tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37675709174162015092024-03-13T23:14:56.196-07:00JuanitaKakoty WritesJuanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.comBlogger134125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-40022330096641315322019-04-30T14:27:00.000-07:002019-04-30T14:27:13.386-07:00Zaara’s video blog :)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My 7 year old daughter wants to start a video blog. I asked her what she wanted to do with it. She said, she would describe the books she likes. One every day. So I made a small video. She put up an impromptu act. And I must say, I am very proud of what she did :) <3<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwld9TFJHS0HSQ8XYgcJxUmUM17RuMQFK7MYqjsNtmcU7KU7g_QEkJONT_pUEldvsF79M7gEuuw-nvCfO61GA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-35690618493196764442018-11-15T23:07:00.000-08:002018-11-15T23:07:46.634-08:00My latest short story 'Singra and tea'. In the second issue of Kaani. 15 Nov 2018. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Singra and tea by Juanita Kakoty</h1>
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<span class="posted-on" style="box-sizing: inherit;"><a href="https://kaaniliterarymagazine.wordpress.com/2018/11/15/singra-and-tea-by-juanita-kakoty/" rel="bookmark" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #595959; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 0.3s ease 0s;">november 15, 2018</a></span><span class="byline" style="box-sizing: inherit; display: inline;"> <span class="author vcard" style="box-sizing: inherit;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black;">Aideo, my mother, is the eldest of six siblings, and the ugliest of the lot. Not that the rest are strikingly good-looking, except Roma mahi, Aideo’s only sister, younger to her by ten years. She was and still is a beautiful woman who looks much younger than her fifty six years. Thank god I have taken after Deuta, my father, who used to be a handsome man! In those days when they got married, the groom never got to see the bride before the wedding. So the first time Deuta (huge fan of Madhubala) saw Aideo’s face, he almost fainted. Even the white dots above her thick brows and red lipstick couldn’t make amends. He never thought his luck could run that bad. The hunched woman, with not a slight hint of charm, satin the flower-strewn bed, cut his enthusiasm, piercing him right through his heart. He sprang out of the freshly painted room, leaving the young bride to the whirring of the fan above. Deuta’s father had added the room to the L-shaped house for him, the newly wed.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black;">Over time Deuta must have overcome his shock and thus my siblings and I came to this world. But still, no one could miss his lack of affection for Aideo. He stayed out of the house mostly, at office or socializing with friends. My aunt and uncles always told Aideo that she was lucky he stuck to her despite his charms, whenever she went crying to them after he hit her or didn’t return home. They were tactful enough not to mention her lack of charm. That would console Aideo for a while. Deuta didn’t stop though. He’d hit her because the house was in a mess, because his shirt button was missing, because the food tasted like dishwater, because the food was cold, because he didn’t like her wooden expression, because she didn’t know how to entertain guests, because the kids weren’t studying enough…</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black;">Deuta was a scion of the Chaliha family from Sibsagar’s Melachakar neighbourhood. His father and grandfathers were learned scholars who had contributed immensely to the cause of education in Assam, right from the days of Miles Bronson. In fact, the family genealogy keeper mentions that one of the early Chalihas met Bronson in 1883 when the American Baptist missionary arrived at Sadiya and helped Bronson learn Assamese and the other Khamti and Singpho languages of the region. Not only that. He also helped Bronson set up the printing press and establish many schools. But Deuta didn’t have much interest in education. His heart was in music, particularly music created by the Hazarika brothers. He missed not a show when Bhupen Hazarika and his brother Jayanta Hazarika performed in Sibsagaror the nearby towns-Jorhat, Dibrugarh and Golaghat. All this stopped with Aideo’s entrance. His paternal aunt who lived in Golaghathad said of Aideo- <em style="box-sizing: inherit;">She is very efficient and manages the whole house herself. I bet nobody can be a better housekeeper than her. She is exactly what the Chaliha household needs with your big family and year-round guests.</em></span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black;">Deuta’s father accepted the match despite knowing that this sister of his was not particularly fond of his wife and kids; despite knowing that Deuta was in love with a pretty Ahom girl from the same town for over six years. In protest, Deuta moved to Nagaon with his bride, within a month, on the pretext of a coveted job. No one understood why the job was coveted.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black;">Perhaps, had he looked at a pretty face instead of Aideo’s on their wedding night, he would’ve stayed back in Sibsagar. Perhaps he wouldn’t have taken to alcohol.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black;">The Ahom girl he loved had married and moved close to grandfather’s Melachakar house. This, along with Aideo’s lack of grace, fanned Deuta’s angst and he decided never to set foot upon his ancestral town again. He took up a rented room in Nagaon and had good plans of leaving Aideo there while he disappeared for days, but things happened and Aideo got pregnant, several times over. So he got tied to her, come as he did from a ‘good family’ which had instilled a certain sense of karma and dharma in him. And the more he realized that there was no escape, the more ruthless he became to Aideo. As his rage increased, his handsome features changed and metamorphosed into such ugliness, that he began to seem like a good match to Aideo’s looks.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit; color: black;">Read the rest of the story at <a href="https://kaaniliterarymagazine.wordpress.com/2018/11/15/singra-and-tea-by-juanita-kakoty/?fbclid=IwAR0eXCOzHv87TSLvAVpzSATetgxRTvhjGmH66sONlXOukuZpD_QyEZvT6Rw">https://kaaniliterarymagazine.wordpress.com/2018/11/15/singra-and-tea-by-juanita-kakoty/?fbclid=IwAR0eXCOzHv87TSLvAVpzSATetgxRTvhjGmH66sONlXOukuZpD_QyEZvT6Rw</a></span></div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-58094145904337866322018-05-02T23:11:00.000-07:002018-05-02T23:11:07.571-07:00My short story 'Where is Arsalan Miyan?' in Himal Southasian on 27 April 2018<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>My short story 'Where is Arsalan Miyan?' in Himal Southasian on 27 April 2018</b></h2>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 17px;">Right in the middle of the sprawling Nakhasa Bazaar – which is a criss-cross of narrow lanes that I am sure will amount to a hundred or more, though I have not counted them and I do not know of anyone who has – you will arrive at Arsalan Miyan’s house if you take the lane in front of the green Jama Masjid, by the huge transformer, past more lanes till you have forgotten where you started. Right there, where a lane seems to end, but actually doesn’t, because if you come up to the wooden door the colour of ash where the lane seems to end, you will see a small angular cut to the left, which will open up another lane between walls of houses to more lanes.</span><br />
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Anyway, right where the lane seems to end, when you come up to the huge wooden door that looks like it’s a hundred years old, you will know that you have reached Arsalan Miyan’s house. And if there is any confusion, just hang on there for two minutes, and an enormous shadow will growl at you from the first-floor balcony.</div>
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“<em style="margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Hey! Who stands there? What do you want? Where have you come from? Why do you stand there? Whom do you want to meet? What business brings you here?</em>”</div>
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And you will stand there with your mouth open, ready to utter the first word once the old man stops. But he doesn’t. So, you stand there with your mouth open taking in the sight of a huge dark-skinned man with a mop of orange hair, obviously grey hair henna-dyed, in a faded white kurta leaning out of the little white balcony with green latticed railings.</div>
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Arsalan Miyan continues to volley questions at you, as your eyes shift from him to the buildings around which seem to have sprouted from the ground stuck to each other. Finally the old man stops for breath. And you quickly cut in, <em style="margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Is this </em><em style="margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Arsalan Miyan’s house? </em></div>
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He looks at you like a student does when the teacher has posed a question which he cannot, for the life of him, answer. “Who?” he says meekly this time.</div>
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“Arsalan Miyan!” you respond with more vigour.</div>
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He looks at you like you just ordered his punishment for not knowing the answer.</div>
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Just then you hear hurried footsteps. A young lad leans out of the balcony and says, “Yes, yes. Come right up. Push the door open, you will find a flight of stairs. Come right up.”</div>
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As you reach the first floor, Arsalan Miyan is already seated on a sturdy, rocking armchair that was brought over from the wooden furniture workshop downstairs that the family runs, his eyes fixed on the whitewashed wall ahead. The balcony is bare, except for two pots of money plants randomly placed – one near the small white sink with a plastic pipe dangling beneath and the other in a corner from where one can take a flight of stairs to the terrace. The young lad welcomes you inside through a small door.</div>
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“That’s my eldest uncle, Arsalan Miyan. He can’t remember things now, including his name.” And you nod. “But he sits there the whole day and his ears pick up any footstep that stops at our door. So we don’t need a calling bell,” he tries to joke. But you don’t think it is funny because you are here to meet Arsalan Miyan, and the man doesn’t remember a thing.</div>
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<b><i>(Read the rest of the story at the Himal site, where one can also listen to the story, at <a href="http://himalmag.com/where-is-arsalan-miyan-short-story-juanita-kakoty/">http://himalmag.com/where-is-arsalan-miyan-short-story-juanita-kakoty/</a> This is special to me because this is for the first time Himal has tried a podcast, which happens to be with my short story. My first too! So excited!) </i></b></div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-60771531681303641072017-10-11T03:26:00.000-07:002017-10-11T03:26:38.190-07:00My short story (fiction) The White Envelope published in Kitaab on 11 October 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Sameera baji rushed down the narrow steep stairs of the building, her sandals going ‘clap clap’ with every step she descended, ignoring the pain in her knees that morning when every other day she cried out curses for the anonymous builder who planted these, what she called, ‘high rise stairs.’</div>
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She tore down the stairs of the scraggy yellow building calling out to her friend who lived in a small plot of land right across. <em style="font-family: "Droid Serif", Times, serif; font-size: 0.9em;">Ameena baji! Ameena baji! Did you hear?</em></div>
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Ameena baji came out of the two-room humble dwelling into the courtyard and looked up. Thank God her husband had not succumbed to the lucrative temptation of selling their little plot of land to builders who have built stiff ugly buildings all over Shaheen Bagh such that if one wanted to stare at the sky, only a strip of it would peer through the mesh of buildings, or one would have to climb up to a terrace. But from Ameena baji’s house, one had the luxury to stare at a good patch of the sky from the ground – a rectangular piece of blue that soared above the pale yellow and grey buildings towering over her little plot of land.</div>
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There she saw Sameera baji at one corner of the second floor landing, leaning against the intricately carved black railing and looking down excitedly. The tenants living on that floor had tied a thick yellow synthetic rope above the railing from which hung a purple bed sheet with huge red and white flowers merging with each other, still moist. Sameera baji was so excited that she did not even push the bed sheet to the side. She stood there looking down at Ameena baji’s courtyard, the moist bed sheet clinging to her back.</div>
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<em style="font-family: "Droid Serif", Times, serif; font-size: 0.9em;">What?</em> Ameena baji cried out.</div>
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<em style="font-family: "Droid Serif", Times, serif; font-size: 0.9em;">Did you get the white envelope? </em>Sameera baji asked with a strange gleam in her eyes.</div>
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(Read the rest of the story at <a href="https://kitaab.org/2017/10/11/short-story-the-white-envelope/">https://kitaab.org/2017/10/11/short-story-the-white-envelope/</a> )</div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-8056019514546471322017-08-20T05:14:00.000-07:002017-08-20T05:14:15.017-07:00How Hard Is It To Exit Prostitution? (Thomson Reuters Foundation News, 18 August 2017)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Two days ago, Noor Bai (name changed) was attacked by her daughter's father-in-law and mother-in-law. She was beaten, her clothes were ripped, and her thin as reed seven month pregnant daughter received blows on her protruding belly. The whole of Perna Basti in Dharampura, beyond Dwarka in Delhi NCR, had gathered outside her house. But no one called the police.</div>
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In some time, Noor Bai called up Khushboo at Apne Aap Women Worldwide. She just said, help me, I am being attacked. We at Apne Aap dialled 100 and requested that the police be sent to her house immediately. It took exactly an hour for us to reach Dharampura from Anand Niketan. Outside Noor Bai's house, there was a big crowd but no sign of the police. When we contacted the police again, they said they had gone to help the victim but were sent away by the crowd with the word that it was a matter of the biradari (community) and the biradari would settle it. The police told us that this is how it always is at the Perna Basti in Dharampura.</div>
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When Noor Bai saw us, she seemed relieved and her daughter's in-laws withdrew from the scene. We asked her to come with us and file an FIR at the police station. But all those gathered would just not let her leave with us. They blocked her way and used all means to deter her from taking this step - they used threat, plea, emotional blackmailing and what not. Someone even said that her daughter's father-in-law would be nominated as the pradhan (chief) of the caste panchayat this year and so she ought to be careful.</div>
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(Read the rest of the story at <a href="http://news.trust.org//item/20170818115614-za9td">http://news.trust.org//item/20170818115614-za9td</a>)</div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-1465019412794369692017-04-02T04:29:00.000-07:002017-04-02T04:29:58.616-07:00An evening with extraordinary women at Sonagachi, Kolkata. 2 April 2017.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was in Kolkata yesterday to attend a consultation on the Child Labour Act, at the West Bengal National University of Juridical Sciences which is located in the Salt Lake neighbourhood. In the evening, I visited the Apne Aap Women Worldwide Khidirpur and Sonagachi offices to say hello to my extraordinary colleagues. Khidirpur is close to the red light area Munshiganj and Sonagachi is one of Asia's biggest red light areas. Traveling from Salt Lake to Khidirpur and Sonagachi seemed like travelling to a different lifetime.<br />
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One of Asia's biggest red light areas - Sonagachi, Kolkata. 2 April 2017.</div>
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The tram line at Sonagachi and a man pulling a rickshaw (the blur on the left), even today.</div>
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I pose with the extraordinary Apne Aap women at the Apne Aap Sonagachi centre.</div>
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Celebrated writer Baby Haldar, who is a former domestic help. She is a prolific writer and her autobiography Aalo Aandhari, which shot her to fame in 2006, has been translated into several languages. She runs the Apne Aap Sonagachi centre with Rumki. </div>
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The ever cheerful Rumki :)</div>
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The very talented Keya and Payal. They will both appear in an upcoming film 'Love Sonia,' directed by Tabrez Noorani. The film is based on true stories around sex trafficking. Keya and Payal play real life in reel life.</div>
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Sahani Di, who has dedicated her life to changing the lives of the children of prostituted women, outside the Sonagachi Apne Aap centre. Everyone at Sonagachi calls her 'Ma.' She tells me stories of how she befriended the women in Munshiganj and Sonagachi by getting them and their children come to the Apne Aap centres to take baths and wash their clothes because in these parts of the city, bathrooms and water are forever a problem.</div>
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The dynamic trio. Baby Haldar told me when I was leaving that I should come again and we should have a good 'adda' session where we discuss literature, lives, music, and films. I promised her I will come again for a longer time.</div>
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Looking outside from the Apne Aap Sonagachi centre</div>
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Walls of the centre</div>
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This is Uma at the Apne Aap Khidirpur centre. As a child, she used to come to the Apne Aap centre at Munshiganj where Sahana di used to run a learning centre for the children of prostituted women. Uma also used to stay back at this centre in the night, with several other girls from the area. Uma told me that for some five - six years, their mothers made them stay back at the Apne Aap night shelter to protect them from traffickers and pimps. 'This centre here is my home,' she told me about the Khidirpur centre, 'I have grown up here. I have had several skill training here, including how to use the machines for making sanitary napkins.' Uma has been running the Apne Aap sanitary napkin making unit for a few years now.</div>
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A poster outside the Apne Aap Khidirpur centre</div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-64779422553544437352017-03-04T22:05:00.000-08:002017-03-04T23:08:37.961-08:00Toasting Renu in Forbesganj with firebrand women, songs against patriarchy, and memories! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Yesterday, in Forbesganj, as people moved with hurried feet placing floor cushions, chairs and putting up posters and photographs at the Jagdish Mill Compound office of Apne Aap Women Worldwide, the weather decided to contribute its bit by sending across a lovely breeze to add to the celebratory mood. After all, Phaneshwar Nath Renu's birth anniversary was being celebrated. Renu, who wrote for and about the people and land in this part of the country. Who wrote for the casteless as well as those whose generations were ruined by Caste. Who wrote about love and rebellion in the same breath. </div>
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As journalist Nivedita Shakeel said while interacting with everyone yesterday, Renu understood that one cannot be a rebel without the ability to love deeply.</div>
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The stage is all set. Celebrating Renu's birth anniversary on 4 March 2017 at the Apne Aap centre in Forbesganj with a conversation between Ruchira Gupta and Girindra Nath Jha. Ruchira is an abolitionist activist, journalist, academic, writer, and founder of Apne Aap. Girindra Nath Jha is a journalist, writer and farmer. </div>
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It was for the first time that Renu's birth anniversary was being celebrated at the Jagdish Mill Compound. Ruchira Gupta, at whose family house the event was held (where even the Apne Aap office is), has been reading letters exchanged between her uncle Birju Babu and Renu these days. These letters and some photographs of Renu in this house have been preserved by her father Vidyasagar Gupta, who never thought that some day his daughter would bring them out to a larger world. </div>
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Renu looms large over displayed copies of his letters to Birju Babu at the exhibition yesterday</div>
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Keeping memories and the stories alive was the idea behind yesterday's event. As journalist-writer-farmer Girindra Nath Jha told to some seventy people present at the gathering that when he first came to meet Ruchira here at this house, he felt as if the ghosts of extraordinary men and women were walking down its corridors, whispering to him. It might be true. For every time I walk along the corridor and through the rooms, looking at the photographs on the walls, I feel as if the people in those photographs might become animate any moment in their eagerness to tell me what happened all those years ago.</div>
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Ruchira opened the conversation by talking about how Renu did not separate women from nature, from the land, from the rivers when he wrote. Like their stories seamlessly came together in their journeys and fates. But what I liked most is the legend she narrated, as captured in Renu's 'Parti Parikatha.' Renu addresses the river Kosi as 'mayya' (mother) and writes of how she grew up being cursed ('kos,' 'kosna' - I think that's how the river must have got its name, if I go by this legend). And then when she got married, there came a time when she fled from her in-law's house to light a lamp in her mother's name at a temple in Malda (Ruchira later told me that this temple still exists). What I found fascinating is the existence of a space like this where a married woman can honor her mother or keep her ties with her mother alive. Especially because in Bihar, like most of north India, a married woman means she has severed all ties with her maternal house. </div>
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People start coming by 2 pm</div>
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Tinku Khanna <span style="text-align: left;">(director of Apne Aap)</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span>welcoming trade union leader Kamayani Swami of Jan Jagaran Shakti Sangathan and journalist and writer Nivedita Shakeel.</div>
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Vidyasagar ji started the afternoon event by welcoming everyone and remembering the days when the house at this Jagdish Mill compound also used to be home for Phaneshwar Nath Renu on several occasions. </div>
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Renu's old friends and acquaintances in the audience</div>
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Vidyasagar ji spoke as the exhibition in the background stood testimony to his stories about Renu, drawn from memory. </div>
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The conversation started with Roshanara reading to the audience a short story by Renu. Fabulous work!</div>
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Fatima, activist with Apne Aap, has put several traffickers in Araria in jail, including the most dreaded Gainul. She is from the Nat community, a freed/denotified tribe which practices inter generational prostitution, subjecting girls of ten - twelve years to prostitution. She fought the system within her family and is now fighting it in her community, </div>
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Meena, another Apne Aap activist in Forbesganj, is a prostitution survivor who works relentlessly to help women with choices in life, to help them understand that at ten or twelve years of age prostitution cannot be a choice for girls. Her story has been captured in the film 'Meena' by The Sibbs and Lucy Lui.</div>
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As Nivedita Shakeel said to the audience, thanks to women before us and with us, we can tell our stories! Thanks to their courage, their efforts! She spoke of how women writing was not quite a thing in the past. How even in Rabindra Nath Tagore's house, his sister who wrote so well wasn't acknowledged or encouraged. And why because this was the case, women in the old days scribbled on the kitchen walls where they were mostly confined. </div>
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Roshanara dreams of learning the harmonium and singing along with it some day. Young hearts. Dreams.</div>
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Sanju ji, who runs Apne Aap's Uttari Rampur centre in Forbesganj, listened intently as Roshanara read out the story. Sanju ji has tutored many girls at the centre, some of whom have finished school and have attended or are attending college. Like Roshanara. </div>
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A shy Roshanara as people complimented her wonderful reading of Renu's short story. </div>
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Ruchira referred to Renu's 'Parti Parikatha' (published in 1957) where he has written about a land in Araria as 'parti' (barren). There was a curse, she said, Renu mentioned this in the book. No one would dare attempt cultivating the land or settling down there. Today, she said, after sixty years since the book was written, there are houses in that very land and a school run by the Government of Bihar and Apne Aap for girls from vulnerable communities. An indication of how it takes just one step of courage to overcome curses. </div>
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Girindra Nath Jha spoke of Renu and his reportage as an inspiration in his career as a journalist and how now he has come back to the village after years of city life to become a farmer and create a culturally vibrant village with his Chanka Residency - a residency for artists.</div>
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The exhibition space where photographs of Renu with Gandhi, Rabindranath Tagore, Baba Nagarjun, Ruchira's father Vidyasagar Gupta, and her uncle Birju Babu were displayed.</div>
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Tanmay and Sohini, facing the house that holds many memories related to the Nepal democracy movement, abolition of Zaminadri in Bihar, etc. </div>
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There are so many stories etched all over the house. And they keep tumbling out. Like yesterday, after dinner, as Vidyasagar ji, Ruchira, Tinku and I sat chatting, Vidyasagar ji enthralled us with one tale after another about Renu and other writer friends. Their idiosyncrasies, love stories and ideologies. He also told us about how during the Nepal democracy movement, Girija Prasad Koirala, who was a close friend of Birju Babu (Vidyasagar ji's elder brother), and his comrades stayed at this very house in Forbesganj and planned the hijack of an aeroplane that was carrying money from the Nepal treasury. Vidyasagar ji also told us how the comrades of the Nepal democracy movement used the bathroom, in a corner far away from the house, as the wireless centre! </div>
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The photo gallery </div>
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Vidyasagar ji and Girindra Nath Jha with flautist Shambhu Mishra ji.</div>
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Ruchira and Nivedita Shakeel catch up at the exhibition space</div>
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Ruchira, Vidyasagar ji, Girindra Nath Jha with Phaneshwar Nath Renu's son Dakshineshwar Roy and Renu Verma.</div>
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Capturing the photographer. Saurav :)</div>
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Sanju ji interacting with Girindra Nath Jha</div>
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Blogger Chinmaya seen here interacting with Phaneshwar Nath Renu's son, Dakshineshwar Roy </div>
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A group photo!</div>
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Ruchira's mother, Rajni ji, in the audience</div>
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Subhan ji and Shaukat :)</div>
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Jaikishore ji who has been an accountant at the Jagdish Mill Compound since it's very early days, for over forty-fifty years now.</div>
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Tinku Khanna and Praveen ji happy with themselves with an event so well organised!</div>
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Kamayani Swami and her activist friends from Jan Jagaran Shakti Sangathan ended the event with a strong message against patriarchy through a song. </div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-54518896648639713902016-12-29T00:54:00.003-08:002016-12-29T00:54:38.784-08:00Demonetization and Sex Trafficking in India (Thomson Reuters Foundation News, 28 Dec 2016)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We have been reading in the newspapers how demonetization has curbed trafficking in India. Maybe that's one side of the story. What anti-sex trafficking activists have been hearing from the prostituted women in brothels makes for the bigger story, which somehow the media in the country has missed. This is the story of how demonetization has increased the vulnerabilities and exploitation of not only the prostituted women but also women from communities living on the boundaries.</div>
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I accompanied Delhi Commission for Women chairperson Swati Maliwal and her team to the brothels of GB Road in Delhi yesterday - brothels housed in buildings with no clue about owners; because in paper, the ownership of these buildings still remain with people who died decades ago. She was on an inspection with representatives from the Municipal Corporation of Delhi, whom she wants to conduct a survey about the illegal constructions inside the brothels. </div>
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Climbing up narrow staircases stained with paan stains which took one to an equally narrow and dim corridor, and through that to small rooms without ventilation, we visited about five brothels late in the afternoon. Most women were from Nepal and Andhra Pradesh. A few were from West Bengal and I found one from Assam. They have the same story to tell. Abandoned by families or sold by lovers and uncles and aunts. In two brothels we also found kids with their mothers.</div>
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"Because it is afternoon now, you see these women having their lunch and not too many people around," Delhi Commission for Women member Farheen Malick told me. "When we visited the brothels in the night some time ago, about 100-150 men and women came out of each brothel. Can you imagine that?" </div>
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It was indeed difficult to imagine that number of people in those brothels. But as we took a tour of the brothels, I realised that it might be true. A little room, in each brothel, where ordinarily about six people can sleep comfortably had about 12 to 15 women standing there with their faces covered as we entered. And this little room had several doors and secret passages that led to other little rooms. When we went, the women were having their luch. So the smell of food filled the stale air inside the brothels along with the stench of tobacco.</div>
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And in all the five brothels we visited, the prostituted women revealed that they still have customers. That has not stopped even with demonetization. What has happened though is that they are being paid much less than before. One woman also admitted that some customers are still paying her in the old currency. And when I asked her what she did with it, she said she sent it home, to her village in Andhra Pradesh. She said she has two daughters and a son, who live with her aunt in the village.</div>
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A few of them did admit that times are difficult with demonetization, but that they will have to stick it out as they don't know of any other way to earn money after all these years. Most of them came to GB Road in their teenaged years. And they have been living here since. I also spoke to the Nayika of three brothels. The Nayika is a woman in her late forties or fifties who came to GB Road in her teens and has spent all her life here. She is now the caretaker of a brothel and that's how she lives by at this stage of her life. The nayikas in all the three brothels displayed great loyalty to the place. They said with exaggerated sadness how business is down these days and that most of the women have gone back home.</div>
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"It is the common experience of anti trafficking activists all over the world that at times of crisis - be it economic recession, natural disasters, or ethnic conflicts - trafficking increases," tells me anti trafficking activist Tinku Khanna, who has been with Apne Aap Women Worldwide since 2002, working with abolitionist Ruchira Gupta towards ending sex trafficking through field and policy interventions. "We have to remember that trafficking is not about a single entry and exit point; it is a chain. Immediate payment of money is not a concern for the trafficker, who knows that the money will be recovered sooner or later," she adds. Apne Aap has been working with prostituted women and girls from red light areas in Bihar, West Bengal and Delhi as well as with women and girls from certain caste communities who are at risk of being trafficked. </div>
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Read rest of the piece at <a href="http://news.trust.org/item/20161228145053-dfri1/">http://news.trust.org/item/20161228145053-dfri1/</a></div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-62522602840557296682016-11-29T00:41:00.000-08:002016-11-29T00:41:05.368-08:00In the Land of Abolitionists - Forbesganj (Bihar)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For about ten days now I have been in Forbesganj, a small town on the Indo-Nepal border, in Bihar. It is beautiful and very peaceful. But behind this serenity, lies the history of an important abolitionist movement. This small town is where abolitionist and feminist organiser Ruchira Gupta started her work in 2002 - to end trafficking for sexual exploitation. She founded Apne Aap Women Worldwide with this aim, which began to work with the Nat community in Forbesganj, a community which suffered (and still does) from inter-generational prostitution. Ruchira realised that it was not only poverty but the lack of choices for people in this community which pushed them towards prostitution and families lived off the sexual exploitation of their women as their men brought their own women customers.<br />
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A movement can bring results only when there are leaders from the community, is what Ruchira has always emphasized. And in Apne Aap, that is what she has tried to do all these years with the support of her fellow abolitionist Tinku Khanna. In this photoessay, I try to paint a picture of beautiful Forbesganj and its fiery abolitionists.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnRJlby8ljbk26oyrpmrX-b5P4vK46dtYIjP0QH_ivbsgRhESR9D4GW5aQLlSOWaRohjcdLuNlDnSHOhyphenhyphen2uqgThaavfMjJUfl652Mr6xFBCz943nPE2nZkhiZQcm6EJC29X6bCG5PheY/s1600/DSC_0089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnRJlby8ljbk26oyrpmrX-b5P4vK46dtYIjP0QH_ivbsgRhESR9D4GW5aQLlSOWaRohjcdLuNlDnSHOhyphenhyphen2uqgThaavfMjJUfl652Mr6xFBCz943nPE2nZkhiZQcm6EJC29X6bCG5PheY/s320/DSC_0089.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ruchira's family home in the Jagdish Mill campus at Forbesganj which has been converted into an Apne Aap centre. </div>
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The beautiful family house of the Guptas</div>
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The beautiful family house of the Guptas that has been converted into Apne Aap guest house :)</div>
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The Apne Aap office within the campus</div>
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Outside the gates</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY93EFM__RS2WkTz7s5_3_IbNGQt4wR5exLx_Jka25-LW5bWq1HUtogRAgpiXDbZHkGFsNjWr8sb2X-B5VuV3jRNlRNH3g8ZUomHPQCi8pDiblEjfFq16TL-fJ6_8WyvunVhFEsHObuVU/s1600/15181321_10154128881147717_4012846555710679032_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY93EFM__RS2WkTz7s5_3_IbNGQt4wR5exLx_Jka25-LW5bWq1HUtogRAgpiXDbZHkGFsNjWr8sb2X-B5VuV3jRNlRNH3g8ZUomHPQCi8pDiblEjfFq16TL-fJ6_8WyvunVhFEsHObuVU/s320/15181321_10154128881147717_4012846555710679032_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is Meena. She used to live with her grandmother in Bhutan.When she was a little girl, some men sold her and sent her off to Katihar. She stayed at a brothel there for some time, gave birth to a girl, but managed to escape and flee to Forbesganj. She couldn't bring her infant daughter with her though. It was much later that she rescued her daughter from the brothel, the daughter now a young girl, with the help of Apne Aap activists and the police. Her story has been well documented in a short film by Lucy Lui and The Sibbs (Negan Raney Aarons and Colin Keith Gray). This story has also been captured in The Town of Love by Norwegian writer Anne Ostby. For the last several years now, as an Apne Aap activist, Meena has been mobilising girls from vulnerable communities in Forbesganj to attend school and the Apne Aap community centre at Uttari Rampur. Meena has put around 12 - 13 traffickers from Forbesganj and Katihar behind bars till date with the support of other Apne Aap activists and the police. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5SpW4u187JAVwV4zcu8wqxnoMeVQcg5S_QAmPb3hRB70xhISPzqTrIR0VhPN8yA3Y4SpCUqk-W87O2QU0q9oGd1JphdmNV16T1To3Q5fXcUw_syqB1y-ivnsa62PpBIEysyxba_u5LI/s1600/15171017_10154128881712717_7777368518174889841_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5SpW4u187JAVwV4zcu8wqxnoMeVQcg5S_QAmPb3hRB70xhISPzqTrIR0VhPN8yA3Y4SpCUqk-W87O2QU0q9oGd1JphdmNV16T1To3Q5fXcUw_syqB1y-ivnsa62PpBIEysyxba_u5LI/s320/15171017_10154128881712717_7777368518174889841_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is Fatima. A human rights defender with Apne Aap. She is from the Nat community, where girls are subjected to inter-generation prostitution as a form of livelihood. "I was married at the age of nine," she tells me, "When I had no idea what marriage is or what a husband is. I saw that my mother-in-law used to buy girls and put them into prostitution. A few of my sisters-in-law were also into prostitution. But I saw how they suffered and lived in fear of my mother-in-law. I didn't like it, and I helped them escape. I have been beaten up harshly every time I helped a girl escape. My mother-in-law and husband were very crude. Once, my mother-in-law bought a girl at Rs 1,00,000 and I helped that girl flee. That was when she told my husband to put me into prostitution. She said, 'Isko dhande mein dalo, issi se paisa nikalo' (put her in the trade and get money out of her). But it was when they put a little girl called Afsana into prostitution, my blood boiled. I was very fond of Afsana and would never part with her. My mother-in-law asked me to go home for a few days. And I was so excited because they never let me go home. When I came back, Afsana clung to me and cried that she has been put into prostitution. That was it. I rebelled against my family!" Fatima has so far played an important role in putting several traffickers in Forbesganj behind the bars, including the most dreaded Gainul. She has been with Apne Aap since 2005. She tells me that today, in the Nat family in Forbesganj, only those who have been in prostitution from before are still in it, no girl from the family is anymore put into prostitution, nor is any girl bought by a Nat family to be prostituted. People like her and Meena and the other Apne Aap activists in Forbesganj have a huge role to play in this. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVMnYJ9UC45uoTY3JX9wetXgV1ei51HqgXQoKfxVWNTDnyv_D70Am_ts394GV038KLwCz0CdyGZjEoT5q1Oq0xLnILkvMdKavsGI02Ovn-_FFf0Jb7Qg8S6V-FmADDlnkK0W448tGDja4/s1600/Kalam.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVMnYJ9UC45uoTY3JX9wetXgV1ei51HqgXQoKfxVWNTDnyv_D70Am_ts394GV038KLwCz0CdyGZjEoT5q1Oq0xLnILkvMdKavsGI02Ovn-_FFf0Jb7Qg8S6V-FmADDlnkK0W448tGDja4/s320/Kalam.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is Kalam. He is an Apne Aap activist and is from the Nat community. "We were a nomadic community," he tells me. "We didn't own land and used to travel from one place to another. Often the eldest daughter of the family was prostituted and the other girls were groomed for marriage. So the daughters who were groomed for marriage were never put into prostitution." Kalam, like Fatima, struggled within his family and the community to end the custom of inter-generation prostitution. Today, he is a role model for the boys of his community. He is a lawyer and encourage community members not to groom boys for pimping their own women. He has also played an important role in putting traffickers behind the bars, and along with Fatima, Meena, Tinku and Ruchira conducted several rescue operations in and around Forbesganj. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fS8_TCvpuAj6-Efl76mb7FhVgYHRGYFI8ISxpHoAJrP0sq8ogET-yQWal7DdEm79uI8zw2jShGPIqQl940WFJKt2Jq70GJWFlXS62FRRuCqHESBOLRpGszProJPYlUzjZrPaiCG77no/s1600/DSC_0134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fS8_TCvpuAj6-Efl76mb7FhVgYHRGYFI8ISxpHoAJrP0sq8ogET-yQWal7DdEm79uI8zw2jShGPIqQl940WFJKt2Jq70GJWFlXS62FRRuCqHESBOLRpGszProJPYlUzjZrPaiCG77no/s320/DSC_0134.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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In the middle of our documentation exercise at the Apne Aap Forbesganj office, social activist and livelihood design expert Samhita Barooah interacts with Kalam, as he tells us his story. Kalam told us that today, out of the total 50 households of Nat community in Forbesganj, only 10 are into prostitution. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioH7t5zARnD1XpX1IysHbHJbHH_p_0_mojA2JQnedAEs_NNGFvIXbUsQzZPrDTe_BPQQEA4HsEHhRoXa2DkluVz9ZW05TW2tfDByOnEOOvqGrC4orvocYrvdq9hzheBTSq3Qw6jtFhc5M/s1600/15241219_10154128879987717_770187306254544759_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioH7t5zARnD1XpX1IysHbHJbHH_p_0_mojA2JQnedAEs_NNGFvIXbUsQzZPrDTe_BPQQEA4HsEHhRoXa2DkluVz9ZW05TW2tfDByOnEOOvqGrC4orvocYrvdq9hzheBTSq3Qw6jtFhc5M/s320/15241219_10154128879987717_770187306254544759_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I pose with the human rights defenders Fatima and Meena and Apne Aap social worker Sanju:)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKLPCoRFo_yHxQcllfusQt3MSSLZkDtSrVt1lHfmjshrdswb-agRJicW2pX7DhnJxgt1hg9Yi2myGjr7OU4kouJmY64x5rU5Hj6TFrG0NNmiN8g4XJqBizX54GGehAqozFG0mlJzy9EBA/s1600/DSC_0122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKLPCoRFo_yHxQcllfusQt3MSSLZkDtSrVt1lHfmjshrdswb-agRJicW2pX7DhnJxgt1hg9Yi2myGjr7OU4kouJmY64x5rU5Hj6TFrG0NNmiN8g4XJqBizX54GGehAqozFG0mlJzy9EBA/s320/DSC_0122.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now, Forbesganj is a small town and has this quaint little railway station. The whole set up is like, what my friend Samhita (in the picture) says, Malgudi Days. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD_LWLjxdoSMnQTCZG78hI6rV3be9QtajQmKVRwql6ZTPgtgys-Zs8UsthzMGL_8UCz6mzKsoZ7igNLSPm6GvHB3cYaZD9UmLOWUCjDciEkWeUTxVAK9dpvP1xsY2eMgk3Rx-UenfA1dA/s1600/15219486_10154128890512717_4847385177351661731_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD_LWLjxdoSMnQTCZG78hI6rV3be9QtajQmKVRwql6ZTPgtgys-Zs8UsthzMGL_8UCz6mzKsoZ7igNLSPm6GvHB3cYaZD9UmLOWUCjDciEkWeUTxVAK9dpvP1xsY2eMgk3Rx-UenfA1dA/s320/15219486_10154128890512717_4847385177351661731_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This pretty woman agreed to pose for me :) And if you look at the right hand side of the photograph, you will see Madhubani paintings on the wall of the station, a project that Apne Aap had undertaken in 2012 - 2013. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9fWYeNmgWcaEB9mgt_h-zW2Ha1T1RGBGGh-BzerBnmqndMP1AIT7-0Ys7FhwLM-2VqWkzYUXlHTZ3vdBgB70D-M7qndhS3ZomGIQXhQ9DHpGLhYPJcgPEP5_sws1_8oYP-FkEKPWvJLw/s1600/market+next+to+the+railway+station.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9fWYeNmgWcaEB9mgt_h-zW2Ha1T1RGBGGh-BzerBnmqndMP1AIT7-0Ys7FhwLM-2VqWkzYUXlHTZ3vdBgB70D-M7qndhS3ZomGIQXhQ9DHpGLhYPJcgPEP5_sws1_8oYP-FkEKPWvJLw/s320/market+next+to+the+railway+station.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is the market place right next to the railway station. On tho other side of the railway station is the Apne Aap centre at the Jagdish Mill campus.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh944OGsLNuGelhGpKTUGH9O5qSlkQ5xBG4pCI8R_3HIedSwBMutVeh1037jTF0dToowMy_gc7JZoIsVTquuGq1Q_XtWAzbN2Dgy9s0hF14FcCI5hKyvN2H2n8UfybfNvDmYVgtfBcHT_8/s1600/15253398_10154128894867717_6781581757408855250_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh944OGsLNuGelhGpKTUGH9O5qSlkQ5xBG4pCI8R_3HIedSwBMutVeh1037jTF0dToowMy_gc7JZoIsVTquuGq1Q_XtWAzbN2Dgy9s0hF14FcCI5hKyvN2H2n8UfybfNvDmYVgtfBcHT_8/s320/15253398_10154128894867717_6781581757408855250_n.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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A pretty shop right where the market ended. Fascinating stuff, and such awesome prices!</div>
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We walked past the market and came to this beautiful spot. Sultanpukhor, Forbesganj.</div>
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This is right next to Sultanpukhor. The British used this whole geographical area, which is now Forbesganj, for indigo cultivation. Forbes, a British administrator, was sent to this place to oversee the cultivation. What you see in the picture is Forbes's house, where some other family has moved in long long ago. Forbesganj is named after Forbes. And this is where Forbes lived.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ndmtplfbjl05fz0UVhlKkkO9QY0CUpN_D1hH8WYVY5PN68LP-NhNAYCT9brQTOD75qFJ6HM1G5Dwh3yXZAQ2YMe71EZFXhtBlS99_6P101Vy9VgKwJkE5pd0e2B1dn_Xwq1NH3D8wOs/s1600/15192702_10154128893527717_1754821867037015106_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ndmtplfbjl05fz0UVhlKkkO9QY0CUpN_D1hH8WYVY5PN68LP-NhNAYCT9brQTOD75qFJ6HM1G5Dwh3yXZAQ2YMe71EZFXhtBlS99_6P101Vy9VgKwJkE5pd0e2B1dn_Xwq1NH3D8wOs/s320/15192702_10154128893527717_1754821867037015106_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Next to Sultanpukhor is this little shop where we rested for a while and chatted up with the owners.</div>
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While returning from Sultanpukhor, we came across this church that was established in 1873.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvN1-mtq7mE5x3eW9M2nfS999FFAxRLGlh9pGRNlgyOzQgBEXlBA8bcd7Rvo2LEkftVPpnHsNHJjSIo-dha3aFWA0UM0iTEdxxXTIrAu82S3av1b-prkAGOyte0iR8zp6TMJfhH9W0h-k/s1600/15253396_10154128889972717_1096804021546220510_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvN1-mtq7mE5x3eW9M2nfS999FFAxRLGlh9pGRNlgyOzQgBEXlBA8bcd7Rvo2LEkftVPpnHsNHJjSIo-dha3aFWA0UM0iTEdxxXTIrAu82S3av1b-prkAGOyte0iR8zp6TMJfhH9W0h-k/s320/15253396_10154128889972717_1096804021546220510_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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As we walked around, we came across a few old buildings like this one. Should be a contemporary of the Jagdish Mill campus.</div>
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This is the beautiful Kothi Hat area by the canal. One can take a long walk here and also cut across the golden paddy fields.</div>
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A walk by the canal at Kothi Hat. The canal is on one side and gorgeous golden paddy fields on the other.</div>
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We met a few beautiful and friendly women in the paddy fields. They told us that they are daily wage labourers and work in the 'zamindar's land'. They told us that they are paid Rs 50 per day while for the same work the men are paid Rs 200.<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
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Street food at Forbesganj. But one should also try out Restaurant Jyoti, which is not very far from the railway station, on the side of the Jagdish Mill Campus. They really serve good food. </div>
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A family run shop right in front of Jagdish Mill campus. One can get everything here from milk to pulses to toiletries.</div>
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Now that we are in Forbesganj, of course we have to make a trip to Nepal. This gate is at Jogbani, the last point in India, after which there is a tiny patch of no man's land, and then Birat Nagar in Nepal. In Jogabani, one can see houses where parts are both in India and Nepal. So, if the entrance opens in India, the house is in Nepal. And we also saw a few sheep grazing at no man's land. Fascinating place this is with so much hustle and bustle! Birat Nagar in Nepal is just 40 minutes away from Forbesganj.</div>
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We are finally at the local market in Birat Nagar, Nepal, which used to be the largest industrial hub of Nepal at one time. It is Nepal's second largest city and mainly a commercial centre.</div>
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Souvenirs at Birat Nagar</div>
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Note: All these photographs are in natural light. Not photoshopped :) </div>
Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-48193992906116638682016-08-30T01:12:00.002-07:002016-08-30T02:26:06.390-07:00Spaces and people in Berlin and Munich. July 2016. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So finally I got to go to the city where Nadeem spent more than two years of his life. Berlin. Where our dear friend Monika lives. Where Zunnoon, the child Nadeem spent most of his time with while in Berlin, and has loved dearly, has grown up. And it proved to be as good as he always told me. In fact, once there, it didn't seem like it was my first time. I had the feeling of being there before. Strange, I know. But this is how I felt, like I knew its corners and bends and streets and buildings from before.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In Berlin and Munich I got to see some interesting places. And very inspiring too. Thanks to the Visitors Programme conducted by the Federal Foreign Office, Germany that I was a part of. Sharing a few pictures and stories from my trip.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My kind of place. This is at the garden restaurant of the urban gardening project, Prinzessinnengarten (Princess Garden). This is a 6000 <span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2px; text-align: left;">m</span><sup style="background-color: white; line-height: 0.9; text-align: left;">2 </sup>area of wasteland near Moritzplatz, in the district of Kreuzberg, which was transformed into an ecological and social urban farm in 2009. It not only grows agricultural products, but has also become a space for a new kind of urban lifestyle where friends, neighbours and other interested parties can work, learn, rest and play together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Garden restaurant, Prinzessinnengarten (Princess Garden)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">With my colleagues from the programme at Prinzessinnengarten (Princess Garden)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Murals at Prinzessinnengarten (Princess Garden) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5J9XobYS9kZU8W52HkK6eR7aGUnuUgy8LueeBz5g4qYxucXMGSu_Dw6HggE32IRWM2cFwCgFWViMQIi3mK4IIIy7kKxk1m5z3OGY62zrsJ7i722zwJ2sEMuguBNrC6msa3_BYNmOUTqA/s1600/DSCN9005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5J9XobYS9kZU8W52HkK6eR7aGUnuUgy8LueeBz5g4qYxucXMGSu_Dw6HggE32IRWM2cFwCgFWViMQIi3mK4IIIy7kKxk1m5z3OGY62zrsJ7i722zwJ2sEMuguBNrC6msa3_BYNmOUTqA/s320/DSCN9005.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is at Agora Collective, a network and co-working space at Kopfstrasse that facilitates the encounter of ideas and resource development among people and projects. It has bright office spaces, large art studios, silent zones and an awesome cafe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Young people at the co-working space, Agora Collective.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now this is at Tempelhof, Berlin, which used to be one of the major World War II airports in the country. The airport ceased operating from 2008 amidst controversy. Now it is a huge open space where families come to picnic and a group of inspiring women negotiated with the government and are using a patch of land here for community gardening especially for refugees and middle class people to grow their own veggies, etc. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Relaxing at Tempelhof community gardening site :) The interesting thing is, all plants and veggies at Templehof are grown over the ground in containers. Digging the ground is not allowed because there might be mines that would go off since it used to be an airfield during World War II. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hotel Piep for little friends with feathers :) Tempelhof.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">At Tempelhof, they are growing anything anywhere! Old boots, mugs, footballs, shoes, etc.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinFhlLkb_jkIhPy0nu0rz0CMVmHY4QVn0Wo7fYe4qOPO-Oc1t8cpzSHbXsFEBP4azPTUSJacY5aFVCm9ng8FKuPdiG6S45Z0lampd1XHZ6PNA2FTSodyH8j_v78m3k8_Q1O3iumroV-Uw/s1600/DSCN9078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinFhlLkb_jkIhPy0nu0rz0CMVmHY4QVn0Wo7fYe4qOPO-Oc1t8cpzSHbXsFEBP4azPTUSJacY5aFVCm9ng8FKuPdiG6S45Z0lampd1XHZ6PNA2FTSodyH8j_v78m3k8_Q1O3iumroV-Uw/s320/DSCN9078.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The inspiring women who run the community project at Tempelhof.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">View from the United Services Union office at Paula-Thiede-Ufer.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrB7te4YARBMdDKryf-7ZWZEY2jMXN5YVucjfYSwvvO4iK5ZFVg75rmjKYxl2dTU7DkAp_QadhC50UVxWUji4Q6h_uJ7agYDbzN1JNBtB5wPgR38QTXOjMer01DKJGa2fnNLq7BPr73sw/s1600/DSCN9111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrB7te4YARBMdDKryf-7ZWZEY2jMXN5YVucjfYSwvvO4iK5ZFVg75rmjKYxl2dTU7DkAp_QadhC50UVxWUji4Q6h_uJ7agYDbzN1JNBtB5wPgR38QTXOjMer01DKJGa2fnNLq7BPr73sw/s320/DSCN9111.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Welcoming refugees! Sight from the United Services Union office at Paula-Thiede-Ufer.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sS3BOeD66Y_DRGs397Z-_DM-cij8wuIkUTbtBOprL44p6YXCxULzRvnNo18dZvBU5_CyJhT0kIGDlIGQIyl8z3lTK1bF6DvPyNTC5EGHBmYdSaGTGk0YCocqi5WLyfsAZk_nbfByhQU/s1600/DSCN9096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sS3BOeD66Y_DRGs397Z-_DM-cij8wuIkUTbtBOprL44p6YXCxULzRvnNo18dZvBU5_CyJhT0kIGDlIGQIyl8z3lTK1bF6DvPyNTC5EGHBmYdSaGTGk0YCocqi5WLyfsAZk_nbfByhQU/s320/DSCN9096.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now this is where I went for lunch one day. It used to be a hospital formerly where the Squatter's Movement started. Since then it has been transformed into a cultural space.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px;"><b>"The squatters’ movement that started in the late 1970s was motivated by concerns both political and personal. On the one hand, the movement attracted those who wished to protest the lack of affordable housing and the negative effects of postwar urban renewal. On the other hand, however, it also appealed to some young people who were primarily interested in escaping both parental control and the burden of paying rent." </b> (Source: GHDI </span><span style="font-size: 12px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://germanhistorydocs.ghi-dc.org/sub_document.cfm?document_id=440">http://germanhistorydocs.ghi-dc.org/sub_document.cfm?document_id=440</a>)</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh35jszftB3FQr6cI1HDQ-jAzLecfQXbJdsJ_eroebrRS5NAF-3xSR7GjdU7phuggRXj2P_Mu7F2k9khIbhjNlhO8GdWzQXkE5ein_IRhkZwRVtjEKkwEOoYpd3UvDmzxAyQbvgCkwGWak/s1600/DSC_1595.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh35jszftB3FQr6cI1HDQ-jAzLecfQXbJdsJ_eroebrRS5NAF-3xSR7GjdU7phuggRXj2P_Mu7F2k9khIbhjNlhO8GdWzQXkE5ein_IRhkZwRVtjEKkwEOoYpd3UvDmzxAyQbvgCkwGWak/s320/DSC_1595.JPG" width="180" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are beautiful sculptures all over Berlin and Munich. These two are near the <span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; text-align: left;">Friedrichstraße </span>station (railway station) in central Berlin (Berlin Mitte).<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; text-align: left;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU76sENgbvLawYxoCJNnRugN0wkL_W5X1064biH8A-srazEuluow7Cc7SytmmpDJs0tPF_ziRUfclCks5xxawre8Ssld_dWHfP3YVfSHBDhUyHVgQbhfq_95HOm9cFMgDAQ2YpcsOpLCc/s1600/DSCN9027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU76sENgbvLawYxoCJNnRugN0wkL_W5X1064biH8A-srazEuluow7Cc7SytmmpDJs0tPF_ziRUfclCks5xxawre8Ssld_dWHfP3YVfSHBDhUyHVgQbhfq_95HOm9cFMgDAQ2YpcsOpLCc/s320/DSCN9027.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A group photo with my colleagues from the programme at Brandenburg Gate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;">"The Brandenburg Gate, a monumental gate built in the eighteenth century as a symbol of peace, is Berlin's most famous landmark. During the Cold War, when the gate was located right near the border between East and West Berlin, it became a symbol of a divided city." </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;">(Source: </span><span style="font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.aviewoncities.com/berlin/brandenburgertor.htm">http://www.aviewoncities.com/berlin/brandenburgertor.htm</a>)</span></span> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SS8dIbG9Gu45JffrPBOHrsobKKWFArjWrUIwh6w3779wo4f-9JX6vKqj7Ce690qd7YQX0qvhe7XdLXgsHnvDLxLtCN3HhG9A54uiPeeEv3v9LIWKOzf8aGyZEFCB0AT7J6drl0BSBFk/s1600/DSCN9025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SS8dIbG9Gu45JffrPBOHrsobKKWFArjWrUIwh6w3779wo4f-9JX6vKqj7Ce690qd7YQX0qvhe7XdLXgsHnvDLxLtCN3HhG9A54uiPeeEv3v9LIWKOzf8aGyZEFCB0AT7J6drl0BSBFk/s320/DSCN9025.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Quadriga, Brandenburg Gate. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The bronze quadriga of victory crowning the gate was created in 1793 by Johann Gottfried Schadow. The four-horse chariot is driven by the winged goddess of peace. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;">"In 1806, when Berlin was occupied by French troops, Napoleon ordered the quadriga to be taken to </span><a href="http://www.aviewoncities.com/paris.htm" style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none;">Paris</a></b><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px; text-align: justify;"><b>. After Napoleon's defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, the quadriga was triumphantly taken back to Berlin, and was turned into a symbol of victory: an iron cross and eagle were added to the laurel wreath. At the same time the square near the gate was renamed Pariser Platz and the statue on the quadriga was now called Victoria, after the Roman goddess of victory."</b> (Source: </span><span style="line-height: 19px; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.aviewoncities.com/berlin/brandenburgertor.htm">http://www.aviewoncities.com/berlin/brandenburgertor.htm</a>)</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqlPQNgDnHcVzRhc_uz30GrzgKPt9PNLTCOLcraEZxCGgDGfZb5BUDSy1aVN5K26Cb3Q9g_PGXMtRh0u1DXy2mF3N6C_PYus7OtX4S9mkkZdo1LeNPqOrjMC62bwrU9LnEU5D0y3_hKhw/s1600/DSC_1647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqlPQNgDnHcVzRhc_uz30GrzgKPt9PNLTCOLcraEZxCGgDGfZb5BUDSy1aVN5K26Cb3Q9g_PGXMtRh0u1DXy2mF3N6C_PYus7OtX4S9mkkZdo1LeNPqOrjMC62bwrU9LnEU5D0y3_hKhw/s320/DSC_1647.JPG" width="180" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then finally, I got to see where Nadeem lived while he was in Berlin. Thanks to Aunty (Monika's lovely mom) who drove us down to Wedding.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWmM3dcBwAtlsXXobDucn-_8WxLdHm4R33yRaBYjYPOs_ZEHjpqnEKSkAgNYqR4qB-WLC2iJY72CIn_dZMnKjg4pDTwBAA9WNWVkd0wQ2SpzoL-vHUzOFWC6Qu1qpZd2zr2MO6W1Rb9o/s1600/DSC_1660+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWmM3dcBwAtlsXXobDucn-_8WxLdHm4R33yRaBYjYPOs_ZEHjpqnEKSkAgNYqR4qB-WLC2iJY72CIn_dZMnKjg4pDTwBAA9WNWVkd0wQ2SpzoL-vHUzOFWC6Qu1qpZd2zr2MO6W1Rb9o/s320/DSC_1660+%25281%2529.JPG" width="180" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Aunty and I at Lynnarstrasse (in Wedding), where Nadeem lived. And where Hitler committed suicide with his wife of a few hours, but long time companion, Eva Braun.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwv6OtNFx_-jwNDe8evjtFJCVc-GlgTZkBfj3vRyATTMRVTi8321onGQsEe-GSCkJXf1jinDdKQtOVKzt5iYkwBIWTqccJyMe4MNCNFMvEvB1RzDavsV3iF7etEMI0qEGmoYI2N2J4SH0/s1600/DSC_1650+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwv6OtNFx_-jwNDe8evjtFJCVc-GlgTZkBfj3vRyATTMRVTi8321onGQsEe-GSCkJXf1jinDdKQtOVKzt5iYkwBIWTqccJyMe4MNCNFMvEvB1RzDavsV3iF7etEMI0qEGmoYI2N2J4SH0/s320/DSC_1650+%25281%2529.JPG" width="180" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Monika and I right in front of the building where Nadeem stayed for more than two years. So, you see, historically how important this trip has been for me :D :D<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNXo5mjikl1T-Ze_Vw51EsGaufWf6gPyewtbnplwgzpRtQzR16HB-DGWflewgWB6ueJDeWKydxIgLE5TzHLNn88P3SHxb0PbM6qpIy_ske2EPACZSydwPm8kVmMQB__QZWgty-EvbpeXg/s1600/DSC_1666+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNXo5mjikl1T-Ze_Vw51EsGaufWf6gPyewtbnplwgzpRtQzR16HB-DGWflewgWB6ueJDeWKydxIgLE5TzHLNn88P3SHxb0PbM6qpIy_ske2EPACZSydwPm8kVmMQB__QZWgty-EvbpeXg/s320/DSC_1666+%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Very close to the building is this fantastic place where Aunty treated us to the most amazing pizza I have ever had in my life and some awesome beer from the brewery the place owns! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfO-JnEjGZUg6qC1KUVXiNNsS32TSV_00yAIX1dXoMmwe1x5e-n9wasrxOSb2AgxLXMy77U-QyOCO8AbCnelGo0qBrkDzRcjrJC43k7e_AOz-vNeKqLsIOxlf1TxrgrJ0KjqTBI2IVGI/s1600/DSC_1675.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcfO-JnEjGZUg6qC1KUVXiNNsS32TSV_00yAIX1dXoMmwe1x5e-n9wasrxOSb2AgxLXMy77U-QyOCO8AbCnelGo0qBrkDzRcjrJC43k7e_AOz-vNeKqLsIOxlf1TxrgrJ0KjqTBI2IVGI/s320/DSC_1675.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the Central rail station in Berlin</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGCRmGp1Ht2HgR7nqNUtZQ4XwDjyDSuqyzaOHFWrMKbHTF0SCiTnTe9hm9vZmm0vT9jiEWUWo9ZatfLEfClL3f_QcI0DN0ZF__KMq_3kmmq27QKA9C78qOJm7a9OdXLuFJ1o_liG90_8/s1600/DSCN9016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGCRmGp1Ht2HgR7nqNUtZQ4XwDjyDSuqyzaOHFWrMKbHTF0SCiTnTe9hm9vZmm0vT9jiEWUWo9ZatfLEfClL3f_QcI0DN0ZF__KMq_3kmmq27QKA9C78qOJm7a9OdXLuFJ1o_liG90_8/s320/DSCN9016.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">At Berlin Mitte, where I was staying, was this awesome Sushi Bar at rates much cheaper than anywhere in Delhi (for sushis). I loved the sushis as well as this young girl who had just arrived from Vietnam a couple of months ago and helped out her uncle at the restaurant. Her uncle had started this place long long ago. She wanted me to teach her English. So after the sushi and some great Berlin beer, I gave her a half an hour English class :D </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is one evening when I went to spend some time with Monika. We walked up to her apartment at Kreuzberg, which is a cosmopolitan neighbourhood. She took me to a Vietnamese place somewhere nearby for great food :) The picture here was taken by me just as we were about to enter the area where she lives. Would anyone believe me if I said that this place was primarily constructed and still houses lower income group people? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A corner in Monika's house. A beautiful handcrafted piece she had picked up, I think, from Afghanistan.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And here we see Monika's baby (the plant), resting in her bedroom, whom she has to give a wash every once in a while in the bathroom :D</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And when Monika is not researching/teaching/presenting papers at Max Planck, this is what she does. Be out on the balcony, lounge and celebrate the gorgeous evening sky ;)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now this is in Munich. At Marienplatz.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Marienplatz is a very old town centre, and is the heart of Munich.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A pretty shop at Mareinplatz</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Interesting things one gets to see here.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fbp_QvE7Nt_IidvB0nj-mrMOj7QcYQx7ugv_kV38rlVr0Nye-nCK-FG0gBFlp8g_Q-gKsfePV0pbOhZ3gUI8XYX3ad2c0az9r087WeJ7_7mFEx4kyCTe6l6wpXBSEPvbhdPrpuUDAMg/s1600/DSCN9179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fbp_QvE7Nt_IidvB0nj-mrMOj7QcYQx7ugv_kV38rlVr0Nye-nCK-FG0gBFlp8g_Q-gKsfePV0pbOhZ3gUI8XYX3ad2c0az9r087WeJ7_7mFEx4kyCTe6l6wpXBSEPvbhdPrpuUDAMg/s320/DSCN9179.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our guide was excellent. She took us through the main town centre, giving interesting history about the place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She showed us this. A symbol that Hitler had put up on the tower of the Old Town Hall in Munich. After Hitler's death, this symbol was taken off. Interestingly, it is in Munich where Hitler had found supporters when he was starting out with his political ambitions. He founded his Nazi Party here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A walk inside a mall at Marienplatz</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The blue trams that charmed me in Munich :)</span></div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-52873823116597791022016-08-10T03:31:00.002-07:002016-08-10T03:31:41.088-07:00Addressing Trafficking, Prostitution and Vulnerabilities in India (published in Thomson Reuters Foundation, 10 August 2016)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Ubuntu, serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 30px;">Recently someone asked me how is inter-generational prostitution akin to trafficking. There is consent involved as girls grow up seeing their mothers and aunts in prostitution, and they are initiated into it by their own family. I was conducting a session on human trafficking with a group of Panchayati Raj Institution members from West Bengal, and one of them posed this question. For many who don't know that there is something like inter-generational prostitution, let me tell you that I work with this anti-sex trafficking organisation called Apne Aap Women Worldwide (</span><a href="http://news.trust.org/item/20160810073430-k84bf/www.apneaap.org" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #49b9df; font-family: Ubuntu, serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 30px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;">www.apneaap.org</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Ubuntu, serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 30px;">) which works with prostituted, marginalised and at-risk of being trafficked women and girls from red light areas as well as certain caste communities in Delhi, Bihar and West Bengal in India which suffer from 'inter-generational prostitution'. That is, for these caste communities, 'inter-generational prostitution' is a form of livelihood. But, at Apne Aap, we look at it as a case of trafficking.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Ubuntu, serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 30px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Ubuntu, serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 30px;">Read rest of the text at </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Ubuntu, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 30px;"><a href="http://news.trust.org/item/20160810073430-k84bf/">http://news.trust.org/item/20160810073430-k84bf/</a></span></span><br />
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-83854706344853641402016-07-21T00:48:00.000-07:002016-07-21T23:24:27.941-07:00Meeting a 'sex-worker' and an abolitionist in Germany <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have met prostituted women and girls. The organisation I am with, Apne Aap Women Worldwide (<a href="http://www.apneaap.org/">www.apneaap.org</a>), works with prostituted and at-risk of being trafficked women from certain caste communities in India where inter-generational prostitution exists. Our organisation also works with prostituted women and girls in red light areas, like Sonagachi - one of Asia's biggest red light areas. Our attempt is to bring these women and girls out of prostitution by offering them more choices in life through education and livelihood linkages. And we have seen how women come out of the system with help and when choices are available. Or for those who cannot come out, they insist that we do something for their girls so they don't live the lives of their mothers. In other words, the prostituted women my colleagues and I have met don't feel good about what they do. Don't hold a sense of pride in what they do. And definitely do not look at what they do as something that contributes to a dignified life, which is by the way a basic human right acknowledged globally.<br />
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So when I met this young Czechoslovakian woman (I am assuming she is Czechoslovakian by her name, which is a popular traditional name from the region which was a former country - Czechoslovakia) in Berlin last week, who identified herself as a 'sex worker', I had to listen to her because this was the first time I had met not a 'prostituted' woman but a 'sex worker'. She works with an organisation in the city which conducts peer-to-peer education for 'fellow sex workers', she said. She educates them on their rights, gives them tax advice (because prostitution became legal in Germany in 2002), health and hygiene advice, advice on how to treat good customers and bad customers, etc. This is indeed important work, I must admit, for most of the women she is talking about come from a background where these discussions aren't happening. Also, most of them are from East European countries and therefore they all the more lack knowledge about the legislation in Germany.<br />
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The young Czechoslovakian woman, pale with a sad look in her eyes, asked me why we want to criminalize the pimps, the brothel owners and the customers. 'Why do you want to rob us off our work?' she asked me. She sat there looking accusingly at me with those enormous sad eyes in a beautiful office. On the other couch sat an elderly woman, affectionate, quiet and there was something very powerful about her presence. I must admit I liked both of these women. Independent women, powerful with their voice, but just that I hoped they used their voice for something that wasn't as short-sighted as asking for keeping the prostitution cycle going rather than wiping it off totally.<br />
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So the young Czechoslovakian woman, with bruises (maybe love bites, but ugly ones) on her arms, asked me why are we campaigning for the Nordic model (which decriminalizes the prostituted woman but criminalizes and penalizes the pimps, brothel keepers and customers). As a response, I asked her why wouldn't she and her colleagues do that? She gave me a long answer, which I believe just proved my point. I don't know if she sensed that.<br />
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She told me that women like her who find themselves in poverty, no education and skills to opt for other livelihoods, choose 'sex work' because that brings them out of poverty. She said that all those who speak for abolishing 'sex work' are moralists. I told her it is not a question of morality but violence and abuse in the name of work. I asked her if, just because prostitution is legal in Germany, she had not ever come across a customer who made her behave like a sex slave. She said there were customers like this, but that she also had good customers who were tender with her. But what caught my attention was, in a country where prostitution is legal, the so-called 'sex worker' had rights, she could also be made to act like a 'slave'. I only wished her words were ringing in her ears in the same tone as they were in mine.<br />
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I asked her why wasn't she and her colleagues simultaneously campaigning to pressure the government to invest more on women and girls from the kind of background that they come from, so they can have better choices. To this, she said, and her older colleague joined in, that the state is too patriarchal and so is society, which is why, from what I gathered, they have not much hope about seeing a world where there is no prostitution. <br />
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Anyway, when I was leaving, she came running down the stairs to give me some literature. We lingered at the door for a few moments. 'Why did you come?' she asked me. 'Think of me as a fellow woman,' I said, 'Not as someone from an organisation or a campaign.' There was a lot of warmth in her hug. And as I left, I carried her sad eyes with me.<br />
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With abolitionist Inge Kleine at the KOFRA office in Munich</div>
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In Munich, I met an abolitionist. At the pleasant and warm KOFRA office, a few women were browsing through books as Inge Kleine and I sat at a table discussing the young abolitionist movement in Germany and prostitution over some nice coffee. She told me that the Czechoslovakian woman I met in Berlin was from an organisation that received funds from the government. Anyway, what seemed striking to me is the recent developments in the country. A small abolitionist group which is now slowly increasing in strength. A few members from the Bundestag I met in Colombo and in Berlin, who were willing to listen to me when I spoke about the Apne Aap experience in India. They were all willing to engage with Devaki Jain and Amartya Sen's notion of how development ought to be especially in South Asia: focused on rights rather than needs because with persistent lack of something, a community ceases to regard that something as a need. So, persistent lack of education makes a few communities think of schooling for children as a luxury. Persistent lack of healthcare makes a community regard healthcare as luxury. Persistent lack of housing makes a community perceive housing as a luxury. All these are basic human rights, respected by constitutions across the world as well as the United Nations human rights declarations, but the communities in question cease to see them as needs.<br />
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My experience with the young Czechoslovakian woman brought me to the same conclusion. She and her colleagues come from a community where the human right to dignity (receiving proper respect from others and treating oneself with self-respect) was perhaps not seen as a need. She spoke to me about her right to work in whichever fashion she wanted. She spoke to me about her right to seek state benefits. But she never for once spoke about her right to be treated with respect, but blamed the lack of this to patriarchy. And this brings me to my next point: the constitutional law of the Federal Republic of Germany has at its core human rights and human dignity. And if this has not assured human dignity to the prostituted women, some of whom may call themselves 'sex workers', then there must be something severely wrong either with people or with prostitution. For as we understand at Apne Aap through years of working with prostituted women, a woman never prostitutes herself. It is other people or the circumstances that prostitute her. In other words, prostitute has to be understood as a verb and not a noun if we want to engage with the notion of human dignity. <br />
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Inge Kleine at the KOFRA office in Munich. KOFRA <span style="font-family: inherit;">(a c<span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">ommunication centre for women) is a woman's initiative. Inge runs the Abolish Prostitution Now page on Facebook (</span><span style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/abolishprostitutionnow/?fref=nf">https://www.facebook.com/abolishprostitutionnow/?fref=nf</a>)</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">.</span></span></div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-7043419346236228652016-06-05T08:36:00.000-07:002016-06-05T09:03:10.457-07:00Who to decide how many children a woman should have?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I look after publications at Apne Aap Women Worldwide (<a href="http://www.apneaap.org/">www.apneaap.org</a>); but because I like to engage with people, every once in a while I go to our field at Najafgarh - where we work with a few freed/denotified tribe (DNT) communities who earn their livelihood as snake charmers, drum beaters, rag pickers, and a few who are trapped in inter-generational prostitution - as well as to the primary government school our organisation has adopted in the area and conduct open mike sessions. That is interactions in a group where everybody is encouraged to speak on a topic, trying to draw out their opinions and ideas basically. So the topic could be anything that might be relevant to them. Like 'child marriage' (because this is the practice in these communities), the 'benefits of caste certificates' (because they are amongst the most marginalized and poor communities in the country who often fall under the Scheduled Caste or Scheduled Tribe category, but are not aware of it, do not have caste certificates and even if they did they wouldn't know what to do with these certificates). <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the open mike session in the community at Najafgarh recently</td></tr>
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Now the last time I visited the community, I thought let the open mike today be on the right of a woman to decide how many children she wants. And I had put quite a lot of thought behind this. In these communities, you will notice very young girls as mothers. It is very difficult to say if the girl is over 18 years of age because many do not know how old they are and they do not have birth certificates to prove their age. So there would always be this young girl, still looking like an adolescent, with a baby clinging to her breast, and one or two more hanging by her kurta. They know that I have a four year old daughter, many of them have met her. And they now tell me that it's time I plan my second baby. There's nothing wrong in that. Many people, especially women, have told me on buses, trains and aeroplanes that I should now plan a second baby before it was too late and I regretted for life. And it often came from complete strangers too. Nobody understood or accepted when I said I don't want a second baby. They would all look at me as if I am morally wrong in that and get into a long lecture on what injustice it would be to my daughter who would grow up without a sibling. When I tell them that I am teaching my daughter to form lasting bonds with people in her life, and also teaching her to choose and keep the relationships she wants to keep, I get blank stares. That's not how you talk to a four year old, they tell me.<br />
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Anyway, so the last time I visited the community, and I saw this frail young girl who has become a mother for the third time, my heart just bled. Motherhood, from experience, is a lot of hard work as much as enjoyment. But the enjoyment associated with it will go down if the experience becomes frustrating for the mother. So here you are, not able to provide food for your family, but you go on and give birth to a third child when there are already so many mouths to feed in that joint family! So as we all sat down together, I declared that I am very proud of my daughter who loves me a lot and has brought me such joy, but that I choose to not go for any more children. All of them gave me that look. That I was wrong. Next I said, with the resources that I have - money, time, energy - I can give only one child the kind of life I want to gift her. If any more child comes in at this stage, it will disturb the balance. It was then that I saw how the look in their eyes shifted. Like they understood. And then of course I told them that no one can dictate how many children a woman can have. It is her right and her decision entirely. My right, your right.<br />
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I am glad Kari Egge, a leader with the United Nations for over twenty years, and currently the founder of Half the World (that trains women to assume leadership roles at all levels), was with us during this visit. She told them that she was in her sixties, traveled the world, no one told her what to do with her life, when to do what, and that she has a 19 year old bright daughter who goes to college. A young woman with a 19 year old daughter looked at her with eyes wide open. And then the women spoke. They spoke about the dreams they have for their daughters and sons. And the daughters spoke of their own dreams. They want to become teachers, dancers, social workers. And the mothers expressed that their daughters shouldn't become mothers at an early age. But they also expressed the fear that it might be tough to fight the society when it comes to taking such decisions.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When Kari, in her sixties, told the women that she has just one child - a 19 year old daughter, the look in their eyes changed. </td></tr>
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We can only hope that the conversations they have with us will one day teach them the strength to fight such customs and ideas. Like how conversations have taught me and Kari and so many other women who choose to live life on our own terms. Here I remember what Rachel Moran, prostitution survivor who played an important role in getting fair anti sex trafficking laws passed in her country Ireland (which decriminalizes the prostituted woman but criminalizes the pimp and customers), once told me. When as a teenager she found herself prostituted, for years after that she didn't know how to get out of it although she wanted to, because she wasn't having the kind of conversations that would tell her which was the way out. Likewise, at Najafgarh, we hope, that with the conversations the women are having with us, there will come a time when they will not only see the way out, but also learn to be strong to pursue empowered lives.<br />
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-91855612957459619252016-06-03T08:16:00.000-07:002016-06-03T08:16:56.838-07:00On the Road. Colombo.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Almost a month later, comes this second part of my blog post on Colombo. These pictures were taken at random, mostly on the road. And as I mentioned in my earlier post, I was charmed by Colombo, by how clean its roads are, by simply how beautiful the city is.<br />
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This is at Galle Face. By the Indian Ocean.</div>
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Enjoying her evening with her grandchildren.</div>
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Sri Lankan autorickshaws. Very colourful.</div>
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The city is dotted with such vans selling food and vegetables and what not.</div>
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There are pretty colonial buildings as such all over.</div>
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Monk and Rooster. At Gangaramaya Temple.</div>
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See how happy somebody is to see me!!!! :D</div>
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And this is for real. At Gangaramaya Temple.</div>
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Buddha and the Bodhi Tree. Gangaramaya Temple.</div>
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Shaikh Usman Waliyullah Shrine and Masjid</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIa8wYlUSu4louo9o6LlBFZ9Q-a3rhj12fBpSmki8Ljr4tWEFzsA-1hUlEFx03DZKH5e4_EuaiwwY-NJ9rI5LKQqvLIiRMXStJ6tBN_BurphBXTUNfZNGT_gJSgfEoSC9MkhZajzNKzOI/s1600/DSCN8801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIa8wYlUSu4louo9o6LlBFZ9Q-a3rhj12fBpSmki8Ljr4tWEFzsA-1hUlEFx03DZKH5e4_EuaiwwY-NJ9rI5LKQqvLIiRMXStJ6tBN_BurphBXTUNfZNGT_gJSgfEoSC9MkhZajzNKzOI/s320/DSCN8801.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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This is just a park by the road. It's like the road extends into the park... and vice versa.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDVHGeHZtkaWFexdPgOv5BM0EQntkk31qjEY-vsacYr87JeFlRQCRsKz62etW85oa8PxRWQlIbLBt-EActOe1uKda4FYyzSgFU7IM-VgTIwiZcS2Rbinm_toMcqiRu6_k6uok0L9enEE/s1600/DSCN8806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDVHGeHZtkaWFexdPgOv5BM0EQntkk31qjEY-vsacYr87JeFlRQCRsKz62etW85oa8PxRWQlIbLBt-EActOe1uKda4FYyzSgFU7IM-VgTIwiZcS2Rbinm_toMcqiRu6_k6uok0L9enEE/s320/DSCN8806.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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A winged friend by the road</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPK5R1J-H5rZsfHRYP1NZvUsHqcbzDMxrM6LAmEC0XJlAL4yAthU0vu5GwpW9DwcWeYqSc8G2U0ncO_RkG0SfyKLtbI5cZZwmodG5tQbKYXNqEt9seUZv-NMN_HQsXiKMbHE42wXrnnds/s1600/DSCN8813.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPK5R1J-H5rZsfHRYP1NZvUsHqcbzDMxrM6LAmEC0XJlAL4yAthU0vu5GwpW9DwcWeYqSc8G2U0ncO_RkG0SfyKLtbI5cZZwmodG5tQbKYXNqEt9seUZv-NMN_HQsXiKMbHE42wXrnnds/s320/DSCN8813.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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On the road</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvHuFF6iWnRuMYzwvp86UeIv-C5bMUTfgu5wZHjUQmFKOpfqvdsDul5bOI_G7LSMGWm8NgUQ7EPXH27JzzpGQy0mWmFTFCIIbrTsAWAyhW4wRLG1o2q77y4r5_0r6DAjf6cPW_3sy_R8/s1600/DSCN8847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvHuFF6iWnRuMYzwvp86UeIv-C5bMUTfgu5wZHjUQmFKOpfqvdsDul5bOI_G7LSMGWm8NgUQ7EPXH27JzzpGQy0mWmFTFCIIbrTsAWAyhW4wRLG1o2q77y4r5_0r6DAjf6cPW_3sy_R8/s320/DSCN8847.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Somewhere close to Galle Face.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21pVOY6LX3-wvs1sJ67tCSrJcKYR3TOqb4MVSgNjPv9IJvRvBO-rZrZhErYUE7XGY51hx34k22oWVv5Fjn8x1aWVHDVhKiDjuOS0IHhg29YdMdkyoBaWtKr02zxFMDfXnxvFccWiB1Wg/s1600/window+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21pVOY6LX3-wvs1sJ67tCSrJcKYR3TOqb4MVSgNjPv9IJvRvBO-rZrZhErYUE7XGY51hx34k22oWVv5Fjn8x1aWVHDVhKiDjuOS0IHhg29YdMdkyoBaWtKr02zxFMDfXnxvFccWiB1Wg/s320/window+view.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The city from my window at Lakeside Cinnamon.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpMDLP2kSqk4nsR8nWsVd7tl8YCIwqACZqr7VP6IES9Iqjkql3CnmovOrlxJtDdl6ZyLDGm4Hu1qKjPckZ-j0SG8jtKQPdBZyV7UBIqm8zCM8A8aU6UvRkJafQq4ByHgMDV_hIDc-BIUU/s1600/by+pool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpMDLP2kSqk4nsR8nWsVd7tl8YCIwqACZqr7VP6IES9Iqjkql3CnmovOrlxJtDdl6ZyLDGm4Hu1qKjPckZ-j0SG8jtKQPdBZyV7UBIqm8zCM8A8aU6UvRkJafQq4ByHgMDV_hIDc-BIUU/s320/by+pool.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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A relaxed afternoon. At Lakeside Cinnamon. </div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-20348903008168208402016-05-05T09:54:00.000-07:002016-05-05T20:10:28.920-07:00A date with pristine Colombo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here I am in Colombo, discovering the area on foot and tuk-tuk. The absence of high rises in the city, the clear blue sky and fresh air is mesmerizing! And yes, I shouldn't forget to mention, the low density of population and vehicles (for someone coming from Delhi and Guwahati and Saharanpur, this itself is a breath of fresh air). And the city is clean. The houses, streets and buildings are so clean.<br />
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So here's a photo essay of my morning today (and as usual, my photographs have not been photoshopped. It's in natural light.). As I walked about, the green landscape kept me company. So did various species of birds who walked or flew alongside, not afraid of the human presence.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPQYFauz7b7UoBEQKY6O-SOjYV4bSiQEi12FBCq0-92ZfaSBOhkf9jUi7lmghEJ0i81jKTxcHVO4GBUXK1IPvuD_7eNykBHTuoMFhP22smGzxu__S6Suq-uXO1WAJd7vBjXa884j6j-k/s1600/DSCN8708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPQYFauz7b7UoBEQKY6O-SOjYV4bSiQEi12FBCq0-92ZfaSBOhkf9jUi7lmghEJ0i81jKTxcHVO4GBUXK1IPvuD_7eNykBHTuoMFhP22smGzxu__S6Suq-uXO1WAJd7vBjXa884j6j-k/s320/DSCN8708.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is the BnB where I am staying. It is run by Jay Abeynayake and his wife Ridma. A lovely couple, most friendly and helpful. I found them on airbnb. Anyone planning a trip to Colombo, and looking to stay in the outskirts can get in touch with them. </div>
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They are at 0773429466.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6xcckFaRLFJ1t4Rm-Ysq2qbja0_ucPRMTxMiguSmnli9vRgFUu7VDg3cm0VVUxAACKL5hCpMatJVZwDlvxqiz0hgFnYtxP_4NXdsWQ0KTL2uUOFL1njOkLhsPbStQy8YD6Nzy71NCc98/s1600/DSCN8706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6xcckFaRLFJ1t4Rm-Ysq2qbja0_ucPRMTxMiguSmnli9vRgFUu7VDg3cm0VVUxAACKL5hCpMatJVZwDlvxqiz0hgFnYtxP_4NXdsWQ0KTL2uUOFL1njOkLhsPbStQy8YD6Nzy71NCc98/s320/DSCN8706.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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The kitchen area</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCz4pH_pwB7zUfttJ0l919CJe1HCxolIaSLBn6UcnQZn2U_C-z-Du4dI4Ydy402JHvpIR1U7LLum8WSdHSUpRgReMPYHdLeKOibt0rYcj3VQTxxc_3pqV7CV9Uth-fa5un6e5RLs9QXEM/s1600/DSCN8710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCz4pH_pwB7zUfttJ0l919CJe1HCxolIaSLBn6UcnQZn2U_C-z-Du4dI4Ydy402JHvpIR1U7LLum8WSdHSUpRgReMPYHdLeKOibt0rYcj3VQTxxc_3pqV7CV9Uth-fa5un6e5RLs9QXEM/s320/DSCN8710.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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And that's me getting ready to explore the neighborhood in the morning.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoaxck2SuZlTh5MtdwbkqRb9YA4RQvzy0Z79F9QG141tE9EPFQX7tVUPjk0LAbrPJ_SXO8slTV5HUiycr9sETe1Knb0gNcFTviU329zkWjkCJsAg7vnyUlN5Sdvo3IEfsxjPV5H8oQVI/s1600/DSCN8711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoaxck2SuZlTh5MtdwbkqRb9YA4RQvzy0Z79F9QG141tE9EPFQX7tVUPjk0LAbrPJ_SXO8slTV5HUiycr9sETe1Knb0gNcFTviU329zkWjkCJsAg7vnyUlN5Sdvo3IEfsxjPV5H8oQVI/s320/DSCN8711.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Right outside Jay and Ridma's beautiful BnB.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhez9B4SyzehuVzWjfyMfbdNCi9rBwn86P9HONxJ2SHMScBVeUIJPF15DFWuSANFenmR7-JZ4d-JEJtUfjhgx0BeAYF37Rdo3_YychTuZhmktYqTWf7y-t_hI95-ike-RnjmhskqdIOnMU/s1600/DSCN8712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhez9B4SyzehuVzWjfyMfbdNCi9rBwn86P9HONxJ2SHMScBVeUIJPF15DFWuSANFenmR7-JZ4d-JEJtUfjhgx0BeAYF37Rdo3_YychTuZhmktYqTWf7y-t_hI95-ike-RnjmhskqdIOnMU/s320/DSCN8712.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I walked down to the Pillawa Temple, about 20 mins on foot from where I am staying. This is the road to the temple and it is lined by shops selling flowers to be offered at the temple.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbkE0mEwIaxZJEoyV9xelKpqNmRL3H1ZeF4UeO24roFQw4MzLzNXsCTpLZQjlAPrVkowVmqu4R-gaXVvWTCEJYwDpWc9R6ERSboIpZpA-Fwz5pxOv-wta7_qMM0sk2cOWTkXK1zJ5db0/s1600/DSCN8715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbkE0mEwIaxZJEoyV9xelKpqNmRL3H1ZeF4UeO24roFQw4MzLzNXsCTpLZQjlAPrVkowVmqu4R-gaXVvWTCEJYwDpWc9R6ERSboIpZpA-Fwz5pxOv-wta7_qMM0sk2cOWTkXK1zJ5db0/s320/DSCN8715.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Friendly flower vendors. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInApOOlbY_9q6MoCKTqg0HZjOmXYLi7CF6h9NQS39DWTy-z0THi9BDJXHKGLwUdiV35ZiSyx1TgUopAcEbffzxbLXXHFDAsBNitlK-Ff6cQkM6JhmqLX1a57NqP2-NZgkZs2mzxJYA3U/s1600/DSCN8717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInApOOlbY_9q6MoCKTqg0HZjOmXYLi7CF6h9NQS39DWTy-z0THi9BDJXHKGLwUdiV35ZiSyx1TgUopAcEbffzxbLXXHFDAsBNitlK-Ff6cQkM6JhmqLX1a57NqP2-NZgkZs2mzxJYA3U/s320/DSCN8717.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Another one...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaG7yixzRWGwdlVwDv-TfSJvI8kME3PrGZjqzLvv1Os_nj1qCwdcm-CM2eF5i2stmSyGmt96WtGa3HjcTAk1HVtDj2EyLE-yM_D_oWCSiezxm-e7nsVWqedrmtlEtTQV9lO8apoDYix8c/s1600/DSCN8719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaG7yixzRWGwdlVwDv-TfSJvI8kME3PrGZjqzLvv1Os_nj1qCwdcm-CM2eF5i2stmSyGmt96WtGa3HjcTAk1HVtDj2EyLE-yM_D_oWCSiezxm-e7nsVWqedrmtlEtTQV9lO8apoDYix8c/s320/DSCN8719.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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This little bridge leads straight to the temple</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKSFP3XnxrxpFGTFiJuS57qLHTEI6F1PG3U0RTw_q1SuJFkjrBq1i8h_jQabxD4M_FVaEd4aqqbpzMJ8Ok3-Y-F2-yxozVeuku-WifSrVaZcqiw29mUpV-Lo0tnnJhl63zKbI0euU-TE/s1600/DSCN8720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKSFP3XnxrxpFGTFiJuS57qLHTEI6F1PG3U0RTw_q1SuJFkjrBq1i8h_jQabxD4M_FVaEd4aqqbpzMJ8Ok3-Y-F2-yxozVeuku-WifSrVaZcqiw29mUpV-Lo0tnnJhl63zKbI0euU-TE/s320/DSCN8720.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Pillawa Temple is mainly this statue of Lord Buddha and the Bodhi tree behind the statue. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvoT6w8nE7GMeHlCFNNUKpcLxdPT3f6riqROxh9Pkl1sIDvjwhtffLoRKoZBy9slZpHYcUMEKLXEjb680R3jdoGMSH4DQVzrjA2uXDP6nTGfP8VQUVe5jf0gYk8CBxvK3pjU-CZuro-oQ/s1600/DSCN8721.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvoT6w8nE7GMeHlCFNNUKpcLxdPT3f6riqROxh9Pkl1sIDvjwhtffLoRKoZBy9slZpHYcUMEKLXEjb680R3jdoGMSH4DQVzrjA2uXDP6nTGfP8VQUVe5jf0gYk8CBxvK3pjU-CZuro-oQ/s320/DSCN8721.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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This is the Bodhi Tree. What I have liked about the Sri Lankans is that they pay so much respect to trees and nature. No wonder the city is such a green belt.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMqCAhMA6bSG9Um4GzSy5m1BltequTGB2C_Ap52KUaIM_7PcHPNJglMLiyDiISbAfwLqa4-jZnkoqb-p3NwFBenMI_Zk2WaXtmg8yfWnxD-ClcQtPTtRVG_JVp3l8BBqirgBgVFroN4Q/s1600/DSCN8726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMqCAhMA6bSG9Um4GzSy5m1BltequTGB2C_Ap52KUaIM_7PcHPNJglMLiyDiISbAfwLqa4-jZnkoqb-p3NwFBenMI_Zk2WaXtmg8yfWnxD-ClcQtPTtRVG_JVp3l8BBqirgBgVFroN4Q/s320/DSCN8726.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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See who gave me company on the road...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DPFqAHvxRyFqPLrCUz1utzLUD5bpP8FnVpD8S47H-HMd-zaDYSgJQkN1I7oLtTqBlPtcdQtXv4JJDUDtdtss6vHwO_7z0PJFsF6bjsvsDGJYKNSKvMdrbnuPNMNYKUm1rw2LjGvR0qE/s1600/DSCN8730.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DPFqAHvxRyFqPLrCUz1utzLUD5bpP8FnVpD8S47H-HMd-zaDYSgJQkN1I7oLtTqBlPtcdQtXv4JJDUDtdtss6vHwO_7z0PJFsF6bjsvsDGJYKNSKvMdrbnuPNMNYKUm1rw2LjGvR0qE/s320/DSCN8730.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Another winged friend...</div>
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Two's company <3</div>
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The Colombo sky</div>
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More winged friends on the road</div>
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As I walked further down from Pillawa Temple, I came up to this little road where the wall by its side has interesting graffiti.</div>
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Soon I reached the Bellanwila Temple. This too is a Buddhist temple like Pillawa.</div>
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Devotees</div>
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Inside the temple</div>
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Beautiful frescoes on the walls and ceilings of the temple</div>
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And giant statues of the Buddha in different positions</div>
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This is the sleeping Buddha with devotees around him...</div>
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Some devotees even mounted on the walls...</div>
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so peaceful....</div>
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Inside the Bellanwila Temple premises </div>
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"This temple is considered so sacred that there is a long cherished belief that a child who treads the ground under the shade of its scared Bodhi-tree will never fail in life.</div>
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Situated in the outskirts of the city of Colombo, in the village of Bellanwila, just three kilometers from the city limits, Bellanwila temple has a long and hallowed history. The great sanctity attached to the temple is due to its sacred Bodhi-tree. There is authorative literary evidence in ancient texts such as the Sinhala Bodhivamsaya which records that this Bodhi-tree is one of the thirty two saplings that sprang from the sacred Bodhi-tree at Anuradhapura planted in the 3rd century B.C.E. The recorded tradition is as follows: There were five twigs in the Bodhi-sapling that was brought from India to Sri Lanka and planted in the Mahameghavana at Anuradhapura. When the sapling had grown into a tree, eight new saplings sprang from its eastern side. These are called the astaphalaruka-Bodhi-trees and they were planted at eight different spots on the Island. From the other four original branches sprang thirty-two additional saplings which were also distributed throughout the Island. One such plant is the sacred Bodhi-tree at Bellanwila." </div>
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Source: Bellanwila Rajamaha Vihara (<a href="http://www.bellanwila.org/en/index.php/bellanwila/home">http://www.bellanwila.org/en/index.php/bellanwila/home</a>)</div>
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From Bellanwila, I took a tuk-tuk to the Hotel Mount Lavinia. Here's a photo of me on the rear-view mirror :) and of the tuk-tuk.<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
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And this is at the Hotel Mount Lavinia, a colonial heritage hotel.</div>
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Legend has it that it used to be a British Governor's house. And this Governor had fallen in love with a local woman who was training to be an entertainer. Such was his ardent love and passion for her that he got a secret passage built in the building (which is still there in the hotel) to sneak her in every night. And the way this love story is still connected to the hotel building is so haunting! </div>
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This is at the private beach of Mount Lavinia Hotel. </div>
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Only a few days ago was I telling Nadeem that I wanted to go to a beach. And Colombo happened! Touchwood :)</div>
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At the Mount Lavinia Hotel seafood restaurant, built like a shack overlooking the Indian ocean and the beach. I sat there listening to the sea, sipping local Sri Lankan beer (Lion Lager). </div>
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Pretty girls attending a wedding at Mount Lavinia Hotel</div>
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Welcoming guests the traditional way at Mount Lavinia Hotel!</div>
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The quaint railway station right by the hotel, since the days of the British.</div>
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And look at that palm!</div>
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This is a photograph of Jay and Ridma's place again. I am in Colombo for one more day. And I sit here thinking how to make it as relaxing and beautiful as today... </div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-43493263728411296072016-04-14T03:34:00.001-07:002016-05-06T06:30:25.250-07:00From Deprivation to Destitution: The story of Mumtaz Begum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;">Mumtaz Begum </span></div>
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"I have been asked not to smile at the camera because someone who has been rendered homeless again and again should not look happy," tells me 36 year old Mumtaz Begum. But I ask her to smile for me, and why not, I said, everyone has the right to be happy. So, keep fighting your fight, I told her. </div>
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Mumtaz's family is one of those 383 families in Topsia, Kolkata who were forcibly evicted by the government of West Bengal in 2012 for the construction of a flyover. "The goons were sent to us and they threatened us to leave. They said we will rape your daughters, will set your house on fire. I didn't want to leave initially, but slowly fear took over and I left my home with my family."</div>
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The said forced eviction happened on 7 - 12 Nov 2012, when the slum dwellers of about 2,000 people living under Topsia Bridge No 4, near Park Circus Station in Kolkata, looked on as their homes were demolished without prior notice, without any legal procedure. The affected people were mostly from low income group, from scheduled castes, other backward classes, minority Muslim population, and many were from freed/denotified tribe communities. They lived mostly by rickshaw pulling, daily wage labour, begging, rag-picking, etc. </div>
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Mumtaz Begum, leading the fight for adequate compensation in Topsia, Kolkata</div>
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"We now live in Lohapool, near Topsia. There are about a total of 55 jhuggis in Lohapool. We were not allowed to relocate there by the residents. This slum is by the railway line. If you come to my house, you will see that the railway track is just a step away from the threshold of my house. On two occasions, I was almost hit by a train when I stepped out of my jhuggi. It's that close! My husband is an alcoholic and there were a couple of times when he was almost run over by a train, just outside our house!"<br />
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"I very recently got my 14 year old daughter married. I wanted her to study and come out of the cycle of poverty that I have been living. But with this relocation to Lohapool by the railway track, and Ghutiarisharif (prostitution den) which is nearby, I feared for her. So I got her married to a guy nearby who will protect her." What does he do, I ask her. He is a rickshaw-puller, she replies. <br />
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Leading the fight for the basic human right to housing </div>
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"When I was 21 days old, my parents came to Kolkata to save themselves from poverty. We lived on the Sealdah platform and my parents begged for a living. One day my mother met a woman and she said there are people living in jhuggis in Topsia, come with me. My mother paid Rs 400 to the CPM guys and we were given a place to build our jhuggi." Were you given any document, I asked. No, she said. </div>
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"When I was 13 years old, that slum was destroyed by the CPM, for the construction of a flyover. That was the first time we were rendered homeless. I saw children dying under the bulldozers. The police came and beat us up. We organised a campaign but nothing happened. We lost everything then, whatever little we had."</div>
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"With this flyover being constructed at Topsia, we were made homeless a second time." And she tells me that there is a fear of being homeless again since there is a railway station being constructed at Lohapool. </div>
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I ask her, what about toilet facilities. None, she says. "We crap on plastic sheets out in the open, by the railway tracks and throw it away in the garbage. We go without bathing for days. I took a bath yesterday at the hotel (in Delhi where she is staying these days) and I felt so good!" </div>
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Mumtaz has been brought to Delhi by Apne Aap Women Worldwide and Housing and Land Rights Network (HLRN) to release the report 'From Deprivation to Destitution: The Impact of Forced Eviction in Topsia, Kolkata.' The report was launched yesterday at the Indian Women's Press Corps in Delhi. She was accompanied by renowned activist Anuradha Talwar, celebrated writer and activist Harsh Mander, Shivani Chaudhry from HLRN, and Tinku Khanna from Apne Aap Women Worldwide. </div>
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Tinku Khanna introduced Mumtaz as "the leader and organiser of the movement at Topsia."</div>
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Delhi press release of the Topsia report. 13 April 2016</div>
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Mumtaz addressing the gathering at the press release</div>
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Anuradha ji, in her speech, stated, "We felt with the new government coming in, there will be a change in the attitude of the government towards land acquisition and housing and land rights of the poor. But what is happening in West Bengal right now, as is evident in the Topsia case, is that the government is undertaking illegal proceedings to acquire land. For example, at Topsia, the evicted population was given a compensation of Rs 12000. But there is no document from the government to state why this Rs 12000, how it has been arrived at. Even after 4 years, there has been no response from the government for adequate compensation." <br />
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Harsh Mander pointed out, "The peopel who build cities are considered illegitimate residents with no rights. Cities are not planned in a way that its working population can live dignified lives. And since that doesn't happen, they are forced to sleep on the streets and live in slums. And when you live in a slum, there is a danger of the state turning against you. And when the state uses non-state actors, especially the mafia and goons, it causes a situation of helplessness, of injustice and inequality. Our acceptance of this inequality and injustice is extremely unacceptable. Cities need to be built in a way that they are inclusive of the poor."<br />
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Shivani Chaudhry vociferously argued that, "In the international law, housing is a basic human right, but unfortunately the central and state governments don't recognise this as well as the linkage of housing with multiple other human rights. If you are a pro-poor government, you will never push the marginalised to poverty and destitution."<br />
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The report points out, as Tinku Khanna mentioned in her speech, how the forced eviction has not only amounted to severe material and non-material loses for the poor who were living in that area, but how no rehabilitation plan for the affected population has resulted in many relocating to places like Ghutiarisharif where there are two brothel systems running, Lohapool by the railway tracks, thus exposing women and girls to the vulnerability of being trafficked for prostitution and other forms of bonded slavery. The report carries account of missing children and women after the eviction.<br />
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But the bottomline is, should development take place by excluding the poor? As Mumtaz tells me, "We also want the country to develop, but not like this when 383 families are just thrown out of their homes with nowhere to go." And as Anuradha ji says, "The issue is the city, Kolkata in this case, where there has been a surge of development activities along with carelessness in the manner in which this development is happening." <br />
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<i>This piece has been published later by The Thumb Print on 21 April 2016, and is available at </i>(<a href="http://www.thethumbprintmag.com/the-story-of-a-forced-eviction-in-kolkata/">http://www.thethumbprintmag.com/the-story-of-a-forced-eviction-in-kolkata/</a>)</div>
Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-50542738038341797612016-03-31T12:17:00.000-07:002016-03-31T23:29:10.390-07:00The Bora family house and whispering woods in Chamba<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am just back from a fabulous holiday in the hills, thanks to my cousin Roshmi ba (Urmi) and her husband Chanakya Bhindo. Their family home at the picturesque Badshahi Sthall, higher up Chamba town, nestles in the midst of whispering woods, surrounded by the Himalayas as tall as the sky... A quiet town, sparkling in the sun's rays and fresh as fresh can be. Here are a few pictures from that trip.<br />
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We went to Chamba in Uttarakhand from Delhi by road and reached the Bora family home at Badshahi Stall late in the evening. The next morning, I woke up as fresh as my little daughter here :) I made her pose for me as soon as she opened her eyes in the morning!</div>
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Then I stood at this balcony and gazed at the beauty all around.</div>
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A nice place to sit and relax...</div>
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My daughter Zaara with the gracious host, Chanakya Bhindo.</div>
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And it's only in reflections that we see how the world merges :)</div>
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From one end to the other...</div>
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The space below the stairs most optimally and gorgeously used. </div>
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Chanakya bhindo, I have always maintained, might be an architect, and a very good one at that, but would have made an even better chef! Here he is seen working magic in the kitchen.</div>
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That's some awesome sweet cinnamon bread from Prakash (a store that exists since 1928) at Landour, and Chanakya bhindo had made some spring onion raita (which was surprisingly very good; I was quite skeptical about it!!!) to go with aloo paratha for breakfast. And of course, this is only the beginning to the glorious dishes he made through those five days! </div>
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Walking along the lanes of the five pretty cottages at Badshahi Sthall. </div>
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A view of the cottages.</div>
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Zaara is happy to find herself a swing.</div>
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All set to explore the woods...</div>
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But before that, a photpgraph with Roshmi ba :)</div>
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The paths around these parts...</div>
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The Chamba sky. Clear. Blue. Sparkling.</div>
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Counting life's blessings ;)</div>
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Red red sky just before dusk</div>
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The house glows like embers in the dark...</div>
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Father-daughter. Ruhee and Chanakya bhindo.</div>
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Zaara finds herself friends and spends her Holi with them</div>
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Holi Hai!!!!!!!</div>
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Zaara, Arjun and Piu</div>
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Zaara and Ruhee. Holi girls.</div>
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The caretaker, spinner of tales, Unniyal ji.</div>
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As the day comes to an end, Zaara sits and watches cartoon on TV...</div>
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This is near Dhanaulti. Dhanaulti is just one hour from Badshahi Sthall.</div>
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Roshmi ba and I, too happy with the hills, too happy to pose :) </div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-87008535574085283152016-03-31T11:06:00.001-07:002016-03-31T11:06:58.449-07:00Ustad Iqbal Ahmed Khan, Khalifa of Dilli Gharana (Deccan Herald, 20 March 2016)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<img alt="custodian of Dilli gharana Ustad Iqbal Ahmed Khan" height="164" src="http://www.deccanherald.com/page_images/big/2016/03/19/535574_thump.jpg" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; margin: 10px auto 20px; padding: 4px; vertical-align: middle;" width="220" /></div>
<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 700;">I’ve been god-fearing from the beginning. And I am grateful to him that I have been lucky,” is the first thing Ustad Iqbal Ahmed Khan says, sitting in the small room of what constitutes the Ameer Khusro Institute of Dilli Gharana on Ansari Road in Old Delhi. The classical vocalist wears, as usual, a sherwani.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />From the walls of the room, the giants of Dilli Gharana, who are framed in photographs, look at us. Pointing at a photo, he says, "That’s my guru and father Ustad Chand Khan Sahab. He didn’t have a son, so he adopted me.” In another photo are his father-in-law, Ustad Hilal Ahmed Khan, and his biological father, Ustad Zahoor Ahmed Khan, "sons of Ustad Chand Khan’s younger brothers.”<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Few are as blessed as this singer who was born in the lap of music and into a family that has defined Indian classical music for centuries. But, as he says, although music is a legacy gifted to him, it did not come easily. "I have served not only music all these 60 years, but also my teachers, with whom I have spent most of my waking hours - responsive to their emotions as well as to the nuances of singing they have taught me.” He says his biggest support in life has been Zohra Khan, his wife, with whom he has grown up.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 700;">Mausiqui Manzil</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Iqbal Ahmed Khan was born and brought up at Mausiqui Manzil, a 200-year-old building in Old Delhi, where he lives with his family now. "Artistes from all over the world came here to meet the then Khalifa of Dilli Gharana, Ustad Chand Khan Sahab. They either stayed with us or at the Haji Hotel in Jama Masjid.” He is the current Khalifa of the centuries-old Dilli Gharana of Indian classical music.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />It’s here that he heard the great musicians of his time, and grew up with an understanding of the taans, surs and taals. "It was a privilege. In 1961, Bhai Lalji Lahorewale visited us. So we had a mehfil. He was one slim man, must have been 80 years old. But he sang effortlessly! Senior artiste Qadarbaksh Khan sang the bandish Nevar Ki Jhankar in Chhayanat raga for us. My father asked me to concentrate on how he rendered it. I still remember it.”<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />And, he continues with another anecdote: "One of the visitors was the legendary rudra veena exponent Ustad Sadiq Ali Khan. He didn’t stay with us, but at the hotel. When he visited us every evening, he saw me flying kites. He wondered, in front of my father, if I ever do riyaaz. My father asked him not to worry, and said that the little one’s mind was at the session. Khan sahab started playing and at one point, deliberately went off tune. I turned around immediately and looked at him, still holding the string of the kite, and started chanting, 'You have gone out of tune!’ I must have been 10 years then.”<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 700;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Lesson to remember</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Along with music, his ustad has also trained him in humility and kindness. "When I was 12, I was admonished for impertinence at a gathering in Jaipur. It was already evening when I sat down to sing. My guru went for his evening namaz. Senior musician Hidayatullah Khan, about 70 years old then, played the tabla with me. Somebody told me that he could make singers go out of rhythm. I took it as a challenge and started a bandish. At one point, I sang in a manner that made it impossible for him to keep pace with me. He began to cry. A child had humiliated him! My guru, back from the namaz, slapped me in front of everyone.'Have I taught you so that you can insult your seniors?’ he thundered, and then asked the senior musician to forgive me.” He chokes as he narrates this tale.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />His tales also reveal that the training sessions were extremely rigorous. He remembers that he was made to go through only two ragas for the first 24 years of his life as a singer. Puriya at night and Komol Rishabh Asavari in the day. And, how much has he been able to pass on to his students? He unravels a secret, "There comes a wave in time when an ustad reveals, like an epiphany, some nuance that is otherwise often inexplicable. This wave doesn’t occur twice. I have been able to give to my students as much as they have been able to receive.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Source:<a href="http://m.deccanherald.com/section.php?url=/content/535574/nurturer-music.html&secid=48&p=1" target="_blank"> http://m.deccanherald.com/section.php?url=/content/535574/nurturer-music.html&secid=48&p=1</a></span></div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-13437706516663026422016-03-11T00:13:00.000-08:002016-03-11T00:13:22.965-08:00On Diya Naidu's work in contemporary dance (Deccan Herald, 28 Feb 2016)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Steps in self-exploration</h1>
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Juanita Kakoty, Feb 28, 2016</div>
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<strong style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;">Dancer and choreographer Diya Naidu sees a performance as a combination of self-expression and messages carrying universal appeal. Juanita Kakoty in conversation with the young artiste...<br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /></strong>Award-winning choreographer Diya Naidu defines her work as “movement and dance-based contemporary performance”, which, at the moment, might seem to take a socio-political turn, but has, and always will, she emphasises, “be layered by spiritual and existential questions, and research.”<br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" />Although she has been dancing ever since she was a little girl, Diya thinks “finding contemporary dance was for me the beginning of really becoming a movement artiste. I loved training in jazz and kathak, but there was something about martial arts that always attracted me. I found the diploma at Attakkalari Repertory Company and auditioned mainly to train consistently in kalaripayattu. Here is where my body found the vocabulary it needed to truly express itself, with all the nuances and layers that make up contemporary existence today.”<br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><strong style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;">Keeping at it</strong><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" />Reflecting on how dance makes her find herself, Diya says, “My first solo choreography was perhaps when I was eight or nine years old on a captive crew — my little sister and cousins — whom I bullied into performing in my homemade production. This was followed by many pieces over the years on school and college teams. But my first piece as a contemporary choreographer was a 20-minute solo called Nadir. This was made under the auspices of The Robert Bosch Award for Young Choreographers.” <br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" />She tells me that Nadir was based on the idea of ‘aloneness’ in the urban context and the schizophrenic experience of being ‘isolated’ in the existential sense and yet being surrounded by noise, chaos and the stimulus of the urban jungle. “It uses movement, dance as well as film. This piece was a collaborative experience for me. I worked intensely with filmmaker Nimish Jain, with Shymon Chelad for music and light design, with Elan studio for costume, and with the Teichmann brothers from Germany for sound. This was my first work which let me explore who I was — not just as a dancer, but as a choreographer, too. It was the seed that shaped the existential, spiritual and socio-political space I am seeking to investigate today as an artiste. It made me a better performer, taught me to conceptualise, and forced me to articulate, research and hold more conviction in my ideas. It was cathartic for me in an emotional sense as it allowed me to creatively resolve and navigate certain questions and issues of my own. It made me address many bad habits as a thinker and creator of work, and insecurities as a performer.”<br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" />Her other works like Bardo Beings and Red Dress Waali Ladki have been equally well-received. Diya points out how she draws from diverse realms. Trained in bharatnatyam, jazz, ballet, kathak, physical theatre and kalaripayattu, Diya had worked with the Attakkalari Repertory Company for seven years, where, she says, she trained in the contemporary South-Asian vocabulary that is unique to Attakkalari and its director, Jayachandran Palazhy. Diya has also trained in yoga, put herself into as many workshops as she could, including mime, training for actors, contemporary, modern and somatic practices, and biodynamic craniosacral therapy.<br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" />Talking of her technique, she says, “Earlier, my process was much more physical with a focus on dramatic presence, movement quality and physical stamina and rhythm. At the moment, though these are still important to me, I have begun to seek a more integrated performance approach involving equal engagement with voice and acting skills. This means that I am grappling with ways to accommodate all these aspects into my being with harmony, ease and consistency.”<br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" />Diya is working on Rehem, a duet between two women that addresses their impulse of just being who they are as human beings and alive, not reacting to historical and current baggage of who and how a woman should be. There are other pieces of work in progress — Labour of Love: around the idea that love and hate come from essentially the same space, and Today, Don’t Insist On Leaving, a duet created with an older actor around the theme of ageing and the elderly. <br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><strong style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;">Ways are many</strong><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; max-height: 1e+06px; padding: 0px;" />And there is so much poetry in the way she explains how she conceives her work. “Sometimes a piece makes itself — motifs appear in dreams, a dancer/actor catches your fancy as muse, a book transports itself to the movement realm during a daydream on a train, a suggestion takes flight in one’s mind, a theme is proposed as commissioned work and yet becomes one’s own. There are many ways to dream, write, paint and dance. What seems essential is to find a personal resonance and yet tell a universal story; to be specific and yet somehow open a window to something beyond that minuscule implication. And, above all, to try and play, explore and keep at it till something makes sense in the way the artist dreamt it into being.”</div>
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Source: <a href="http://www.deccanherald.com/content/531429/steps-self-exploration.html">http://www.deccanherald.com/content/531429/steps-self-exploration.html</a></div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-46946688739848645192016-03-10T23:44:00.000-08:002016-03-10T23:44:39.662-08:00Nadeem Shah Suhrawardy's Kahani Pandit Ki, a Dastangoi performance by Nadeem Shah Suhrawardy and Shankar Musafir (The Thumb Print, 7 January 2016) <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: 1.2;">Weaving magic through words</span></h1>
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By <strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">JUANITA KAKOTY</strong></div>
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Nadeem Shah Suhrawardy and Shankar Musafir sat on the <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">masnad</em>, covered with a white bedsheet, two white bolsters on either side, in exquisite white Lucknawisalwar kurta, accessorised with striking blue Turkish caps. And right there, on 29 December 2015, at the Stein Auditorium of India Habitat Centre, the two young men appeared as if from some other world and wove a magical realm of storytelling as the audience sat there mesmerised listening to their Kahani Pandit Ki.</div>
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The storytellers were guest artists invited by the Sursagar Society of Delhi Gharana of music, which had got together a two-day event to celebrate the year as it rolled to an end, and welcome the new year. “The thrust was to take my own skill and experience to a different level in terms of ‘dastanic’ writing and performance, and the story just fitted the bill,” says Nadeem who has adapted a Rajasthani folktale into Hindustani oral storytelling, popularly called Dastangoi or Qissagoi in the northern part of the sub-continent. ‘Dastan’ or ‘qissa’ is a story and ‘goi’ is the Persian and Urdu term for ‘telling.’</div>
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‘Kahani Pandit ki’ is a quirky tale about the many, more than often contradictory, shades of human nature. With a tenor that is humorous, the tale raises several pertinent questions about the standing of a woman in society, greed and the pursuit of selfish interests. Through its central characters and the nuances of their devotion to the ‘Kuldevi’ – the village deity who protects, the tale moves into the domain of fantasies as it negotiates the contours of varied human emotions.</div>
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Talking of the performance that day, Nadeem says, ‘Kahani Pandit Ki’ has been inspired by one of the folktales by Vijaydan Detha. I have woven the <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">dastan</em>, or the story, around the same characters but have adopted a different course and climax, bringing it to highlight some pertinent questions about women’s plight and position in society.’</div>
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Nadeem Shah Suhrawardy has performed over a hundred dastans in many locations across India, as well as Pakistan and Afghanistan since 2010. But this is his debut production, which has been quite well received. He has also recently scripted a performative text on Faiz’s life and poetry, which he performed with his fellow storyteller Manu Sikander Dhingra at the South Asian University, New Delhi. Manu and Nadeem have been a formidable storyteller pair in the last five years, who have performed over a hundred shows in India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.</div>
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‘For me storytelling has to be a curious mix of narration and performativity, where both complement each other, and the nuances of the language used have to be demonstrative in both text and performance,’ elaborates Nadeem. He further says, “I listen to Zia Muhiuddin Sahab and Naseeruddin Shah Sahaba lot and am trying to bring into my delivery their finesse and voice control, as well as their command over pauses. Their art of storytelling seems so effortless. I totally admire the way they tell stories!”</div>
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Nadeem’s interest in Hindustani oral storytelling also stems from the fact that he teaches medieval Indian history to students in Delhi University. His fellow storyteller Shankar Musafir is an educationist with UNESCO who has penned a book on pedagogy for school education. He has been practicing this art form since 2014.Both made for an arresting pair on stage, exchanging energies and emotive and narrative prowess.</div>
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Source: <a href="http://www.thethumbprintmag.com/weaving-magic-through-words/" target="_blank">http://www.thethumbprintmag.com/weaving-magic-through-words/ </a></div>
Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-78912409085820620062016-02-15T01:44:00.000-08:002016-02-15T01:44:02.074-08:00Twisted ideas of 'Nationalism'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">Just my little bit on the misplaced ideas of nationalism that's coming up in television discussions these days around the JNU incident. I would like to say, nationalism doesn't only lie in a martyred soldier or in slandering someone who speaks against the state. Nationalism, in a country like India, is also about respecting the diverse groups of the country, accepting that a few communities like the denotifed tribes, the dalits, the Nagas, etc. have been historically wronged </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">and taking provisions for correcting this. That someone who expresses anger towards the state out of hurt that stems from a history of exploitation and destitution is not that bad as someone who swindles tax payers money, commits mass murders in the name of religion, ignores the deprivation of other communities, etc. And also I think it's about time we stopped using the word nationalism. Let's first learn to be sympathetic citizens who can feel the pain and struggle of other citizens. Have the grace not to mock other citizens who 'look different.' With thoughts like Maharashtra can only be of the Marathas, and a situation where many nomadic and semi-nomadic communities have not yet been enumerated by the Census of India and live by begging and prostituting themselves, and times when a young Rohith Vemula has to kill himself because he learns too early in life that people born in his caste community will continue to be weak even with education, why are we sweating ourselves over the term nationalism, really? Until we sort out so many of these pressing issues, I would prefer nationalism being just about India winning cricket, tennis and badminton matches and not fret about who said Jai Hind and who said Jai Pakistan, unless it is the Prime Minster, the Army chief or the ISIS from whom these words are coming. We all know that Jai Hind or Jai Pakistan coming from you, me or anybody for that matter without the reins of power and force will not really change the country. So let's brush words aside, and focus more on what needs to be done in this country.</span></div>
Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-36754609158237295302015-12-09T08:29:00.002-08:002015-12-09T08:29:44.656-08:00My latest short story 'The Road to Aikon Aita's House' in New Asian Writing (9 Dec 2015)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My latest short story titled, 'The Road to Aikon Aita's House' has been published by New Asian Writing. Synopsis: <span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 15.456px;">In this story, the narrator talks of her life from fragments of memory, linking characters and landscapes along the way. It is as if the narrator is reminiscing about those childhood days, those journeys to upper Assam by road, which seem like a lost legacy now. And in this nostalgic trip she remembers the special relationship one of her grandmothers shared with a Muslim man from the town.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Read the story at <a href="http://www.new-asian-writing.com/the-road-to-aikon-aitas-house-by-juanita-kakoty/">http://www.new-asian-writing.com/the-road-to-aikon-aitas-house-by-juanita-kakoty/</a></span></div>
Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-77362617121476033522015-09-08T23:58:00.001-07:002015-09-08T23:58:21.296-07:00Papier Mache (Deccan Herald, 23 August 2015)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
source: <a href="http://www.deccanherald.com/content/496712/genius-pied-papers.html">http://www.deccanherald.com/content/496712/genius-pied-papers.html</a><br />
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The genius of pied papers</h1>
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Juanita Kakoty, August 23, 2015, DHNS</div>
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Family craft</div>
<figure class="floatLeftImg" style="float: left; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><img alt="model paper works Attractive papier-mache products." border="0" class="floatLeftImg" src="http://www.deccanherald.com/page_images/thumb/2015/08/22/496712_thump.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 3px 0px; padding: 0px;" title="model paper works Attractive papier-mache products." /></figure><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="top" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"></span><br />
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<strong style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Forty-three-year-old Shabir Dehqani was one of the master craftsmen who displayed his artistry at the Design Haat conducted by Apeejay Institute, in Delhi. </strong><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Shabir Dehqani had come from Kashmir with his papier-mache products. He sat on the ground of his stall showing a painted papier-mache box to a few foreign students. He was pointing out the intricacies of the simple yet elegant craft of making the most with paper!<br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Listening to him talk about his family’s association with the craft was almost like flipping through the pages of history. <br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />“We are originally from Persia where papier-mache has been used to manufacture small painted boxes, trays of all sorts, étagères, a piece of furniture with open shelves and cases,” he said. <br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />He also informed his listeners that his family migrated to Kashmir in the 14th century. “There, our forefather, Raza Ali, started a papier-mache workshop and taught people this art form.” <br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Apparently, in those days, there was unemployment in the region and the craft Raza Ali taught enabled many to earn an income.<br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />As I picked up a colourful papier-mache jewellery box, Shabir explained the process behind creating such elegant products. “First, the paper is turned into a pulp with water and glue, and then it is mashed. It is shaped after one’s choice and further smoothened. It’s in this final stage that colours and motifs are coated on it.”<br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />Shabir informed that papier-mache is a French term that means “chewed paper”. “In Persia, bright colours are used to paint these products, and we have continued with this tradition. However, in the old days, only paper was used. But since 200 years now, we are also using wood and cardboard for our products,” he said of the craft’s evolution.<br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />I looked at the sturdy products around me and it was really difficult to tell the paper products from the ones that were made of wood. Then Shabir revealed an interesting fact. <br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />“Although papier-mache is a French term, the craft originated in China!” Amrit Das, senior faculty at the fashion design department of the institute, said, “Shabir Husain and the other craftsmen from different domains that you see at the mela are master craftsmen who have won national awards and have been practising their craft for at least 25 years now. We are trying to provide platform for them to interact with stakeholders at both the national and international levels. Through this, we hope to help them bring their crafts to a contemporary level, suited to the needs of the contemporary market, while keeping the intrinsic traditional essence of the craft alive.”</div>
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Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-86992136717515093412015-08-20T02:34:00.001-07:002015-09-03T10:09:54.800-07:00How I Realised I am a Feminist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">the Women's Reservation Bill was first introduced in the Lok Sabha in September 1996, the morning after we were gathered around breakfast and the newspaper at home. I was busy eating and wasn't paying attention to what the elders of the family, it was the men who were basically discussing this, had to say until they hurled a question at me: 'What do you think, do women require reservation to make it to the Parliament?' I was a little surprised that they asked me, a student in Class X, and not the other women present (who were mostly housewives). I cleared my throat with as much importance as I could considering kids in the family were generally not allowed their opinion in matters of the state or family when elders were discussing it. And I said what came to me naturally, that women are strong, meritorious and capable enough and do not require quotas to succeed. All of them applauded my statement. And I felt very good. And that was the truth for me at that time. I knew nobody at home supported reservations. I often heard elders complain of how somebody from a scheduled caste, scheduled tribe or other backward class had managed a promotion ahead of them because of the quota. Also, all around me I noticed women who were doctors, engineers and teachers. All doing good. What I didn't take into account was the social background they came from. All of these accomplished women I knew of were from middle class families with fathers mostly as engineers (because my father was an engineer with a state department in Assam so I knew many of his colleagues who had daughters doing very well), doctors, professors, bureaucrats, geologists and upper scale employees at Oil India Limited or the Oil and Natural Gas Corporation (ONGC). So while in school, these were the families I knew and their daughters were invariably doing well and also went on to marry well, successful husbands from similar 'good families'. And yes, nobody in my family had heard of feminism till then, nor had I. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In Hindu College, Delhi University and JNU, New Delhi, where I pursued a Bachelor's, Master's and an M.Phil. in Sociology, I became aware of India's caste system for the first time. I devoured the books by stalwarts M.N. Srinivas, Andre Beteille and Yogendra Singh and declared to all I knew how 'safe' Assam has been for everyone. Weren't we lucky we had no caste system or its perils ever? And my non-Assamese friends always marveled when I told them this because they could not fathom a world without the caste system. Where they lived, who they interacted with, dined with and married was always dependent on what castes you came from. I was shocked and enlightened them about how we can marry just anyone other than the 'tribals' because the tribals are not like us, we are like the rest of the Indians (although at that time I only meant the Hindus when I said 'rest of the Indians'; also my idea of how the rest of the Indians were was limited to what Bollywood showed me). Also, I had no idea how I was using the word 'tribal', placing them lower in the social hierarchy as if it was alright. And I hated the sight of the feminists - the fabIndia kurta wearing, kohl-eyed women who aggressively shut you up, or rather shut me up. They would never listen to me and dismissed me like a non-entity. Not just me but everybody else like me who had no interest in discussing what the state was doing, how oppressed women were, etc. etc. And they talked so much about 'gender' issues that I skipped opting a paper on gender studies for as long as I could. No, I didn't want to be like them. And I am glad I am still not like them. I can listen to your opinion calmly even if it is bang opposite of what I have to say. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 2007, for the first time in my life, I came face to face with the caste system right at the heart of my beloved Assam. I was at Patbaushi, a village in Barpeta district for my PhD research. There I saw how the lower castes are not allowed entry into the homes of the upper castes. I came across a few cases where two or three Scheduled Caste women had married upper caste men. These women were not allowed entry into the kitchen and prayer room in the household, and were given rooms further or cut off from the rest of the household. I was stunned. These women were also outcasts in their own communities. I had never lived in the villages of Assam and I realised how protected a life I led. I just had no access to anyone who wasn't from my social background or who actually came from rural Assam. Yes, I interacted with many people in school, the prestigious convent Holy Child school precisely, and Cotton College (for my XIth and XIIth), but who spoke about caste and communities at school? We were talking mostly about crushes, textbooks, film stars, fables, films, music, and the paranormal.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At Patbaushi, I had gone to study the changing socio-religious status of the Xatras (vaishnavaite religious establishments) in the village and stumbled upon the persistent caste dynamics instead; and how it always manifested in how the women were treated. Which is why I could not finish my PhD perhaps because my focus just shifted! Where was I living all this while? How was my world so different? And why did I think my world is everybody's world too? I felt so bad for these lower caste men and women who thought it was fine, and not their right to question, if they were not allowed entry into the upper caste households. And that was when I started to think about what marginalisation meant.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Coming to marginalisation, at a recent screening of the film 'Meena' on a prostitute who comes from a community that practices inter-generational prostitution in India, a lady came up to me and remarked how everybody is talking about the marginalised these days. Are there so many marginalised people? Who are the </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">privileged</span><span style="line-height: 18px;"> then and where are they and why is no one talking about them? she asked me. And somehow I found myself answering her although I had no idea who she was. 'It is only in the arts, movies and books that people are talking about the marginalised,' I said. 'Do you talk about yourself or somebody else with a nice house where maids and domestic help cannot sit on your sofas or eat with you at the dining table? That's because you are in the privileged lot and what's there to talk about it? So we talk of what's happening to the marginalised who cannot sit with you or eat with you, among other things. Have you ever considered what caste or communities they came from? And if this is something regular in their castes/communities? And if ever one of them sat with you on the same sofa, then you would talk about it! The beggars that we see at Delhi's red lights - you drive by, stop at the red light, you give a rupee or maybe not to them. What's there to talk about this? But yes, there is a lot to talk about them because they are mostly from the Sansi community in Rajasthan who are nomadic tribes, and who have been practicing beggary since ages as livelihood because they cannot think of any other livelihood option. Their children do not go to school, they do not own land and houses, and most of the freed/denotified and nomadic tribes in India are not even enumerated by the Census, which is why they are neither scheduled castes, scheduled tribes or other backward classes and thus remain outside the realm of benefits provided by the state. So should we be talking about you and I who are entitled to provisions and benefits primarily because of the social and cultural capital we have been born with, or should we be talking about them, the marginalised who are not equipped in the first place to compete for these provisions and entitlements? You may ask why, and I may say 'what about the social and cultural capital which has helped you, me and the rest like us.' She looked at me a little bewildered and said, shrugging her shoulders, well I don't know maybe I will think about it, and walked away. But I am grateful she listened to me. And after she left, I pondered, if I were born in one of these communities, would it have been possible for me to be where I am today? In that case, would reservations for my education and employment have improved my life? </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">I had goosebumps all over.</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I have seen how reservations have indeed improved the lot of many men and women. They don't have to emerge as world class leaders, but as Shweta Katti says, 'For the women of the community I come from, healthy childbirth and raising their children in a way that they can access education is a huge success.' </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Shweta Katti grew up in Kamathipura, Mumbai's red light area, where she spent the first 17-18 years of her life. As a child she went to the day care Apne Aap Women Worldwide set up in the neighbourhood for the children of prostituted women, where free tutions were provided to them. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Today Shweta is at Bard College, New York and is one articulate, confident young woman. Her story is actually the story of how meaningful intervention and education can change people's lives.</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> You can watch her talk in a video at </span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nR8KarGOAoQ&feature=youtu.be">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nR8KarGOAoQ&feature=youtu.be</a></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Yesterday, I was at the launch of a report on women police in South Asia by the Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative and learnt that of the total strength of Indian Police (Civil and Armed) - 22,83,646 - women constitute only 6.11% (1,05,325 in numbers). There were reports about how women are thought of as unfit for policing jobs! How they are perceived as physically weaker (when there were many women officers in the gathering who looked as physically tough and at times tougher than some of the men around). But the bigger question is: Would a larger number of women in the police force imply a greater sensitivity to how cases are dealt with, cases particularly related to women? We can only wait and watch, like how we can only wait and watch if a greater participation by women in the Parliament would bring a change to law and administration. But at our hearts, we know it will, because in all of my 36 years now I have seen how women can rescue other women, how women can understand other women, how across all sections, certain issues that women face are the same, and when women talk about these to each other they listen with an inherent sympathy. It is not to demean men and say they don't want to understand these issues, but the thing is they cannot understand these issues simply because they have not faced them. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Now some might say what kind of an argument is that! But the fact is until the time I started living in a Muslim ghetto, I had no idea what could the insecurity of those who lived in a ghetto be like. Today, when I often face the scathing remarks of autorickshaw and cab drivers about how 'dangerous' Muslims are and how </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">'dangerous'</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> these colonies are, where they are either picking me up from or dropping me at, I feel the pain of all those who live in these ghettos like me. I am a Hindu, yet I feel the pain of all those who live in the Muslim ghetto where I live. And I wonder, had I still been living in the protected shelter of my home at the upper middle class neighbourhood in Guwahati, would I still feel the pain? Maybe not and I am ashamed to admit it today. But the question is, where are our policymakers, </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">who shape the country's 'growth,'</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"> from? Are they mostly from such upper middle-class neighbourhoods and have they ever lived in a ghetto or in a neighbourhood where communities like the Sansi live? In that case, do we understand the implications of this? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">So, I have now realised, quite late in life, that I am a Feminist, but surely not the kind I hated in the university. I am a feminist like hundreds of others who believe in an equal world, a more compassionate world, a world where everyone is given equal opportunities, be it a man or a woman or a transgender, a world which allows greater freedom for everyone, where there is equal access to life opportunities for everyone, and a world where everyone feels safe and secured. This is because now I understand that being a feminist primarily means an alternative perspective to look at the world. And I know, like we all do, the world I contemplate is far from the truth today. So until it becomes the truth for each of us, I will support reservations to bring marginalised people to a level from where they can set off to creating such a world. But in the end, I do realise how tough it is to explain why I am a feminist and how such enormous changes are possible. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">(This piece was reprinted by The Thumb Print in August 2015 </span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.thethumbprintmag.com/how-i-realised-i-am-a-feminist/">http://www.thethumbprintmag.com/how-i-realised-i-am-a-feminist/</a></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> </span></span></span></div>
Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3767570917416201509.post-37366459841672888592015-08-13T06:00:00.000-07:002015-08-20T21:30:41.730-07:00 My latest short story 'Letting go' in Himal Southasian. 13 Aug 2015.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
My latest short story in Himal Southasian. 13 Aug 2015.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<i>Excerpt: </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">“L</span><span style="background-color: white;">okhora! Lokhora!” shouted a lean fellow, announcing the destination, in a sleeveless banyan that has become a dirty grey from its earlier white colour. Like a ballet dancer he flung open the back door, leapt on to the foothold at the same time, and balanced himself gracefully as he stood there keeping the door ajar with one hand. Three people got off, stooping to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling of the Tracker, and another three standing on the pavement stepped in. There were already four passengers sitting in the row behind the driver. And three were squeezed in the front seat alongside the driver such that when he changed gears, he roughly brushed his fist against the knee of the passenger sitting next to him. Women, therefore, generally avoided sitting in the front row. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">“Oi! Move from there!”</span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">cried out Brojen Barua agitatedly from the netted verandah of the house. “How many times should I tell you guys not to park yourselves here!”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">The people in the Tracker didn’t see him, but the driver started the engine and sped away. Brojen Barua was getting tired of these Trackers that had converted the spot right outside his gates into a stop. This had happened in the last two years or so with these vehicles almost taking over public transport in Guwahati. They were now seen in every nook and cranny, covering parts of the city where no buses go. “Who gave you the permission to make this a stop?” he often barked at them. And they ignored him, looking at him as if to say, </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">do you own the road?</i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Read the rest of it at </span><a href="http://himalmag.com/letting-go-fiction-juanita-kakoty/" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">http://himalmag.com/letting-go-fiction-juanita-kakoty/</a></div>
Juanita Kakotyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11116275765632237185noreply@blogger.com0