Commodity and Human Value

A woman’s fingers reach toward my face and smear a red vertical stripe from my hairline to eyebrows. I look up into her eyes and she presses her palms together. I return the greeting, but apparently a minute too late as she moves to the next guest. Beyond her a classroom full of men, women and children stare directly at me, my face painted red and my chest, hands and hair clad with strands of bougainvillea, hibiscus, plumeria and oleander.

Earlier today the journalist Shanta (pronounced san-tah, or Santa sans red suit) introduced us to a teacher she was meeting for the first time. He told her of a program in which a group of dalits and nondalits in a village outside Dahran will sign a promise to end untouchability in the area. Untouchability is already illegal; we were somewhat skeptical about the effectiveness of holding a program to sign a sheet. As we traveled through the village, the tall, thick-lensed teacher lead us to the organizers of the program, who we asked:

What was your involvement with the program?
Do you think this will create change?
How is it different from a law?

And, the one which appeared to be the most difficult to answer: If the law isn’t enforced, how will signing this sheet be enforced?

After meeting the organizers, and interviewing a few people from the village we made our way to the schoolhouse where the program would be held. Sitting on a bench in the back of the classroom, the teacher came to me in a huff, “Where is Jes?” I didn’t know. The teacher made his leave, searching the grounds. Moments later Jes arrived at my side, “The teacher was looking for you. I think they’re waiting to start…” I couldn’t finish my sentence before the teacher interrupted.

“There you are, come up, we want to welcome you.” Jes passed the camera, was whisked to the front of the class where he gave a namaste to the crowd and was adorned with a crimson tikka and flowery garland.

Moments later he was off, and the teacher asked for me to join the front of the class. Handing off the camera, I too took my place in front of the crowd, gave a namaste, and was welcomed to the program with flowers and tikka.

Shortly after, I held someone’s blue eyed baby surrounded by a gaggle of women, spoke with a student about her work on ending discrimination while group of twenty watched from a foot away, and shot the blaring speeches, songs, and announcements piped into an open field through an amplifier. More eyes were on Jes and I than the speakers.

Taking leave from the program, I felt like a cultural spectacle. Our image as Caucasian filmmakers was used to draw attention to the poorly advertised program, however we simultaneously distracted from the positive message presented. Focus was directed on us specifically rather than the issues at hand, and judgment based on external features was reinforced rather than quelled.

I came to Nepal to help fight against discrimination and to give the unrepresented a chance to craft their own image. As a foreigner, I was perceived in a very positive and excited way. It must be intolerable to be despised. I had no idea that through doing human rights work, I could become a cultural commodity.

Looking Ahead

Stretching out in all directions are fields of paddy, paddy, paddy.

In California when I commuted from Marina to Santa Cruz, I drove up and down the Monterey Bay strawberry, artichoke, and spinach strip of Highway 1 daily. Out in the fields at harvest time groups of Hispanic workers carried colorful plastic boxes and filled them with fruits and vegetables. Mostly the fields looked austere and vacant. Their straight rows flew past, each precise in its line toward the coast.

These paddy fields are anything but empty. Men plow their muddy bottom, coaxing their water buffalo and cows with sticks as they guide the yoke. Women bend at the waist, plunking individual paddy stocks into the flooded sites. As we walk toward Dipendra’s village, the late afternoon sunshine on my face, a few women stop their work to watch us pass, while others keep their wiry limbs in constant motion and faces down toward the mud.

In Saptari there’s a distinctive posture– it’s one of being bent over eternally. Old women look as though they’d fall straight on their face at a pat on the back. They watch their feet moving along the ground, seeing only the present without a glimpse of the future landscape ahead. Even young women seem to be slouched, from a short lifetime spent folded at the waist, planting and harvesting.

As I turn for a panoramic view of the layers of lush rice paddy, I feel privileged to stand upright, and fortunate that I am appreciating the beauty, rather than dwelling in the toil of this laborious land. Rather than only seeing the present– the food I need to eat today, my feet moving along the uneven ground, the pile of seedlings drying quickly in the sun– I have the luxury to pull my shoulders back and look ahead to the landscape of my future.

Six

I have few memories of being six. In kindergarten and first grade I sat on colored carpet squares. I learned to read, and scrawl characters on paper with three lines, one for the bottom, top, and a dashed line for the center of the letter. Climbing the loquat tree, coloring, painting, and playing with Kyle at Christina Court…

Yesterday a young girl put her palms together and smiled shyly at me in a polite namaste. She stands at most three feet tall, and looks up at me with brown six-year-old eyes. I give her a big smile and return her greeting. She flees behind her mother’s skirt.
Two journalists from Radio Jagaran have brought us to this girl’s home, canopied by guava trees and bottlebrush. The community lies outside Butwal and is picturesque with its verdant paddy fields surrounded by hills. To Nepalis they’re hills, but ask any American and they’re mountains.

In this lush settlement, the young dalit girl in front of me, chewing a guava fresh from the tree, was raped two months ago. A non dalit 15-year-old boy lead her away from school, down a path toward her home, and… I’d rather not think about it as I revel in how tiny she is gnawing on that guava.

I’m unsure how to fathom and comprehend. How can I empathize with this small-handed girl or her mother and family? Our experiences are so divergent, but I realize I am also doing everything in my power to help them.

Although this is the boy’s second offense in 2 years, no legal action has been executed against him. With the six-year-old he raped last year, his family gave hers a plot of land and called it even. No such compensation has been accepted this year, and the family demands justice, not a settlement. By capturing the family’s plight, as well as gathering visual evidence, including the girl leading Prakash down the same fateful trail, Radio Jagaran hopes to use the footage to bring action to the case.

Feeling disheartened, we left the settlement and headed back to Baglung. The image of the teeny girl in a dress and her mother stuck with me. Would I know these people if her daughter wasn’t raped? Probably not. Ethically I’m apprehensive about potentially exploiting such a sensitive subject. At the same time, media may be their only hope for justice.

Being passionate about human rights and the role that media can play in changing people’s lives for the better also takes its toll; it’s difficult to restrain my own empathy. Improving people’s lives, even in a basic way, is one of my great driving forces in producing creative work and teaching others how to produce for themselves. I hope that I’m giving all I’m getting.

Inadvertant Trekking: Nepalis Living at the Top

Baglung is a hillside town, huddled at the base of the Himalayan foothills. After meeting with Mahesh, the journalist and training him in photography, then having dal bhat with him and Purna, the senior journalist, we began our ascent to the Dalit settlement high in the foothills above the quaint town.

While traveling abroad I didn’t expect to do any recreational trekking, as there’s a documentary to be made, people to help, and more fiscally responsible ways to see Nepal. To my delight, we spent the afternoon climbing up a steep set of stairs, past huts, fountains, and mineral springs, to reach the Dalit settlement at the top. An hour and a half climb from Baglung would be a veritable journey for the elderly Nepalis we met on their way down to town bearing walking sticks and weather lines.

Mounting the top, we all took a rest under a huge Buddha tree and talked with a few female villagers who were gathered around a fountain. From our hilltop vista of the town below, they told us about the legal complications of the drinking water, as well as showing us a temple where Dalit have been restricted from worship. Their story of discrimination was disheartening, but their eyes and spirits seemed strong. Children herded buffalo and old women came out from their home to greet us with their palms pressed together and their heads bowed offering us water and shade. Humbled can’t begin to describe…

Mahesh and Purna came to the settlement to interview a woman for an article who married a man from a higher caste. She was attending university in Baglung when her landlord evicted her for the trespass, and she was forced to move to this remote settlement. Although her story was gathered in Nepali, her body language and inflection crossed all language boundaries, and was powerful to witness and record. Mahesh and Purna took copious notes, asking her to elaborate. Before we left she offered us water, and I pondered her sacrifice to fill our cups.

Traveling back to Pokhara from Baglung my legs shook gently, reminding me of the climb and my heart reminded me of the people who were already home. Traveling is not only imperative for philanthropy and to tell a story, but to craft my own and develop into the self I want to be. Slowly, I think I’m becoming that person. Gradually, I’m home.

Bandha Madness

Bandhas are almost as frequent as rains in monsoon season, and are certainly more crippling to Nepal’s infrastructure. We waited sipping tea and twiddling our thumbs for four hours to fill a Jeep with “victims” as Prakash likes to call our fellow passengers. By the time we finally got out on the road, the only route from Pokhara was blocked by a series of buses, because the bus fare was too low for the recent hike in petrol costs. Even motorcycles had a difficult time weaving between the buses and people blocking the junction.

Two days ago there was a strike by the people selling petrol, because they were forced to keep prices unreasonably low.

Last week public transportation created a bandha because fares charged to the public were too low.

The week before that students created a bandha because fares were too high.

Two weeks ago there was a bandha because students didn’t have books.

It’s never-ending. After nearly 3 weeks of the country being virtually shut down and crippled by the lack of transportation and communication among factions, we had a few days to get out of Kathmandu before another strike, bandha, or other shenanigans started again.

Our trip from Pokhara to Baglung was bandha-ed by a day. Next bandha, I’m taking a donkey.

Foreigner Land

Traveling from Kathmandu to Pokhara was exceptionally beautiful, and restored my vision that environmental, natural, unpolluted beauty thrives in Nepal. Unpolluted is naive, but passing through terraced paddy fields among the Himalayan foothills, and nestled alongside white capped rapids was refreshing and restoring. I was eternally grateful to get out of the bustle and noise of Kathmandu, even if that meant being cramped in a microbus next to a scratchy speaker blaring Nepali pop.

Pokhara is the tourist capital of Nepal, as it huddles along the Annapurna Himalayan hiking trail and has picturesque views of the mountains from across Phewa Tal.

The atmosphere is much quieter and more comfortable for a Western crowd than Kathmandu, but there is a surplus of tourist accommodations compared to the number of tourists. In the 60’s there was an over investment in the tourist and trekking market, which slowed considerably due to political upheaval. When the area became dangerous due to Maoist insurgency, foreingers were scarce and their numbers haven’t regained since. This makes businesses desperate, as their prices are too high to cater to Nepalis, so the few tourists present in Pokharas streets are bombarded. Walking without Prakash, and sometimes with him, brings waves of voices beckoning to try this restaurant, buy this pashmina, or take this taxi.

Escape from Kathmandu

Today an adventure within a journey begins- like always I suppose. With Prakash-ji, our small camera cinematographer, guide, friend, and accomplice, we’re headed from Kathmandu throughout Central Nepal to meet journalists and human rights activists. For this trip we’ll mostly be in tourist-economy locations, like Pokhara and Chitwan National Forest. Luckily, we’ve planned a rest day in Chitwan to get some footage of riding elephants (elephant cam), going on leopard safaris (jeep cam), and strapping Prakash to the roof of the bus (Prakash cam).

For July we’ll be traveling by microbus, which is a glorified minivan, most often through rural and impoverished areas. I’m prepared for massive quantities of dhal bhat (traditional lentil, rice, and vegetable meal) and copious mosquito bites. More than that, I’m excited for the individuals I will meet, the experience of traveling throughout the country, and diving headfirst into a new environment. Living in Kathmandu the past month has shifted my ideas of luxury, culture, development, pollution, and design; I’m curious to see how all these perspectives shift, slide, and landslide. I just hope I can catch it on the landslide cam without getting mud on the lens.