invoking the legacy of Malcolm X, reminded me of the days of our youth. It reminded me of the rallies we organized, teach-ins we set up, concerts we held, and indeed the marches in which we took part. But today with a large portion of the world on fire, and the first year of a graduate degree under my belt, it is those months leading up to the United States invasion of Iraq and the palpable despair following “shock-and-awe” that still burns vividly in my memory.

It was then that we recited many of the same chants echoed today about people’s power before our country illegally, immorally invaded Iraq and forever changed the way many youth in this country viewed their own government, and certainly how millions all over the world viewed the United States. Those days that were characterized by blatant lies, largely regurgitated by a spineless media machine, made many of us feel like the Bush administration viewed us with contempt. And we should remember, Malcolm X and Dr. King, and all those that opposed aggressive military interventionism, connected the struggle for racial equality at home with the movement against war in Vietnam.

As the chants of, “Power to the people!” “Black Power!” and “Shut it down!” echoed past the Apollo, I noticed that the whole street indeed had been shut down. In fact, from 1-4 pm every single store on 125 was asked to close to honor Malcolm’s legacy. (Yes, even the H&M and Starbucks complied). “How are we going to do it? The hard way!”

Maybe this is what we can take away on this 86^th birthday celebration. Our struggles for human rights such as universal health care, quality education, and affordable housing can be connected with other struggles at home and abroad. Just like Malcolm, just like Egypt, we are willing to do it the hard way.

On a sunny day in May, these are the whirlwind of thoughts I leave New York with to make my way to another world. Once again, I will be migrating briefly to the world’s largest democracy; a place where the values of social justice, freedom, and human dignity are in need of being invoked in the face of crushing poverty, gross inequality, and rampant corruption. Departing Harlem on Malcolm X’s birthday seems like favorable auspices to be leaving under. It is a reminder of the work that is still needed to be done, the plurality of perspectives to draw from, and the beauty of community-centered living. From New York to New Delhi, I personally wish to find within the strength, foresight, and heart necessary to continue to connect the dots.

Journeys in Service Captures an Indicorps Decade

Journeys in Service Captures an Indicorps Decade

Shezeen Suleman’s project was to help ensure the availability of safe and adequate drinking water in Ludiya and surrounding villages. “I brought my thousand page hydrology book from college thinking it would be the best resource I had, and it was utterly useless. I had to re-learn how to learn,” she remembers. Starting with what she describes as “a thousand cups of chai” with people across the area, Shezeen learned the value of the knowledge that does not always appear in textbooks or Western universities. – “Beyond Relief” – Journeys in Service, p 11

Looking back, one of the greatest lessons I have learned is to hold nothing back and trust the process. A part of this trust is the realization that just because you cannot see the change you are looking for does not mean it is not there. In a place where everything is so unfamiliar, why would change be so easily recognizable? – “Service for the Soul” – Journeys in Service, p 112

Indicorps excitedly announces the release of Journeys in Service, a new book which commemorates a decade of innovative experiments in social change. Indicorps runs a one to two year intensive, grassroots fellowship program which challenges Indian youth to reconnect to India through hands-on development projects. Over the years, hundreds of fellows were willing to throw their belongings in a backpack, live under any conditions, and embark on a journey to change themselves and the world.

In an effort to document the impact of the Indicorps experiment, alumnus Gaurav Madan criss-crossed India and re-visited a diverse array of projects. The projects range from a maternal health initiative in the unforgiving desert of Rajasthan to a critically-acclaimed play featuring youth from the slums of Bombay. Journeys in Service shares ten stories that provide insight into Indicorps’ journey, our local partner organizations across India, and the communities that are the backbone of our learning. He penned these narratives based on his research, personal interactions, and hundreds of interviews.

Journeys in Service brings to life Indicorps’ unique approach to service and development. The cuts are deep, the edges sharp, and the learning profound. Come join us in our journeys in service.

Individuals and organizations interested in ordering copies of Journeys in Service should contact Gaurav and Vijay at book@indicorps.org.

Indicorps is a non-partisan, non-religious, non-profit organization that encourages young Indians throughout the world to give a year of dedicated service to the country of their heritage. Indicorps is a US-based 501(c)(3) organization.