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.

And God Laughs

Exiting the Foggy Bottom Metro Station, I instinctively double my pace. Ahead of me lies the last leg of my morning commute.  It’s my favorite. With dirty break beats and bass lines blasting in my brain, I bob and weave through the vanilla ice cream stream leading deep into the heart of Georgetown. Channeling my New York City legs, I am that animated walker – led forward by an overly-enthusiastic stride, rhythmic hand motions, and a flickering wave of lyrics escaping my mouth aimed at startling more subdued passersby.

Over the past weeks the blanket of snow has ebbed and flowed depending on Old Man Winter’s whims.  Dwindling down it leaves a constant streak chasing after me. It’s like the streets are doing their best to imitate a babbling brook. But when the fat flakes fall the cold reasserts itself, arresting the sedentary puddles of water and encasing them in a fragile, splintered sheath – not so different from the one that may surround my heart.

Avoiding the mounds of dirty snow and cracked ice I pass the expensive boutiques that comfortably assert their stature. I can’t help but think that this isn’t the DC with which I am familiar. Then again, even that DC has probably been re-claimed.

Approaching my destination, I start to turn the music down. I can spy my office amongst the Abercrombie & Fitch, Banana Republic and United Colors of Benetton. These sanitized streets are starkly different from the chaos of Monrovia, New York, or New Delhi. And I can’t help but think: How did I end up here again?

It wasn’t an easy decision. After a year in Liberia, the DMV was only supposed to be a pit stop. The East was calling and there were more adventures waiting in Africa and India. But just as soon as my plans were imminent, they disintegrated like the fleeting ash falling from a lit stogie.

Wiping away the dust from still burning embers, it really is like they say: We make plans, and god laughs.

So when I was offered an opportunity to continue the community land rights work I started in Liberia  from an office in DC, I embarked on my own skittish decision-making process. Lists were made, mentors were tracked down, and advice was sought. Did I really want this? Couldn’t I just show up on the spot and do the same thing?

While my pride pulled me to  find my own path on the other side of the globe, my mom insisted: A bird in hand is better than two in the bush. She asked what I would say I did with my time when she introduced me to mythical girls at unspecific weddings. A bird in hand…

Nearly a month into it all it looks like most of my fears have not been realized. The learning has accelerated, as I collaborate with community forestry networks in Nepal seeking to enshrine their natural resource rights in the country’s new constitution, Indigenous People in Indonesia trying to implement a court ruling recognizing their ownership over their customary land, and grassroots activists in India fighting land grabs.  However, my heart did break a little when I saw my first paycheck – taxed and debilitated.

As the momentary rage passes, I remember to realize this stepping stone seems springier than first imagined with opportunities to return East on the horizon.  I can feel the excitement building inside. If only I knew better than to start making plans in my head.

Reversing the steps that brought me into Babylon I head back home. It is only when I finally reach my car, unplug my earphones, and deeply inhale Suburbia that I can sometimes hear Her laughing. I am trying to learn to laugh along. After all, it’s hard not to smile at the thought of the leaves returning to the trees as that cackle edges my dreams closer.

Sundays Aboard the Hari Om Express

Growing up in our house we had a ritual every Sunday. It was a weekly battle that would involve physical combat, divine incantations, and ancient Indian guilt trips.

My mom would wake us up, drag us out of bed, and insist we to go to the Chinmaya Mission, the Hindu spiritual center around the way. My resistance in the name of slumber won out now and again; but for the better part of a decade I would attend the Sunday classes on Hindu spirituality, philosophy, and symbolism.

While we spent our Sunday mornings donning kurtas and churidaars trying to relate the knowledge of subcontinental scriptures to our suburban-born realities, my dad had his own Sunday routine. In fact, I can’t remember a single time he joined us. I’m pretty sure he had his own beliefs in the divine; he simply was not willing to come even close to ascribing them to any institutional form. I have a feeling his experiences in India with a culture of god-men, false promises, and pie-in-the-sky hustles gave him enough insights into that world.  I remember he would joke, “Religion is the only thing keeping the poor from killing the rich.” His Sunday mornings, instead, were spent on the golf course.

By afternoon, we would all reconvene for another form of worship: fervently rooting for the Washington Racists Football Team with a fanaticism that would make the most zealous, jealous. It is a devotion that continues to date.  

Last week when I found myself gazing out the window of the second-story Hindu temple in Monrovia, the memories came rushing back. Outside the sun was setting. People were jostling into packed mini-buses for the journey home. The streets were full of grime and massive puddles – a testament to the ongoing rainy season, reminiscent of past monsoons. And I remembered how those past Sundays dug roots for me, revealed perspectives from other worlds, and reinforced a love for storytelling. 

The cultural connections that were built those mornings have proven enduring. And lasting lessons have been learned from my parents too. Like understanding the role of faith and sharpening a sense of humor. Both of which have proven necessary for navigating modern jungles from West to East – especially in places where daily life proves to be consistently unpredictable.

In addition to faith, laughter, and heart, I would add:  the search to reach a higher level of consciousness should not be divorced from everyday struggles for social justice. After all, how could we begin to talk about conquering ego, letting go of desire, and glimpsing humility without addressing the circus abound. The flashing lights of the gleam are calling. Being able to enjoy them without getting lost is the challenge.

The internal hard work involves a journey. And at the center of the movement is a love for the people strong enough to support self-improvement projects. The insanity of unsustainable consumption, the violence of unfettered capitalism, and the arrogance of empire are what surround us. And with it, religious nationalism manifests its ugly face through communal hatred, violent sexism, and misguided xenophobia.

Sitting on the floor in Monrovia, I spy the familiar gods and goddesses shining their light on my path. Looking around I see that everyone here, like me, has left their home to build another life on unaccustomed earth. But unlike me, everyone else has come on a separate hustle. I am the only one who wasn’t born in India. I suppose I can only embrace my identity crisis whose many layers were starting to develop on those Sundays. As my brain switches over from English to Hindi, my mouth obeys, joining in with the bhajans my mom used to lull us asleep with many years ago.

But the train of existence barrels forward. I’ve become accustomed to enriching the journey by circulating between different classes and compartments.  I’ve learned the value of hanging out the side to witness the heart of the countryside. It’s okay if I haven’t found my seat yet on the Hari Om Express.

What They Tell Me

It’s like I’ve been running a marathon. I know this ground beneath my feet. I know it well. I’ve run and walked and crawled through these forests and villages and hectic city streets. I know where I stand. At least, I think I do.

I can see I’m approaching the end. In front of me is a really steep hill – going down. And I’m running; because either I don’t know how to stop or I don’t want to slow down. My feet are carrying me forward, acting independently – or rather ahead of – my mind.

The finish line looks close. Closer than it actually is. I’m so focused on that finish line that I’m starting to stumble. I can no longer pay attention to the mud and the dust below. I can’t see the setting sun draw orange and purple streaks on the clouds. I can’t see the proud silhouettes of palm trees waving in the wind.  I want to look around, but temptation is winning. My eyes stay glued ahead of me. 

I’m losing my footing. Down the hill I go. I’m scared I’m going to fall. Crash and burn.

***

I’m blessed. I have this amazing team of supporters and soothsayers behind me. They watch and they listen. They counsel and they guide. Their words and arms and prayers prop me up from across continents and oceans. They love me for who I am, and forgive me all the same. Before I ever stepped on Liberian shores, I knew that we all have to walk our own paths. I tried to remember that we never walk alone.

They tell me I can’t run away from here and now.  I’m not that fast. But more importantly they tell me, I shouldn’t want to move so quickly. This time will never come again. The twists and turns that have shaped the road over this past year will inform my future. And the truth is I’ve learned so much: about land, struggle, and injustice. Such things are not meant to be taken for granted. 

They remind me of what I have. They say just look around. They point to Egypt, Syria, and India.  Perspective enriches eyesight like carrots. 

So, while I plan to return from Liberia slightly bruised, somewhat stronger, and hopefully a little wiser, this opportunity will never come again. Despite the ups and down of the day, the people, places, wide-open skies and ocean breeze remain to see that the learning takes place. Each moment is precious and nearly perfect in its own right.  At least that’s what they tell me.