In the lost space [Jordan] between "home"[Sweden] and Home [USA], I've been reunited with an old friend--feminism.
My studies, and especially a certain lecturer, kept me academically aware of feminist issues; but, nothing beats the real deal.
Its natural to compare and neatly compartmentalize travels and feelings and I'm no exception.
This short stay in Jordan, where my vagina inflicted sister calls "home", stirs up old grumbles from my "home" [India] several "homes" ago.
India, my first love. Always dear to my heart
also ripped that very same heart from my [barely] womanly chest.
Nearly four years ago I spent my weekdays studying Hindi & Religion in Hyderabad. I couldn't resist boomeranging all over India on the weekends. These trips, as well as my studies, inspired pre-blog submissions to the world--Newspaper Articles.
Shapeless, hot, and hidden in Jordan, brings one particular Indian trip, and article, to mind. I dug it up and was instantly ashamed. I was heated and certainly didn't stop, breathe, and think about deeper meanings to the suppression I was feeling. I doubt I took the time to really respect the culture, through education and understanding, before I blindly ripped it apart.
But now, four years later, I do the same. I think I'm smarter, more informed. But the same passion from prohibition swells. It's important to know I grew up a "tomboy", participating in boy activities, best friends with boys and dressing like them, too. My preferences, thus far allowed, have been towards a boy's life. I don't [generally] like girls or girl things. Making this temporary transition all the more difficult. Simply, with no deeper cultural investigations or meanings implied, I state my discomfort:
I can't* go out after dark.
I can't walk alone.
I can't shake a man's hand.
I can't show my wrists.
I should avoid eye contact.
I can't run.
I can't eat a banana in public.
*all can't, shoulds, and musts, are of course semi-overlooked in the case of tourists. However, my sister's 'permanent' place in the village raises my responsibilities out of respect.
Perhaps there are magically grand reasons for these rules, but I can't pretend I'm comfortable with them.
I will transcend my judgment 4 years prior, and resist implying that local women share in my discomfort. It's not my place. Is it?
~~~~~~
Instead of repeating the same hasty spew, I hesitated, but reluctantly decided to re-share my youthful, feminist angst. Please remember the naive young brain that squeezed this out in October, 2007:
I haven't edited 4 years later, and upon rereading notice some shaky rational, but it was the truth, to me, then. In regards to my narrow approach, (India & Jordan)..
I only write about what I know best, me, and in this case, my discomfort. Experiencing this discomfort, I acknowledge the risk of sliding towards cultural insensitivity or even ethnocentrism. This is a deep, painful subject for me. A philosophical conversation I don't even want to have with myself, let alone have with others publicly via blog. Please read kindly.
Otherwise, Jordan is mystical, exciting, and gorgeous. Not weeks nor months could unravel the truly terrific adventures of this country. Unfortunately, I have limited time. To travel, blog, proofread that blog, sift through pictures, and especially upload those pictures. So, without proper weeding--here are a few random shots of the land I call my sister's "home":
My studies, and especially a certain lecturer, kept me academically aware of feminist issues; but, nothing beats the real deal.
Its natural to compare and neatly compartmentalize travels and feelings and I'm no exception.
This short stay in Jordan, where my vagina inflicted sister calls "home", stirs up old grumbles from my "home" [India] several "homes" ago.
India, my first love. Always dear to my heart
also ripped that very same heart from my [barely] womanly chest.
Nearly four years ago I spent my weekdays studying Hindi & Religion in Hyderabad. I couldn't resist boomeranging all over India on the weekends. These trips, as well as my studies, inspired pre-blog submissions to the world--Newspaper Articles.
Shapeless, hot, and hidden in Jordan, brings one particular Indian trip, and article, to mind. I dug it up and was instantly ashamed. I was heated and certainly didn't stop, breathe, and think about deeper meanings to the suppression I was feeling. I doubt I took the time to really respect the culture, through education and understanding, before I blindly ripped it apart.
But now, four years later, I do the same. I think I'm smarter, more informed. But the same passion from prohibition swells. It's important to know I grew up a "tomboy", participating in boy activities, best friends with boys and dressing like them, too. My preferences, thus far allowed, have been towards a boy's life. I don't [generally] like girls or girl things. Making this temporary transition all the more difficult. Simply, with no deeper cultural investigations or meanings implied, I state my discomfort:
I can't* go out after dark.
I can't walk alone.
I can't shake a man's hand.
I can't show my wrists.
I should avoid eye contact.
I can't run.
I can't eat a banana in public.
*all can't, shoulds, and musts, are of course semi-overlooked in the case of tourists. However, my sister's 'permanent' place in the village raises my responsibilities out of respect.
Perhaps there are magically grand reasons for these rules, but I can't pretend I'm comfortable with them.
I will transcend my judgment 4 years prior, and resist implying that local women share in my discomfort. It's not my place. Is it?
~~~~~~
Instead of repeating the same hasty spew, I hesitated, but reluctantly decided to re-share my youthful, feminist angst. Please remember the naive young brain that squeezed this out in October, 2007:
First of all, I have never been a flaming feminist. Secondly, my knowledge and understanding of India only reaches a superficial level thus far. I know just enough to realize I don’t know anything. But this naivety doesn’t exempt me from the same pain and suppression felt by any other woman in India.
Religion weaves a delicate web of steel. It seems as though no one dares to disturb the ancient beliefs; so instead, faceless followers tiptoe around their religion’s clenching grip, no matter how ridiculous the detour.
Even though I don’t ‘know anything’ I have studied Indian tradition and religion, mostly while in India and observed them first hand. No doubt, India is exotic and interesting. But when I am caught in the middle of some of these seemingly bizarre beliefs, my interests are traded with concern and disgust.
I am going to tell a story. I won’t be able to analyze the deep roots of the ugly creature of discrimination and suppression, but I can offer a spooky illustration.
Darjeeling (the relaxing getaway from last week’s article) quite accidentally led me to the bitter subject of this week’s. The Himalayans lightened our moods as well as our senses. We misread our train time and were forced to rush our packing and departure. Needless to say, we forgot to take a bathroom break before leaving for the Siliguri train station—that is, before descending three hours down a windy, bumpy, bladder busting road. The jeep carried five males—the three we traveled with: Jarad, Sam and Bobby, plus the jeep driver and his ride-a-long buddy. The jeep, much to society’s dismay, also carried two inferiors: Carolyn and myself—the women.
Half way down, the driver halted the descent to relieve his bladder. Quite naturally, the other four men left the jeep to do the same. Carolyn and I squirmed in our seats. With taut bladders, and faces red with resentment, we glared out the tinted windows at the jolly, relieved men oblivious of the sheer contradiction between releasing human waste upon a lush, green mountain side. Birds sang, waterfalls trickled, and nature’s fresh air blew upon their backs as they peed on the steep slope of the mountain. Had we dared to do the same, we would have exposed our rear ends for the men and mountain villagers to see, since there wasn’t a wooded escape on such a steep mountainside.
We finally made it to Siliguri, where we were to catch a train to Kolkata. We made good time down the mountain so we had time to eat a quick bite at a humble little shanty of a restaurant. The men scanned the tattered menu. Carolyn and I postponed dinner to find a bathroom. We walked along a strip of shabby stores as owners from each tried to usher us towards whatever good they wanted to charge us too much for.
One restaurant offered us a restroom, despite our denial to dine in. A toothless, or perhaps they were just camouflaged with decay, man ushered us first through his dingy dining area. Then he led us through a hole in the back wall, where I presume the food was prepared. Women squatted at the second room’s extremities, their weary eyes and tired hands were fully devoted to the slicing of vegetables and were not the least bit interested in our intrusion.
There was another room, through yet another black hole. This room had two heat producing stove-like contraptions, both topped with warm glowing embers. A new smell entered our nostrils; though it was not welcomed, it wrapped its stinky little particles around our nose hairs with conviction. By the time we had adjusted to the sights and smells, our guide had reached another doorway and with a disturbing expression, beckoned us to where he stood. The doorway was actually something of a cement closet, set apart from the rest of the room with a grubby multi-colored curtain. I cringed at the thought of touching even the curtain. But what I would discover is that foul curtain was like a golden gate before a festering landfill.
I held the curtain open and tiptoed into the stinky closet. The creepy man just watched. My night vision isn’t to be trusted and the smell didn’t give me time to really investigate the room further, so I jumped out and voiced my defeat, “Carolyn, I can’t do it. I will just hold it. Besides, I can’t even find the hole.” (Indian style toilets are really a porcelain framed hole in the ground.) Carolyn decided to brave the elements—she is also from the Midwest, that’s why she’s so tough. She stepped into the box and took a quick lap around the 4 X 4 closet, finally admitting, “That’s because there isn’t one.”
It was then we realized that the poor women were expected to urinate in this cement closet. The closet had no hole to pee into. It had no drain. It didn’t even have so much as a slope to keep the urine in one manageable location. I held back vomit as I realized that the intoxicating stench was baked urine. With nowhere to go, it soaked into the closet’s cement floor and walls.
As if the mere sight and sniff of that room wasn’t enough, the men at the restaurant’s entrance had the nerve to giggle and jeer at our trauma. Yeah, nauseating suppression is funny, isn’t it? Not.
We remained focused and walked the several hundred yards to the train station, where the government was sure to have a hand in some sort of lavatory justice. There we found a ‘pay and pee’ stall. We were elated, and I didn’t even really mind the ‘pay and pee’ attendant tapping his fat fingers at me, waiting for my rupees—until I read the sign.
Toilet: 2 rupees
Bath: 3 rupees
Urinal: FREE
So, not only do the men get to pee whenever they please and wherever they want—among nature, a chorus of birds, and a view of the Himalayan mountains if they choose—all for free. But women either hold it; squat in a urine soaked cement closet; or PAY FOR IT.
I can’t even muster up a conclusion because thinking about this issue and these conditions send me into a rage. I don’t understand how the ancient religions, men, or some other factor have pushed women into such a compromised life, but I don’t like it. I don’t like that I am totally inappropriate if my shoulder is displayed in public; while men can whip out their man parts, aiming just outside a women’s clothing store, for all to see. The interpretation of religious texts and traditions has been skewed to uphold this indecency, and I mourn for the suppressed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~I haven't edited 4 years later, and upon rereading notice some shaky rational, but it was the truth, to me, then. In regards to my narrow approach, (India & Jordan)..
I only write about what I know best, me, and in this case, my discomfort. Experiencing this discomfort, I acknowledge the risk of sliding towards cultural insensitivity or even ethnocentrism. This is a deep, painful subject for me. A philosophical conversation I don't even want to have with myself, let alone have with others publicly via blog. Please read kindly.
Otherwise, Jordan is mystical, exciting, and gorgeous. Not weeks nor months could unravel the truly terrific adventures of this country. Unfortunately, I have limited time. To travel, blog, proofread that blog, sift through pictures, and especially upload those pictures. So, without proper weeding--here are a few random shots of the land I call my sister's "home":
"squinty eyes"
"tornado dreams tonight..."
Copyright © 2011 Jacquelyn Marie Schneller.
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