#this reminds me of a task we had to do in religious education classes in secondary school

[theinconvenientlifestyle]

[cccrhirdb1]

week 2 mana whenua independent

Task 1 (5 minutes)

Reflect: Have a look at your responses to the independent study from last week, how did this weeks class discussion deepen or help develop and expand your initial understanding? You could write about this in a sentence or two, or you could go back and add to your original notes

I have already added to my original notes a little but!!! I will say how my understanding was deepend a little. I found it really affirming to have my peers agree that it wasn't written in a very welcoming/open way so that the average person can read it once and understand it wholly (I definitely could not). I also liked hearing what everyone got from the reading e.g Aylis said that it reminded them of high school where they had a religious studies class that completely contradicted their biology class which reminded them of how this piece of writing said all science is real and true to the individuals who believe in it (like those who believe in science when it suits their religious beliefs). This makes me think about how we spoke in class about Western science kind of diminishes the experience of indigenous or other groups of people who have a much more cultural understanding of science - the paper still outlines that their science has value and is true to them but in comparison to the western world it isn't believed. Western science wants proof and truth prevails rather than believing in something because they can see it happening in the world around them, which is something I took away from the discussion!

Task 2 (3 hours - 2 hours reading, 1 hour writing)

Read: Mere Roberts (Ngāti Apakura, Ngāti Hikairo). et al. Whakapapa as a Māori mental construct: Some implications for the debate over genetic modification of organisms.  

Write: a short definition of your understanding of whakapapa after reading the article, include a key quote from the reading to support your discussion.

now holly and catherine said we don't have to do this and should instead focus our energy on doing both of the following tasks!. - they mentioned it is super long, will mean more to those with maori lineage/knowledge and that we should do things that we will find more exciting (I will not find doing this exciting at all i really struggle to read and comprehend academic texts).

I got an AI program to summarize some of the points of the texts because, again, I could not read that on my own without getting a headache - and AI is here in our world to help us and for us to work with rather than against.

my understanding of whakapapa in relation to this article;

I understand whakapapa to refer to the genealogy of an individual, although according to this article (a wealth of knowledge in educating me further) whakapapa encompasses all living and non-living entities. Whakapapa functions as a way to understand relationships and their origins for all beings. It forms a "metaphysical gestalt" which means that when Maori use whakapapa and narrative to communicate knowledge it forms a pattern that goes beyond the individual parts. Whakapapa and narrative create an understanding of the world - one that encompasses spiritual, cultural, and material aspects. in terms of the article and what they are arguing about GMO's (genetically modified organisms) - Maori express their concerns over GMO's as they believe the practice is unnatural and violates their cultural values of whakapapa, tapu, and mauri, genetically modifiying things affects each of these aspects of an organism. This article is trying to decipher/understand the principles that underlie the whakapapa mental construct to clarify the relationships and implications (through the example of kumara) for the modern species concept and scientific classification of organisms. This article intents to inform public decision on the place of GMO's within New Zealand and Maori culture because of the believed violations of their cultural beliefs and values.

the following quote helps to support the idea of whakapapa and placement in the world.

"Given the comparatively short period of human settlement in this country (about 1,000 years), it is possible for descendants alive today to recite from memory their whakapapa back to a canoe ancestor and thence to the ultimate source. This ability reinforces the importance of whakapapa as a way of knowing, of locating a person or a thing in time and in space. Such knowledge extends to all other nonhuman phenomena, so that to 'know' something is to be able to locate it within a whakapapa."

This quote underscores the importance of whakapapa as a means of understanding and locating onself in the universe (within the context of time, space and interconnectedness). Overall, the text emphasises the deep cultural and spiritual significance of whakapapa in Māori society, its role in connecting individuals to their past and their environment, and its impact on their worldview and relationships with the natural world.

Task 3 (30 minutes )

WRITE, DRAW or SKETCH: Choose ONE of the following:either a.) Huhana Smith describes the relationship of the stream to the whenua around it.  She also discusses the holistic effect of harakeke on the land, humans and other animals.  Make a visual representation of the ways that harakeke acts as a "whole of environment healer" (Smith), this could be as an exploded parts drawing, diagram, flowchart, comic strip etc.

i can't figure out how to rotate this, i may remake into a flow chart?? unsure as of yet :D

or b.) watch the video The tohorā and the kauri which considers kauri dieback through a whakapapa based approach.  Using Roberts et al. and the information from the video, draw a whakapapa chart that includes the tohorā and the kāuri.

now i haven't done the roberts reading but i will look at the diagrams, or maybe get an AI program to summarize the points for me because I refuse to read that thing on my own and yknow what this is what AI is for, to help us. also have realised maybe this question wants me to look at the whakapapa tree and then go from there?? which i will do instead :)

my notes from the video!!

my drawing of the ancestry tree - how each are connected ! probably doesnt illustrate it very well but with my notes I think it does (this is what i also gathered from my summary points in the reading in terms of what it wants from me)

[harry-pottery-barn]

As Your Future...

Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!Reader

a/n: This is part one of a mini-series I’m doing – look out for part 2 and possibly a part 3. This is also my first one shot, so any feedback/constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!

word count: 4.1k

warnings: light cussing, some French words (google translate works well for these but knowing the meaning isn’t necessary for the storyline)

requested by @fenxiaomao​ on tumblr

posted on tumblr and wattpad august 26, 2020

art: https://www.reddit.com/r/Pottermore/comments/fovxjq/draco_malfoy_artwork_by_me/

********

“Looks like we got paired up again, L/N.”

“What a coincidence,” you groaned sarcastically as Professor Slughorn smiled at the lot of you. “We get paired up for everything, don’t we?”

You clenched your jaw as the white blonde boy sat down in the stool next to you. You hated the British mannerism of calling everyone by their last name. You didn’t dare look at him while you flipped through your crisp copy of Advanced Potion Making.

“You say that as if I wanted this to happen,” spat Draco, his awkward smile now curled into a scowl.

You despised everything about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The teachers, the classes, the weather, the uniforms, the houses, the castle, and especially the students.

The students who never paid you any attention unless you were involved in a rumor. The students who shot sideways glances at you in the halls. The students who didn’t bother lowering their voices when they gossiped about you because they assumed you didn’t understand a speck of English… even when all of your classes were conducted in English.

Even the students of your own house seemed to keep you on the sidelines, so much so that you had given up on trying to become friends with anyone.

At least they acknowledged your existence, you kept reminding yourself.

You spent a lot of your time wondering why the so called “kind and caring” Hufflepuffs didn’t go any further than simple pleasantries with you. Perhaps it was false that they were all accepting, or perhaps they thought someone of your lineage would be better suited in Slytherin.

It was utterly clear, even to you, why nobody seemed to bat an eyelash at you. You were the prestigious, pretentious, pure-blood transfer from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Or, as you knew it, Académie de Magie Beauxbatôns.

Of course, nobody knew why you had transferred so late in your education. Your parents advertised their desire to move to England to their friends, co-workers, and even the school administrators. It was extremely plausible that they simply wanted you close by while you were at school, instead of in another country. What people didn’t know, however, was that you just so happened to move to Wiltshire – more specifically, a mansion that was just down the street from Malfoy Manor.

You came from a very well known family – the longest line of pure-blood wizards in all of France. Your family line had only been “muddled” by a Squib who married a Muggle and started a Muggle family back in the 1400s. Besides that one branch, every single bit of your family tree is pure-blood. Your parents strived to uphold the so-called purity of the L/N bloodline. And, as two of the most ambitious and determined people you knew, you were aware of just how far they would go to keep it that way.

As members of one of the largest pure-blood families, you and your parents often attended French, as well as international, galas, balls, and fêtes for those with similar bloodlines. This, of course, is how your parents first met the Malfoy’s.

The night you first saw Draco had to have been ages ago – nine years to be exact, when you were both only seven. It was a rather private event, celebrating the 90th birthday of some old man, in the manor that you were destined to live in about a decade later. However, you had no idea back then.

At the time, Draco religiously slicked back his hair, had chubby cheeks, and was a couple inches shorter than you. He didn’t say more than a simple “hello” before hiding behind his mother’s leg, staring at you the entire time. You ignored him and had a conversation with his sweet, almost warm mother, while your parents discussed something rather serious with his father, who you were genuinely terrified of.

Now, nine years later, you were sat next to Draco Malfoy in a potions class with the task of successfully brewing a Wound-Cleaning potion within an hour.

Wordlessly, you stood up and gathered your ingredients from the pantry. With your arms full of jars of honey-water, dittany, boomslang skin, stewed mandrake, asphodel, and lion fish spines, you made your way out of the store and to your desk, where Draco was turned towards Blaise Zabini, laughing. Just before you reached your table, someone very tall and massive bumped into you.

There was a loud, earsplitting shatter that echoed through the stone dungeon, silencing any small talk. The large bottle of honey-water had fallen from your arms, and the entire bottom half of your uniform was soaked.

“Bloody hell, Goyle,” giggled Pansy Parkinson, who peered from behind Gregory Goyle.

Gregory’s feet and shins were also covered in honey-water and shards of glass. He glared at you, pure anger in his eyes.

“Bet she did it on purpose,” he muttered. “Wasn’t my fault Beauxbatons wasn’t looking where she was going.”

“Knock it off, Goyle,” said Draco sternly from your desk.

You shot him a quick glare before rolling your eyes.

“Is everyone alright?” said Professor Slughorn from his desk, looking over his glasses at us.

“Nobody’s hurt,” you said.

You leaned to the side and set down the rest of your jars on a nearby table.

“Beauxbatons dropped a jug of honey-water,” Gregory said, glaring at you all the while.

“It’s Y/N L/N,” you said clearly, pulling your wand from your robes.

“Bloody hell,” gasped Pansy.

Gregory took a step back, stumbling into another table. He scrambled for his own wand and pointed right at your neck, gripping it in his gigantic hand.

“Mon dieu! I’m trying to clean up the mess!”

“Watch where you’re going, Goyle,” muttered Ron Weasley, a Gryffindor whose cauldron had tipped over and rolled across the table.

“Pfft,” said Gregory, pocketing his wand. He continued, fake coolness dripping from his words, “I knew that, Beauxbatons.”

Pansy cackled from behind him. She passed you, whispering loudly to Gregory, “You should’ve hexed her; then perhaps she’d go back to where she came from.”

Without another word, you waved your wand at the floor. The glass bottle pieced itself back together, while the honey-water evaporated from the stone floor and your uniform. You didn’t bother with Gregory’s. He slammed his giant shoulder into you again as he trod into the pantry.

“Connard,” you said under your breath.

“Let me get a new one.”

Draco had already leapt out of his stool and passed you, following Gregory. You rolled your eyes, knowing you were perfectly capable of getting a new jug, before gathering your other ingredients and finally sitting back down at your cauldron. You began preparing the ingredients, glancing at the textbook only once to confirm a measurement. You seamlessly cut, ground, and poured each ingredient from memory by the time Draco finally returned with a new bottle of honey-water.

“How did you prepare them so quickly?” he asked in awe, the jug hitting the desk with a low thud. He added, with his trademark smirk, “switch ingredients with Granger, did you?”

“My school specializes in healing,” you scoffed.

You lit the fire underneath your cauldron and measured the honey-water, immediately pouring it into the cauldron.

“I’ve known how to brew this since I was thirteen. What took you so long?”

“Had to have a conversation with Goyle and Parkinson,” he said.

“About?”

“I think you’re smart enough to know what it was about, L/N.”

You glared at him, unsure whether to feel exhausted or exasperated.

“I can handle myself without your chivalry, Draco.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let him walk all over you?” he asked aggressively, yet barely louder than a whisper.

“He didn’t walk all over me,” you replied in an equally quiet voice. “I just didn’t pick a fight with him. At least I can go a day without insulting someone’s family, wealth, or appearance.”

“Stop acting so high and mighty, L/N. We both know you’re in a more damning situation than you like to tell.”

You kicked Draco’s leg under the desk before peacefully continuing with brewing the potion. You could tell, even without looking at him, that the Slytherin was bright red with anger.

“We also know that we’re not supposed to bring it up around other people, don’t we?” you whispered in a sickly sweet voice, trying to be as demeaning as possible.

You didn’t like being rude, but you would rather play Draco’s little game than run the risk of Hogwarts knowing why you had transferred. Draco fumed in the stool next to you, then began to jot things down in a notebook for the rest of the class as you silently finished brewing the Wound-Cleaning Potion. Your mind began to wander as you added and stirred in each ingredient.

You had only met Draco three more times before attending Hogwarts. After your very first meeting, you saw each other again about five years later, at a gala for Quidditch sponsors in Germany. Just like the first time, your parents began talking; however, you and Draco were left alone.

It was awkward to say the least.

He was much cockier and more confident, and he spent most of your time together talking about himself and his successes as Seeker on his team at Hogwarts. You probably managed to squeeze in five sentences during the hours you were stuck alone with him at that table.

The third time you saw each other was in Marseilles, France, at the housewarming party for your parents’ beach house two years ago. Luckily, many of your friends from Beauxbatons were there. You couldn’t help but feel bad for Draco as he stood awkwardly with your friends, nodding his head while clearly not understanding a single word that was said. You decided to start speaking in English, which you eventually regretted. Draco took the opportunity to talk about how great he was once again. Your friends all gaped in awe, asking questions and fawning over him. You passively listened as Draco got an ego boost, answering question after question like a celebrity.

The last time was in Malfoy Manor last July. You had been out of school for no more than a couple of weeks when your parents decided to take a trip to England. Once you arrived, the Malfoy’s had happily invited your family over for dinner last-minute. Or at least, you thought it was last-minute at the time.

That dinner, as well as the trip itself, was all planned by your parents and Draco’s parents years before. And just as they had planned on the first night you and Draco met, they gave you news that would change your life.

“You’re kidding,” you said, no other words coming to mind.

“We are not,” said your father sternly, “and we would appreciate it if you would hold your tongue while Mr. Malfoy is speaking.”

“Thank you, Mr. L/N,” drawled Mr. Malfoy.

You fell silent as you clenched your fists under the giant dining table.

“In the winter of 1998, after you are both eighteen, you will be married here in Malfoy Manor,” explained Mr. Malfoy. “This, of course, is to ensure that the L/N and Malfoy bloodlines are secure from any filth that would accompany half- and mudbloods.”

“As you are both only children, we deemed it was only fitting to merge our two families together, creating an even better bloodline for the future,” continued your father. “This also allows the opportunity for the two of you to marry someone who is not a cousin of any sort.”

As you panicked, your eyes fell on Draco, who was sitting next to you at the table. His blank face stared at the wall in front of him, without a single reaction.

“And, so the two of you do not enter a marriage without knowing each other first, we have decided to move to England, and Y/N will be transferring to Hogwarts in the fall,” said your mother.

“WHAT?!” you shouted, standing up abruptly. “I am most certainly NOT transferring to Hogwarts! And I am not going to marry Draco! This is absolutely absu--”

“You will learn to keep your temper under control in the presence of others, Y/N,” growled your father.

What felt like two large, invisible hands pushed down on your shoulders, forcing you back into your chair.

“Of course, Y/N, you do not have to do anything. You have choices,” your father said.

A sense of relief flooded your system.

“Either you can transfer to Hogwarts for your last two years of school and marry Draco the following winter, or you can explain to the Dark Lord why you will not be doing so.”

You felt your heart stop. There was no way in hell you were about to try to tell Voldemort himself why you didn’t want to keep your bloodline pure by marrying Draco.

“That’s what I thought, ma fille,” said your father with a smile, before continuing to discuss details with the Malfoy’s.

You didn’t remember much else from that night. Your mind began to wander just as it was now, while you were brewing this simple potion.

The potion was purple, but not smoking, in just under forty minutes. You called Professor Slughorn over to inspect it, causing Draco to jolt. He seemed to have dozed off while you were working.

Figures, you thought helplessly.

After Professor Slughorn joyously celebrated your potion, he allowed you and Draco to leave class for lunch as soon as your station was cleaned up. You quietly replaced all of the ingredients in the pantry, emptied your cauldron, packed your things, and left the classroom.

“That was brilliant, L/N,” said Draco, who had caught up to you in the empty corridor. “I didn’t have to lift a finger.”

“For the last time, Draco, it’s Y/N. You know I hate the whole last name thing,” you said, not looking at him.

“Perhaps I hate the whole first name thing.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t speak to me at all,” you fired back.

“If I had the chance to never speak to you again in my life, trust me, I would take it,” he snapped.

You weren’t quite sure why, but his words stung in a way no insult had hurt you before. You remained silent for the rest of your walk, until you reached the Great Hall. You didn’t even feel hungry anymore.

“I’m going back to my common room,” you muttered, turning away from the massive oak doors and walking towards the Hufflepuff Basement.

“Ah, she speaks,” said Draco, in a tone that was maddening.

You stopped dead in your tracks. You looked at him again, contemplating if it was worth getting into a quarrel over.

“It’s just that-- well, you’re an awfully quiet person.”

“Really? Hmm, I haven’t noticed,” you deadpanned.

A group of first years passing by suddenly stopped walking. They started whispering and giggling amongst themselves, very clearly about you and Draco.

“What are you looking at?” spat Draco. “Go before I give you all detention.”

With small screeches, they rushed past you into the Great Hall, still whispering and giggling.

“C’était superflu,” you mumbled to yourself.

“Unnecessary? They were laughing at us!” said Draco. “If I had the chance, I would’ve straightened them out!”

“They’re first years! They’re barely eleven! You truly expect a group of eleven-year-old’s to pass by two teenagers who are alone and not be immature?”

“I was never that immature.”

You scoffed. “Never that immature”? Did he know how he acted at parties? “Never that immature”, my ass, you thought.

“Do you have something to say, L/N?” he demanded, daring to take a step closer to you.

“Putain de bâtard, it’s Y/N!” you shouted.

You turned swiftly on your heels, noticing the odd stares and whispers of students going to lunch, and marched down the corridor. You didn’t look back while you sped to your common room, only stopping to tap the barrel that opened the door. The large circle door swung open. You scurried through and slammed the door, relieved to be in the Hufflepuff common room.

Merlin, how Draco pissed you off. As if having no real friends at school wasn’t terrible enough, the man you were destined to marry was always there to make you angry on an already bad day.

It took all of your willpower to not fight back. The way he was treating you, as well as everyone else, was just plain wrong. On a regular day, you might have made a couple of comments back, but you never called him names or raised your voice. You kept your temper in check, letting him berate and poke at you every day.

You sat down in a large, golden armchair and stared into the fire, finally realizing what you had said to Draco.

A wave of panic rushed over you. Draco was surely going to tell his father of this incident, and if Draco’s father heard of it, he was surely going to tell your father.

Your father scared you more than Voldemort himself. He knew how to get to you, and he managed, without hesitation, to discipline you from the longest of distances. You honestly never had a clue how he always found out about anything slightly wrong you had done, but he did… every single time.

The uneasy feeling lasted throughout the rest of the day, clouding your thoughts and ruining your appetite. By the time dinner rolled around, the last thing you wanted to do was eat. Since you had missed lunch, you forced yourself away from your library desk, without a single assignment completed, and to the Great Hall, hoping you didn’t run into Draco along the way.

Once you were a single turn away from the Great Hall, you heard your name echo through the empty stone corridor.

It was Draco.

You sighed heavily, strong feelings of anger, fear, and exhaustion overwhelming you.

“Please, not now, Draco,” you groaned.

“But you don’t know what I was going to say,” he replied, confused.

“Honestly, I don’t care.”

“Y-you don’t care?”

That was odd. You tried to recount another time Draco had stuttered, but your mind was blank.

“I know it’s going to be something either insulting, negative, or inflammatory, and quite frankly, I don’t want to hear it. You’ve probably already told your father I cursed at you, and I’m sure my father’s punishments will begin promptly tomorrow morning, so thank you,” you said without taking a breath. “I need to force myself to eat something, so if you’ll excuse me--”

“Why would I tell my father you cursed at me?” he asked plainly.

“Don’t you tell your father everything?”

“Well, not everything… just when someone needs to be discipli--”

“Disciplined or punished, yes, I know. You sound exactly like my father.”

Draco suddenly became very shy. You had never seen him this way before. He was so thrown off his game, his act had completely dropped.

Suddenly, you felt very lightheaded and dizzy. You quickly stumbled towards the wall and caught yourself before you fell. You pressed your fingers to your temples as you leaned back against the wall, sliding down until you sat on the ground.

“Merlin, Y/N, are you alright?”

“Oh, just a little lightheaded.”

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t catch breakfast this morning, and then I didn’t eat all day today because I’ve been nervous about what kind of fresh hell my father would put me through if he knew I called you a bastard,” you explained with a weak laugh.

Draco slid down the wall and sat on the cold stone floor next to you.

“You don’t have to act like you care about me,” you groaned, resting your chin on your knees.

“Who said I was acting?” asked Draco, in a soft voice he had never used before.

He glanced around the corridor, as if making sure it was empty.

“You are my future wife, after all,” he continued very quietly. “Might as well try to get along.”

“Could you sound any less pleased about it?” you chuckled.

“I’m sure we can both agree it’s a rather unfortunate situation to be in, but is it so terrible for me to care about the general well being of the person I’m going to be spending the rest of my life with?”

You fell silent. This was the first time he had ever said something remotely nice to you. You were very taken aback, searching for something, anything to say. You and Draco sat in peaceful silence for about a minute, completely uninterrupted. His words rang in your mind: Might as well try to get along.

“Do you ever wish you could do what you wanted?” you asked abruptly.

“Excuse me?” Draco asked, bewildered.

“Oh, come on. Don’t pretend your parents don’t control your every move and your future. Do you ever wonder what things would be like… what your life would be like… if you were the one in control?”

Draco didn’t answer. You turned your head, laying your cheek on your knees, and glanced back at him. He looked as though he had never considered a life with his own decisions before.

“Personally,” you started, catching his attention, “I would want to own a potion shop. In the southern French countryside. I never decided on where specifically. I figured I would have the rest of my life to imagine a village that was big enough to not know everyone but small enough to be quaint. My shop would be a cottage on a plot with a few acres to grow my own plants and herbs. All of my ingredients would either be locally sourced or imported from humane places with the best quality potion ingredients. My potions would be brewed by myself and a couple other potioneers – preferably from different countries in order to bring new perspectives to the table. It wouldn’t necessarily be a lavish way of life, but it would be mine, and it would be helping others as well.

“I’d want to be able to fall in love and get married on my own accord,” you explained further, “regardless of their blood status, but preferably a wizard so the potion shop could work out as well. We’d either live in the second floor of the shop or in a different cottage a short walk away. We’d have a dog and a cat, and perhaps children if it felt right and we were old enough. I would be able to be my own person without walking on eggshells, trying to do what would make my parents the happiest. I would leave the stuck-up, grandiloquent snob my parents raised me to be, and I wouldn’t have to live up to the generations of standards put on me. I would have nothing to do with my parents, nothing to do with the Ministry of Magic, and nothing to do with--”

You caught yourself before you said the name of the castle you were currently in. You sighed, knowing that this fantasy you concocted for yourself would never become a reality. That you were stuck in the narrative your parents wrote for you, unable to pick up a pen and rewrite it yourself.

You leaned your head back against the stone wall with a small thud, breathing deeply. You saw Draco tilt his head toward you out of the corner of your eye. You looked back at him, studying his face.

His white blonde hair fell down in front of his eyes ever so slightly. His expression was just as woeful as yours. You couldn’t help but notice the faint tinge of blue in his light grey eyes.

“That’s the most I think I’ve ever heard you say,” he said with a slight chuckle.

“Believe it or not, my friends back at Beauxbatons call me loud and outgoing,” you admitted.

“I promise you,” he said in a determined tone, his eyes never leaving yours, “that, as your future husband, you will one day have that shop. I will make sure of it.”

A smile crept onto your face – the first genuine smile of yours in a long time. You leaned your head on Draco’s shoulder. The smell of expensive cologne and green apples washed over you as you stared out the large, arched window that looked over the school grounds.

The sky, which was bright pink from the sunset, gave the trees and rolling hills a beautiful warm glow. The clouds were painted orange and dark purple, and you could see the silhouette of an owl soaring from one side of the window to the other.

You felt content and at peace for the first time in what felt like your entire life.

And suddenly, the world didn’t seem so dim anymore.

[memorylang]

Language Learning, Mom’s Birthday | #43 | August 2020

Since Mom had held language-learning close-to-heart, I dedicate my August update to a language theme! 

With August 9, 2020, my late mom turned 55. I’ve often felt since 2017 a bittersweet fondness for the summer months between Mother’s Day and her birthday. That year had been my first summer in China getting to know Mom’s family after her death. 

For this August’s story, I’ve reflected a great deal on my experiences with language learning. Of which I’d written before, I’ve basically chosen five languages as the ones I want to be functional using (my native English included). So beyond the usual reflections from this COVID-19 summer in the States, I also take us back through my young life learning.  

And, I’m pleased to announce that I've begun to work on a new writing project! More on that soon. 

From Multilingual Mom to Me 

I start us from spring 2020, around evacuation back to the U.S. from Peace Corps Mongolia. 

By April 10-16, I’d been in my sixth week in Vegas again. Yet, less than a couple months before, I was in Mongolia packing to evacuate. As part of my coping while packing, I’d listened to hours of music. Much included Chinese Disney themes I’d found on Spotify. 

Well, having returned to Vegas, you might recall that the sisters’ songs in “Frozen II” resonated deeply with me. Whether while waking or working the yard, I’d listen to “Frozen II”' tracks in Chinese, sometimes in English. Finding songs in other langauges fit my 2020 exploration resolution. I humorously suspected that my Spotify Wrapped 2020 will surely list the same tracks in different languages... if only Spotify had Mongolian versions. Well, a month later, by week 10 (May 8-14), I’d exchanged the songs’ English versions for Spanish!  

That week also featured May 13, 2020—the third anniversary of Mom’s funeral. This year, something special happened.  

I’d received a fateful book—A Primer of Ecclesiastical Latin. My college pastor had ordered this for me just days after I’d asked him what I should consider studying while discerning during quarantine a doctorate in religious studies. After my pastor noted my interest in world Christianity, especially its past and present in Asia, he highly recommended I study Church Latin. 

My pastor’s suggestion pleased me in a curious way. It reminded me of my Duolingo dabbling back in Mongolia, how at that time I’d favored Latin over Greek. Still, Liturgical Latin, studied seriously, seemed like quite an undertaking. Nonetheless my pastor commended my talents and felt confident I could succeed along paths God may open for me. I felt grateful for the aid! 

Embarking on my quest to learn Latin, I’ve found the language remarkable. 

It’s felt at times the culmination of my years learning languages. In fact, Mom had actually wanted my siblings and me to learn languages since we were little—She’d taught us to read English then tried to have us learn Chinese. Most summers, she’d have us in the mornings copy down Chinese characters before she’d let us play games or do activities that weren’t “educational.” 

While cleaning my family’s garage this COVID-19 this summer, I’d unearthed old notebooks in which my siblings and I would write Mom’s required phrases. I noticed how even back then I’d seem to try harder than most of my siblings, given how many characters I copied. Still, I hadn’t much inclination to know the language words beyond, then, clearing Mom’s barrier to letting me play games. 

Still, even if the notebooks had implied some aptitude I’d had for languages, Mom’s requirements left me if anything more averse to language acquisition than eager. 

Suffering Through Spanish

Many today may feel surprised to know that for years I’d called Spanish my second language. 

Given my childhood disdain for studying languages beyond English, I’d found my task to study Spanish in high school assiduous. I formally began in the language fall 2011 as a freshman. Spanish was our Vegas school’s only foreign language option, and all honors students needed two years of language. Yet again, my language studies drew from a requirement—little more. 

Many of my classmates and I rapidly found our classes exhausting, for our instructor had a thick French accent. Furthermore, verb conjugation, unfamiliar tenses and gendered vocabulary felt alien. I didn’t get why a language would be so complicated. 

Yet, despite my struggles to understand our teacher, she’d commended me because I “made the effort.” Well, I sometimes felt like I’d make the effort to a fault. When peers cheated on exams, my darn integrity had me abstain. 

By my second year, when I was succeeding in college-level AP world history, my fleetingly flawless GPA took from Spanish a beating. That hurt. By my senior year, at least Mom let me take Spanish online instead. I’d learned that I’d known more than I thought, but I still sucked. 

Redemption Through Mandarin

By fall 2015, I’d had graduated high school and enrolled as an honors undergrad facing another foreign language requirement. 

Licking my wounds from Spanish, I ruled out that language. I saw the University offered Chinese, though. Studying world history had interested me in Mom’s cultural background and native tongue. Considered she’d made my siblings stare at the language since childhood, I hoped it wouldn’t be too hard. So, I chose Mandarin Chinese.

And by my first days learning Chinese, I could already feel the benefits of having taken Spanish. 

Chinese felt astoundingly straightforward. Spanish had taught me to recognize that English letters (better known as the Latin alphabet) sound differently in different languages. For example, I felt pleased to notice that the ‘a’ /ah/ letter in Spanish sounds similar to its Chinese pronunciation. Thus, Spanish’s “mamá” and Chinese’s “māmā” relate, despite appearing in separate languages. 

Thanks to my Spanish experience, I picked up Chinese’s general pronunciation system far faster. Furthermore, I felt relieved to find that Chinese grammar lacked the conjugation and gender nightmares I’d faced in Spanish. I’d even loved how Chinese characters’ little images could often help me guess word meanings intuitively! 

My interest and success with the Chinese language led me to study abroad in 2017, planned with my mother before she was killed. I returned to China a year later, in 2018 on an intensive program. Both times, I spoke my mother’s native tongue, meeting relatives and making friends. I even received awards for my skills. 

Yet, despite my progress in Chinese, I’d often considered it only my third language. After all, much of my success in Chinese came having struggled through Spanish.  

  Finding Peace with Spanish

In my college senior year, January 2019, I’d attended a religious pilgrimage in Panamá—a Spanish-speaking nation. 

By that time, I’d grown acquainted with language immersions. In fact, I readily used my Mandarin skills when I met World Youth Day pilgrims from Hong Kong, Malaysia and Taiwan. They often felt shocked to meet someone outside their communities who knew their language! 

Of course, Panamá left me at times surrounded too by folks who only spoke Spanish, including my host family. 

I listened carefully. A luminous spark, I’d felt. Buried memories of my broken Spanish resurfaced. Near my last day in Panamá, I felt awed to have had a conversation with a cab driver completely in Spanish. 

My peace with Spanish became a renewed interest. 

After our pilgrimage, I’d continued with my host family and new Latin American friends to speak and write almost exclusively in Spanish. Online, we benefited over WhatsApp with Google Translate, too. Panamá in 2019 had taken a language that was for me dead and breathed in it new life. 

Peace Corps Language Level-ups

Later that year (last year), I began to learn what would be my fourth language and one entirely unfamiliar—Mongolian.

I should note that before reaching Mongolia June 1, 2019, I couldn’t even read its Cyrillic alphabet. I’d basically started at zero. 

Peace Corps’ language briefings had at least taught me that Mongolian is an Altaic language, distinct from Indo-European language like English and from character-based languages like Mandarin. Over the course of summer in villages of Mongolia, Peace Corps put us through mornings of immersive language training followed by returns home to our host families. 

Still, many Peace Corps Trainees felt unmotivated to learn Mongolian. After all, with statistically few Mongolian speakers worldwide, many felt that we wouldn’t have much utility for Mongolian outside Mongolia. Nevertheless, I felt motivated by desires to understand and feel understood. I powered through. 

Initially, Mongolian baffled me. 

Its Cyrillic alphabet (and its script one, too) includes consonant and vowel sounds unknown to English, Spanish and Chinese. Furthermore, Mongolian uses a case-based grammar of suffixes, a reversed subject-object-verb order and postpositions instead of prepositions. Mongolian even reintroduced me to my nemeses gendered vocabulary and tense-based verb endings!

I felt grateful for the sparse Chinese loanwords I wouldn’t have to relearn! Yet, my kryptonite was often pronunciation. Challenging consonants and tricky long vowels left me so inauthentic. Regardless, I was an ardent study who savored most every chance to receive Mongols’ clarifications and corrections. 

Finding Latin in Asia

Curiously, Catholic Churches became great places for my language learning.

This was the case for me both with learning Chinese in China and Mongolian in Mongolia. Parishioners would often take me under their wings to support me. Curiously in Mongolia, an English-speaking French parishioner pointed out once that Mongolian grammar is quite like Latin. I didn’t know Latin, though. 

I had encountered Latin, though. For, Asian vocabularies for Church topics often derived more directly from Latin than even English translations! These pleased me, since learning the vocabulary to speak about religion felt less foreign. 

Then came the sleepless nights during Mongolia’s COVID-19 preemptive quarantining, January and February. I’d had taken up Duolingo and opted for Greek or Latin in hopes that they’d bore me to sleep. I’d also hoped they might supplement how I teach English and read Scripture. And while Greek felt hopelessly confounding, Latin vocabulary felt surprisingly... natural. Despite my lack of formal training, I did alright just guessing. 

My Roads Led to Latin

From late May through mid-June 2020, I’d read the first four chapters of the Church Latin book. Meanwhile, mid-summer, I felt pleased to reach Duolingo’s Diamond League! Realizing that to become Champion would take far more effort than I cared to give, though I focused just on keeping my streak. 

Still, my Latin especially progress slowed after Dad’s remarriage and my relocation to Reno, Nev. My mostly-free summer rapidly grew hectic. But even in those first four Latin weeks, I’d discovered true gems in pursuing the historic language. 

At face value, Latin’s vocabulary reminded me of Spanish and English. Sometimes, Church words I’d learned first in Mandarin and Mongolian too related! Vocabulary felt profound. 

Furthermore, Latin grammar felt reminiscent of not only Spanish conjugations but indeed Mongolian cases! I felt relieved that Panamá had freed me from my conjugation aversion. Likewise, my Mongolian skills felt far from obsolete! 

To supplement my Latin studies, I try to translate between Chinese and Spanish, the way how in Mongolia I’d translate between Mongolian and Chinese. By juggling languages, I seek to codeswitch in more contexts with a more unified vocabulary. 

Wherever I wind up academically and professionally, I hope to work between languages. Through daily discipline, textbooks, apps, videos, notes and conversations, I trust I’ll go far. Feel free to connect if you want to practice with me! The more corrections, the better. 

From Ecclesiastical to Classical Latin

On August 23 (of my stateside week 25), I’d reunited in Vegas with a high school friend who’d studied classics in undergrad. From that meeting on, I’d not only ramped up my Latin studies but also transitioned from Ecclesiastical Latin to classical. 

For, Church Latin is but an evolving Latin. To understand the orgins of many words—beyond simply their uses within the Roman Catholic Church—I would need the eternal Latin that changes no more. Well, my friend offered to tutor me, so I offered to try! 

Classical Latin is harder, by the way. 

And in the midst of my suffering throughout September, my friend had even offered to tutor me Greek. While mostly joking (but also not), I’ve offered that I might learn Greek from him if for no other reason than to thank him for teaching me Latin! 

Nearly a month since beginning the tutorial system with him, we’ve since cleared over a fourth of a textbook meant sometimes to take a year’s worth of study. I hope by the year’s end to have finished the book. 

At least a third of my waking hours at times seem to go into Latin. But, it’s nice to keep learning! That same week, my siblings had all resumed their undergraduate studies. At least I’m still learning something! 

Embarking on a Book Memoir 

Besides working on my other languages, I’ve even placed time in my English. 

Lastly, I want to share about my writing quest! Although the project isn’t always across the top of my agenda, I keep at it. We return again to mid-summer. 

Peace Corps friends and I have often checked in on each other since evacuation to the States. Some also write. During a webinar for evacuated Returned Peace Corps Volunteers, I’d met many looking to tell their stories.

Most weeks since July, I’d also have a few video calls. I’d take these no matter what I was up to. I’d still been doing that ‘groundskeeping’ in Reno, Nev. of which I’d written before. Whether I was getting the mail, trimming the hedges, pruning the flowers, watering the lawn, raking debris, sweeping the floor, taking out the trash, tugging the garbage bins, adjusting the windows or washing the dishes, I’d often had some task that Dad requested I’d tend to. Calls with friends broke the monotony. 

After encouragement from mentors and friends, I’d decided to write a creative nonfiction book memoir for publication someday! 

The first step, of course, is having a manuscript. So, since week 17 (June 26–July 2), I’d been typing away at the first chapters to what seems will be a story spanning my three years of studies and service overseas after Mother’s death, leading up to my acceptance and peace. I'm excited to tell stories about finding purpose and identity, despite grief and loss. I hope it helps readers to find their own peace amid confusion. All things are so fundamentally interconnected. 

By three weeks in, I’d felt so grateful for the outpouring of support I’d received. Frankly, I wouldn’t be writing so much if people hadn’t been saying this has potential. Thankfully, readers offer marvelous insights. They treat the story as one deserving of quality. I love their attention to details. 

Still, among the most grueling lessons I’ve learned learned has been that a book about grief has needed me to relive the hurt of my mother's death for repeated days. I trust nonetheless that once I’ve written and rewritten well, the remaining may rest behind me. 

If you’re looking to read what’s coming, you’re in the right place. Merely starting on the book has helped me to improve my blog writing. You may have noticed in my recent summer 2019 throwback stories, for example, I’ve used more narrative than before. I hope you’ve enjoyed! 

The language studies and the book continue, though I’ve taken more breaks lately with the book. From mid-August I’d embarked on advocacy projects with the National Peace Corps Association. I’ll share more on that soon. Having doubled-down on my Latin studies from mid-September, it can be a quite a black hole for my time! For everything there is a season (Ecc. 3:1). 

Seeking to Stay Holy

A couple friends admired my dedication and called upon me to help them meet their spiritual goals. What a kind expereince! In helping them keep accountable, they’ve likewise helped me. 

With a homebound Knight of Columbus, we’d continued July’s rosaries throughout August, as many as three times a day leading up to the Catholic Feast of the Assumption. Afterward, we’d reduced our count back to two times daily through early September. I’d never prayed so many rosaries before! 

Through August, I’d also read a chapter of Proverbs daily with a friend. I’d reconnected with her during my outreach for the book. I enjoy our weekly Scripture chats, and she shows more Protestant perspectives on our faith!  

I find God a great companion along the journey of life. Regardless of how you view religious and spiritual topics, I trust that you have companions, too. They’re so important! 

On a positive note, I’d gotten to revisit my undergrad parish. I felt so amazed to hear that students I’d never met thought I was a cool person! I try not to think too highly of myself, but I feel touched when people notice me. I hope I inspire folks. 

Coming up Next

Thanks for reading my meta-stories about languages and stories!  

If you’ve been following my tales for a while now, you may recall I’d mentioned feeling surprised to learn that my mother had been studying Spanish around the same years I’d been studying it. I felt awed to realize that even when I’d tried to learn one of my earliest new languages, Mom was trying to learn what was for her one of a few. I’m glad to have perhaps inherited Mother’s interest in languages. 

Up next, I have a very special piece dated for September 2020 [and ultimately released in October]. I’m focusing on perspectives—mine and others’. I’m particularly excited to share adventures with teams including those within the American Psychological Association and the Honors College at the University of Nevada, Reno. They’ve given me plenty of fun roles amid the pandemic! 

I’m also writing about national and state parks! God, I love nature.

Stay healthy, friend.

COVID-19 and America Months 11 through 15 | April, May, June, July, August

Easter Epilogue in America | #35 | April 2020 

Remembering Mom—Third Year After | #36 | May 2020 

Fathers’ Day, Faith and Familiarity | #38 | June 2020

23rd Birthday~ Roses and Rosaries | #39 | July 2020

Language Learning, Mom’s Birthday | #43 | August 2020

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :) 

[a-woman-apart]

Gratitude

The “season of gratitude” is upon us. I understand that the holiday Thanksgiving has terrible roots, and I am not trying to excuse any of that when I participate with it. For most of us- but especially for me- the holiday has another meaning entirely. We aren’t thanking God for the slaughter of our “enemies”, but we’re thankful for things like home, family, and friends. In my strict religious household, Thanksgiving was the only holiday that we really celebrated, and it was something that I could look forward to each year. The 2017 Thanksgiving to Christmas holiday season was the last holiday season that I got to spend with my dad before he died. Some of his siblings were able to visit around that time, as well as one friend of his that he had known since college.

Even though this will be my first Thanksgiving without my dad, it isn’t hard for me to find things to be grateful for. I am close with my immediate family, even if I feel the need to tread carefully with them sometimes regarding religious and political issues. We’ve not only been celebrating Christmas and Thanksgiving together, but we’ve also been sharing food and fun for all our birthdays (thanks to my wonderful sister-in-law). I have an associate degree under my belt, and I’m looking forward to continuing my education next year. My boyfriend is a constant source of emotional support for me. Thanks to my mom helping me financially, I don’t have to be burdened with finding new or additional work until 2019.

Despite all these wonderful things, I would be lying if I said that I haven’t struggled with my motivation and mood. I texted my sister-in-law and told her I wasn’t feeling well. I complained that I had slept for 14 hours last night, but still felt tired, and laid out a laundry list of things that were bothering me. I had overspent a little bit and was worried about money (yes, this is even with my mom having helped me out). I tried so hard to be happy but continued “slipping up”.

She first probed me on what might be wrong and suggested going to a movie or spending time with friends. Then she kindly chided me by saying that I should focus on gratitude, and stop worrying about things that I couldn’t control, things to which God says, “Let it go.”  I don’t necessarily believe in divine intervention, but I could appreciate the spirit and wisdom of her words. She said to just believe that my needs would be met. It’s true that I cannot control the fact that my bank accounts are looking a little light these days, but I can have simple faith that I will be able to cut back and/or find a solution.

Her words reminded me of something said by Chris Boutte, of The Rewired Soul channel on YouTube. He said that the extent of his theology is that he simply “believes that things are going to work out.” He didn’t even say that his belief is grounded in the law of attraction, as it is for many people, but he did seem to imply that he believes in “karma”, or the idea that if you do good, good things will happen, and if you do bad then you can expect bad things.  Either way, just having a simple hope in the future is so vital, whether you feel that it’s accurate scientifically or statistically, or not. There is so much that is out of our control, that it is just as easy to focus the mind on the good outcome as the bad one.

Of course, it is very frustrating to continuously war with the pessimistic side of my nature, so much so that I sometimes want to give up entirely. It’s worth noting that calling my depression merely a side effect of pessimism is inaccurate. This doesn’t change the fact that it feels like my own brain is working against me. I had been doing so well with my new medication (Effexor) but today I found myself dealing with suicidal thoughts again. They weren’t “strong”- if that’s an accurate descriptor- but they were sort of rumbling under the surface. There were thoughts like:

“If it’s this much work to be happy, is it really worth it?”

“You’ve been volunteering, using your coping skills, taking walks in the sunshine, and taking new medication, and you still aren’t ‘over’ this yet. Will you ever be?”

“Just look at yourself- still can’t get over your depression. Is life worth living if it isn’t the life you want?”

“Look how tired you are. You’ll never make it through next week.”

I could keep going. It just feels like I’ve been coming up against a brick wall.

I tried to refer to Johann Hari’s book, “Lost Connections.” In the book, he talks about taking antidepressants for over 13 years. During that time, he would experience relief from his depression, but it wouldn’t last. His symptoms would return, and they would increase his dose, and each time the cycle would repeat. In the meantime, he kept gaining weight, he was sweating more and more, and his heart would race. If his depression was just a result of a chemical imbalance in his brain, then why weren’t the drugs working? He finally decided that he would devote himself to investigating the “real” causes of depression.

Johann came up with 9 causes of depression, and all the causes except 8 and 9 had to do with the environment, not solely with the brain or biology. He cited things like lack of meaningful work, lack of meaningful values, poor expectations for the future, unresolved childhood trauma, and lack of connection with other people and nature as some of the causes. It is true that when we experience these things, our brains react in response, but the source is outside, not inside. Even when we do have a genetic predisposition to addiction, depression, or anxiety, those genes are often not activated unless something in the environment triggers them.

These reasons explain why so many- though not all- people respond to antidepressants like Johann Hari did if they are treated only with antidepressants and nothing in their lives changes. They either must continuously increase their dose like he did, or like me, must change medications periodically because the original meds stop working. Note, he did not explore the efficacy of antipsychotics or mood stabilizers, so as far as I know those drugs may have better benefits. I know that I have not had mania or major depression since being on lithium, but my anxiety and dysthymia have persisted for years. Chronic low energy and mood have been an unending struggle.

So, if my problem isn’t just chemicals in my brain being too low or out of sync, then what is the problem? As I went through the list, “Lack of meaningful work” and “Disconnection from a Hopeful Future” kept jumping out at me. I love my job, and it is the most convenient job for me to have while trying to go to school, but I have been there almost 4 years and am dying to do something different. I even wouldn’t mind working at another library. I just want a change of scenery or pace. I am thinking of applying for a new job within the same library that pays a little bit more, but honestly, I would rather just go somewhere new.

It isn’t even that the work isn’t challenging enough or that mere boredom is stopping me. I have plenty of tasks to do most of the time. I just designed new brochures, I do some of the displays every month, and I’m still learning new things. Somehow, though, it’s gotten monotonous, and maybe I should stop trying to apologize for feeling that way about it.

The “Disconnection from a Hopeful Future” thing is also rolled into it, but it also doesn’t make sense to me. I have a hopeful future. I am going back to school in the spring, and that will set me on my way to start getting my bachelor’s degree. Ideally, once I have that I’ll be able to get a better job, start making more money, and finally move in with my boyfriend (if we’re still together then). We could even get a nice place together.

Somehow though, my current situation drains me of hope. I feel stuck when I think of 2+ years of working at this same library and commuting to and from classes every day. Even when I zoom in a little bit closer to now, I think of still having to depend on my mom for the next 2.5 months until I can go back to school and get my financial aid refund, and it fills me with dread. I don’t know why I feel so bad about leaning on her, but I do. Even with her help- and the raise I got from my job- I still won’t have a whole lot of money for extra expenditures. That means I can’t get gifts for everyone like I got them last year. My sister-in-law did point out that it’s not about the gifts, and my family never really celebrated Christmas, so I don’t think they’ll really miss them. It just felt nice to do that for them, so not being able to now feels sad.

Even as I write this, I find myself being drawn to the negative. I want to instead pull the post back in the positive direction. Sure, I don’t have a lot of money for gifts, but my older brother and my sister-in-law have invited me to come over to their house for Christmas. It is our tradition to stay up into the early morning putting together toys for the children. It started with my nephew but now that my niece is 1 year old, I believe that toys for her will be included. That already is something to look forward to. Sooner than that still, my mom’s sister is coming in to town and we will all be spending Thanksgiving together. My own sisters cook various tasty dishes, including a delicious mushroom stuffing that my youngest sister makes. The last thing I want to do is take what should be a beautiful family holiday and turn it into a crisis, and that is exactly what I would be doing if I let these dark thoughts take over my life.

Maybe it feels like I am trapped in a routine, but I’m not. Maybe when I need to take days off work because of my health, it seems like a failure, but it isn’t. I can only control how I am today. I can’t guarantee that I will feel good tomorrow. I can’t guarantee that I will even have a tomorrow. All I can do is be mindful and focus on the present.

Because of The Rewired Soul, and a chapter in Johann Hari’s book, I do want to practice mindfulness and meditation a little bit more. Mindfulness is about just learning to bring your mind back to the present, to really be aware of your surroundings and to exist in the moment. Meditation has been proven to genuinely change your brain chemistry and the way that you think, shifting your focus from negative emotions like jealousy, anger and self-pity and putting you into a more open, compassionate, and joyful state of mind. As everything else that he listed, this is only part of a bigger practice of health and wellness.

I do not know where you’re at this holiday season. Maybe the holidays are a source of pain for you, and I can understand why that might be. Maybe you feel like a hopeful future feels far-off and impossible to get to. Maybe you feel discouraged and alone. I can’t really offer a whole lot of assurance for you, because I’m often in the same boat. All I know is that you must keep breathing, and you must treat every day like it is a new day filled with opportunity. This is hard to do when you’re living paycheck to paycheck, or if you or someone you love is sick, you are struggling to make it through school, and/or you’re working at a job that has little meaning for you. Saying to “hang in there” seems like an empty platitude, but if you think about the alternative, it isn’t great. I say this as much for me as for anybody else- giving up will get you nowhere. There’s always something to be thankful for, however small, and it is the small joys in life- not this big impossible feeling of “having arrived”- that are dependable and can help to pull us through.

[humansofhds]

Nougoutna Norbert Litoing, PhD candidate

"The value of a person is inherent by virtue of the fact that the person is created in God’s image and likeness ... whether or not we are considered “productive” by society."

Norbert is a Jesuit priest and a third-year PhD student in the Committee on the Study of Religion. His research involves the comparative study of Muslim and Catholic pilgrimage traditions in West Africa and the relationship between pilgrimage, memory, and identity.

At Home in the World

I am from Cameroon, which is geographically along the Western coast of Africa and politically a part of Central Africa. Cameroon shares a border with Nigeria, Chad, the Central African Republic, Gabon, Equatorial Guinea, and the Republic of Congo. I am specifically from North East Cameroon along the border with Chad. My parents are from two different ethnic groups, my father is from a group called Masa (different from the well-known Maasai of East Africa), and my mother is from an ethnic group called Tupuri. My father’s village is about seven kilometers from my mother’s, so they didn’t have to travel a long distance to meet each other. I grew up mostly in the south of the country. My father was a soldier, so we moved around where his work took him. For about 14 years I lived on different military bases around the country. We had to adapt to each new place. As one of the consequences of this constant movement, I have very few childhood friends from when I was young. I have, however, learned to be at home wherever I find myself.

When I was 10 years old I expressed the desire to become a Catholic priest to my parents. I asked to join a minor seminary, which is basically a middle and high school for young boys who are thinking of joining the priesthood. I got my A-levels in S1 (math, physics, and chemistry) at the minor seminary, which is the certificate that qualifies you to go to university. Even though I still desired to be a priest, I felt the need to take some time for further reflection before making a firm commitment. I consequently decided to go to university and began to study mathematics. In the meantime, I was in touch with the Jesuits who I had discovered by reading and through a friend from the minor seminary who was already in touch with them.

The Language of Love

During my freshman year, I journeyed with the Jesuits and eventually entered the Jesuit novitiate at the end of the year. Even though there is a Jesuit novitiate in Cameroon, I was sent to the one in Rwanda, in the Great Lakes region of Africa. The novitiate is the first stage of formation for Jesuits. It lasts two years. It is a time of initiation into the Jesuit order. A center-piece of this initiation consists of undertaking the spiritual exercises, a 30-day retreat during which you have the opportunity to read your own life story as a sacred journey, being able to find the traces of God’s presence in your own life and the ways in which God might be calling you to serve people out there.

Apart from the retreat, another memorable experience of my novitiate formation was an internship that I was asked to do in Burundi. I spent six weeks there in a center for mentally and physically handicapped children. It was one of the most important experiences in my life up to now. At the beginning, it was very frustrating. I had a language barrier. I couldn’t speak with the kids. My Kirundi was next to nothing and my Kiswahili was very basic. I was asked to teach them French, and after three weeks I was still trying to teach them the alphabet.

What helped me to overcome my frustration was the realization that I was being called to speak with them using another language: the language of love. Just being there with them, they simply enjoyed being around you. By the end of my stay there it felt like home. As my parting gift, the kids gave me a big piece of paper on which they had drawn a heart. They had colored it and written their names. I kept it because it reminded me of my experience there, which taught me that the value of a human being does not reside in what a person is capable of eventually producing. The value of a person is inherent by virtue of the fact that the person is created in God’s image and likeness. I learned that we have an intrinsic value independent of what we are capable of doing or producing, whether or not we are considered “productive” by society. I remember one kid in particular, her dad was a prominent university professor in Burundi. Sometimes he was frustrated when he realized that he had this prominent brain and all that it produces, but his own child could not even make a full sentence. It was frustrating for him. But to have a child like that was an invitation precisely for him to realize that there is another way of assessing the value of a person. That’s what those children did for me.

Service and Studies

After those two years in Rwanda, I was sent to Kinshasa in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where I studied philosophy in what has now become Loyola University Congo. I spent three years there, earning a BA in philosophy. After that I was sent to Senegal for regency, which is a time of pastoral ministry. I lived and worked in a city called Tambacounda, not far from the border between Senegal and Mali. There, I was in charge of Religious Education in our Jesuit parish and Catholic junior high school.

In Tambacounda, we equally run a socio-cultural center that serves children from poor families. I mentored a number of these kids. My first year in Tambacounda was difficult because I was adjusting, but the second year was wonderful, so much so that I actually asked if I could stay there beyond the required two years of regency. I was, however, not allowed to stay, as my Jesuit superior sent me to Hekima College, a Jesuit University in Nairobi, Kenya, to study. I did a master of divinity degree there and was ordained a deacon in February 2012. That same year I was sent to England to do a master in Islamic studies at the University of Birmingham. I was ordained a priest in the Roman/Latin rite of the Catholic Church in June 2013. In December of the same year, I was sent to Senegal to help open a new Jesuit community in Gandigal, a village located approximately 45 miles from Dakar, the capital city of Senegal. Together with another Jesuit, we were tasked with exploring the possibilities of opening a center for interfaith relations there. I spent a year and a half in Gandigal, serving religious communities in Senegal and Gambia. 

I was then sent to Boston College School of Theology and Ministry for a Master’s in Theology (ThM), a one-year program. I then joined the PhD program in the Study of Religion here at Harvard in the fall of 2016 under the subfields of comparative studies and African religions. I hope to work on Muslim and Catholic pilgrimage traditions in West Africa in a comparative perspective, exploring the relationship between pilgrimage, memory, and identity. I am now in the third year of the program. I serve as TF for two classes while I prepare for the general exams, which I intend to take in the spring.

As a Jesuit, when in studies, my pastoral ministry is very limited. A cornerstone of our Jesuit spirituality consists in “finding God in all things.” My studies currently constitute the site of my encounter with God. From time to time, I celebrate Mass and listen to confessions in some of the local parishes as a visiting priest, but my studies constitute my main mission right now.

The Tortoise

I wouldn’t trade the experience of living in many places for anything in the world. It has done something to me; it really gives you a unique perspective on people and life. It forces you out of your comfort zone. And if you go to these places with an open heart, you usually learn a lot from the people you encounter and through the experiences you have.

I tell people that everywhere is home for me. If somebody asks me “have you gone home?” I say, “I am always home.” The symbol of my mother’s ethnic group, and it has become a symbol of my own spiritual life, is the tortoise. It moves around with its home on its back. I tend to be at home wherever I find myself. It is true some places can be more home than others in terms of the experiences you make. But I believe that other people do not have the power to determine whether I am happy or not; I don’t give that power to people. You should have it in your own hands. Don’t give them the power to determine what becomes of your life.

The poem “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley is my favorite. It says, among other things, “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” It’s the meaning of my name as well—my last name Litoing means “self-made.”

Interview and photos by Anaïs Garvanian

[heavyarethecrowns]

People that have married in the Royal Families since 1800

Sweden

Eugénie Bernardine Désirée Clary better known as  Désirée Clary (8 November 1777 – 17 December 1860) 

Clary was born in Marseille, France, the daughter of François Clary a wealthy silk manufacturer and merchant, by his second wife Françoise Rose Somis Eugénie was normally used as her name of address.

Clary had a sister and brother to whom she remained very close all her life. Her sister, Julie Clary, married Joseph Bonaparte, and later became Queen of Naples and Spain. Her brother, Nicholas Joseph Clary, was created 1st Count Clary

As a child, Clary received the convent schooling usually given to daughters of the upper classes in pre-revolutionary France. However, when she was barely eleven years old, the French Revolution of 1789 took place, and convents were closed. Clary returned to live with her parents, and was perforce home-schooled thereafter. Later, her education would be described as shallow.

In 1794, Clary's father died. Shortly after, it was discovered that in the years before the revolution, he had made an appeal to be ennobled, a request that had been denied. Because of this, Désirée Clary's brother Etienne, now the head of the family and her guardian, was arrested. 

Désirée Clary met Joseph Bonaparte and was introduced to her family. Bonaparte and Clary were engaged, and his brother Napoleon Bonaparte also met her family. Soon Joseph was engaged instead to her older sister Julie while Napoleon was engaged to Désirée Clary on 21 April 1795. In 1795–1797

Clary lived with her mother in Genoa in Italy, where her brother-in-law Joseph had a diplomatic mission; they were also joined by the Bonaparte family. In 1795, Napoleon became involved with Joséphine de Beauharnais and broke the engagement to Clary on 6 September. He married Joséphine in 1796. 

In 1797, Clary went to live in Rome with her sister Julie and her brother-in-law Joseph, who was French ambassador to the Papal States. Her relationship with Julie remained close. She was briefly engaged to Mathurin-Léonard Duphot, a French general. The engagement has been assumed to be Napoleon's idea to compensate her with a marriage, while Duphot was attracted to her dowry and position as sister-in-law of Napoleon. She agreed to the engagement though Duphot had a long-term relationship and a son with another woman. On 30 December 1797, on the eve of their marriage, Duphot was killed in an anti-French riot outside of their residence Palazzo Corsini in Rome.In later years, Clary vehemently denied that her engagement to Duphot had ever existed

After her return to France, Clary lived with Julie and Joseph in Paris. In Paris, she lived in the circle of the Bonaparte family, who sided with her against Josephine after Napoleon had broken off their engagement. She herself did not like Josephine either, as she has been quoted calling her an aged courtesan with a deservedly bad reputation, but she is not believed to have shown any hostility toward Josephine as did the members of the Bonaparte family. She received a proposal from General Junot, but turned it down because it was given through Marmont.Clary eventually met her future spouse, Jean Baptiste Jules Bernadotte, another French general and politician. They were married in a secular ceremony at Sceaux on 17 August 1798. In the marriage contract, Clary was given economic independence. On 4 July 1799, she gave birth to their only child, a son, Oscar.

In August 1810, Bernadotte's husband was elected heir to the throne of Sweden and she heiress, now in that position being given the official name of Desideria. She initially thought this was to be similar to the position of Prince of Pontecorvo, and did not expect to have to visit Sweden more than she had been forced to visit Pontecorvo: "I thought, that it was at it had been with Ponte Corvo, a place from where we would have a title."She was later to admit, that she had never cared about any other country than France and knew nothing of foreign countries nor did she care about them, and that she was in despair when she was told that this time, she would be expected to leave Paris. Desideria delayed her departure and did not leave with her spouse. She was delighted with the position she had received at the French court after her elevation to crown princess (she had been invited to court events every week), and she was frightened by the stories of her reluctant French servants, who tried to discourage her from leaving by saying that Sweden was a country close to the North Pole filled with Polar bears.Finally, she left Paris and traveled by Hamburg and Kronborg in Denmark over the Öresund to Helsingborg in Sweden.

On 22 December 1810, Desideria arrived with her son Oscar in Helsingborg in Sweden, and the 6 January 1811, she was introduced to the Swedish royal court at the Royal Palace in Stockholm. The Swedish climate was reportedly a shock for her: she arrived during the winter, and she hated the snow so much that she cried. Her spouse had converted upon his election as heir to the Swedish throne, and upon their arrival, her son was also to do so, as was required, and was taken from her to be brought up a Lutheran. There was, in accordance with the Tolerance Act, no demand that she should convert, and a Catholic chapel was arranged for her use. Desideria was not religious,but the Catholic masses served to remind her of France, and she celebrated the birth of the son of Napoleon, the King of Rome, by a Te Deum in her chapel. 

Desideria was unable to adapt to the demands of formal court etiquette or participate in the representational duties which were required of her in her position of Crown Princess. Her French entourage, especially Elise la Flotte, made her unpopular during her stay in Sweden by encouraging her to complain about everything.She did not have a good relationship with Queen Hedwig Elizabeth Charlotte, though the Dowager Queen Sophia Magdalena was reportedly kind to her. In her famous diaries, Queen Charlotte described her as good hearted, generous and pleasant when she chose to be and not one to plot, but also an immature "spoiled child", who hated all demands and was unable to handle any form of representation, and as "a French woman in every inch" who disliked and complained about everything which was not French, and "consequently, she is not liked." Queen Charlotte, who wanted to remain the center of attention at her own court, was not pleased with Desideria and also influenced King Charles against her. 

Desideria left Sweden in the summer of 1811 under the name of Countess of Gotland, officially because of her health, and returned to Paris, leaving her husband and her son behind. She herself said that the Swedish nobility had treated her as if they were made of ice: "Do not talk with me of Stockholm, I get a cold as soon as I hear the word." In Sweden, her husband took a mistress, the noble Mariana Koskull. Under the same alias Desideria officially resided incognito in Paris, thereby avoiding politics. However, her house at rue d'Anjou was watched by the secret police, and her letters were read by them. She had no court, just her lady's companion Elise la Flotte to assist her as hostess at her receptions, and she mostly associated with a circle of close friends and family.

In 1818, her husband became King of Sweden, which made Desideria Queen. However, she remained in France, officially for health reasons. After she became Queen, the Swedish Queen Dowager wrote to her and suggested that she should have Swedish ladies-in-waiting, but she replied that it was unnecessary for her to have a court as she still resided incognito. She officially kept herself incognito and did not host any court, but she kept in contact with the Swedish embassy, regularly visited the court of Louis XVIII and often saw Swedes at her receptions, which she hosted on Thursdays and Sundays, unofficially in her role as queen, though she still used the title of countess. 

During this period, she fell in love with the French prime minister, the Duc de Richelieu, which attracted attention. According to one version, she fell in love with him after Louis XVIII had given him the task to deny her regular appeal for her sister Julie in the most charming way possible. True or not, she did fall in love with him, but the affection was not answered by Richelieu, who referred to her as his "crazy Queen". According to Laure Junot, she did not dare to speak to him or approach him, but she followed him wherever he went, tried to make contact with him, followed him on his trip to Spa and had flowers placed in his room. She followed him around until his death in 1822.

During the summer of 1822, her son Oscar made a trip in Europe to inspect prospective brides, and it was decided they should meet. As France was deemed unsuitable, they met in Aachen and a second time in Switzerland. In 1823, Desideria returned to Sweden together with her son's bride, Josephine of Leuchtenberg. It was intended to be a visit, but she was to remain in Sweden for the rest of her life. She and Josephine arrived in Stockholm 13 June 1823. Three days later, the royal court and the government was presented to her, and 19 June, she participated in the official welcoming of Josephine and witnessed the wedding

On 21 August 1829, she was crowned Queen of Sweden in Storkyrkan in Stockholm. Her coronation had been suggested upon her return, but her consort had postponed it because he feared there could be religious difficulties. There was actually a suggestion that she should convert to the Lutheran faith before her coronation, but in the end, the question was not considered important enough to press, and she was crowned all the same. She was crowned at her own request after having pressed Charles John with a wish that she should be crowned: "otherwise she would be no proper Queen". A reason for this is believed to have been that she regarded it as protection against divorce

The relationship between her and her husband King Charles XIV John was somewhat distant, but friendly. Charles John treated her with some irritability, while she behaved very freely and informally toward him. The court was astonished by her informal behavior. She could enter his bedroom and stay there until late at night even though he hinted to her that he wished to be alone with his favorite Count Magnus Brahe. Every morning, she visited her husband in her nightgown, which was seen as shocking, because her husband usually conferred with members of the council of state in his bed chamber at that time. Because of their difference in habits, they seldom saw each other even though they lived together. Because she was always late at dinner, for example, he stopped having his meals with her, and as he also preferred to have his meals alone, it was not uncommon for the nobles of the court to sit alone at the dinner table, without the royal couple present

The 1830s were a period when she did her best to be active as a queen, a role she had never wanted to play. The decade is described as a time of balls and parties, more than had been seen at the Swedish court since the days of King Gustav III, but Desideria soon grew tired of her royal status and wanted to return to France. However, her husband did not allow it. As queen she is mostly known for her eccentric habits. She is known to have kept reversed hours and, consequently, for often being late and keeping guests waiting, something which agitated her spouse. Normally, she retired at four in the morning, and awoke at two o'clock in the afternoon. Before she went to bed, she took a "walk by carriage": during these trips, she often paid unannounced visits, which were normally inconvenient because of the time. When the weather was bad, her carriage drove round the courtyard of the royal palace instead. It was normal for her to arrive for a visit to an opera when the show had ended.

Desideria was interested in fashion, devoted a lot of interest and pride in her hair and wore low cut dresses until an advanced age. She enjoyed dancing: her standard question at court presentations were if the debutantes liked to dance, and she herself danced well also during her old age. Her conversations were mainly about her old life in France. Her niece, Marcelle Tascher de la Pagerie, served as her Mistress of the Robes her first years as queen and also her main company, as she could speak to her of her main topic, her old life. After her niece had returned to France, she often socialized with the rich merchant Carl Abraham Arfwedson, who had once been a guest in her childhood home.She never became very popular at the royal court, where she was regarded with some snobbery because of her past as a merchant's daughter and a republican. She never learned to speak the Swedish language, and there are many anecdotes of her attempts to speak the language.

In 1844, Charles XIV John died and Desideria became Queen Dowager. Her son, the new King Oscar I, allowed her to keep her usual quarters in the Royal Palace as well as her entire court, so she would not have to change her habits. When her daughter-in-law Queen Josephine tried to convince her to reduce her court of her own free will, saying she no longer needed such a big court as a queen dowager, she answered: "It is true that I no longer need them all, but all of them still need me." She was a considerate and well-liked employer among her staff. One notable member of her court was Countess Clara Bonde, who was described as a personal friend and served the queen from her return to Sweden until her death. 

Desideria did engage in charity but it was discreet, and it has been said: "Her charity was considerable but took place in silence". One example was that she supported poor upper-class women by giving them sewing work. She also acted as official protector of charitable institutions, such as the Women's Society Girl School. The same year she became a widow, she was described by the French diplomat Bacourt: "Royalty has not altered her — unfortunately, for the reputation of the Crown. She has always been and will always remain an ordinary merchant woman, surprised over her position, and surprising to find upon a throne."He also added that she was a goodhearted woman.

After becoming a widow, she grew more and more eccentric. She went to bed in the morning, got up in the evening, ate breakfast at night and wandered around the corridors of the sleeping palace with a light. Desideria sometimes would take in children from the streets to the palace and give them sweets; she was not able to engage in any real conversation, but she would say "Kom, kom!" (Swedish for "Come come!") There are stories about people having been awakened by her carriage when she drove through the streets at night. The carriage sometimes stopped; she would sleep for a while, and then she would wake and the carriage would continue on its way. Her habit or circling the courtyard in her coach she called "Kring kring" (Swedish for "around and around"), one of the few Swedish words she learned.

On the last day of her life, Queen Desideria entered her box at the Royal Swedish Opera just after the performance had ended, and collapsed before reaching her apartment upon returning to Stockholm Palace on 17 December 1860.

[20straveling]

11.18.2017 ~ I am my Own Self, Hear me (expl)ROAR!

           To start with: I have changed my writing location. Previously, all of my blogs were written from the comfort and warmth of my bed, where I could unabashedly take my time lopping words into paragraphs to update the people back home. Today, on the eighteenth of November, in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Seventeen, I have chosen to write from within the aromatic and hazy haven of Yogurt Barn. Nothing short of my personal favorite location within the city, this little yogurt shop/café has been the subject of some of my absolute cutest and most “aesthetic” photos I’ve taken so far. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like it doesn’t deserve to be appreciated, but I know many of you are thinking: “come on Marissa, you couldn’t find a better place to religiously spend your money?” The answer is no, I couldn’t—I pick favorites and I hold onto them tight for fear of, well, who knows actually.

             Anyway, you guys probably want to get to the part where I tell you what I’ve been up to since my last post three and a half weeks ago! I am so sorry for being gone so long but when you hear what I’ve been up to, maybe you can forgive me? First thing to note, now that I’m finally telling you about the things I’ve been up to, is that I’m not trying too hard to go in chronological order because, honestly, when I get home I’ll just be spouting information and stories, rather than walking you through my itinerary.

           Okay, lets jump in: I got a new tattoo and a haircut within the same two-week window and I am loving this pseudo-reinvention of myself while being abroad. The tattoo is a beautiful daisy and accompanying sprig of leaves on my inner right arm. The haircut is a straight bob with an undercut (where they shave the underside of your hair, while leaving the top layers like normal). I’ll admit: I feel kind of like a badass with this look, which I need for a bit of moral pep during the last few weeks before heading home. The tattoo parlor I went to is the oldest within the city and the gentlemen there were very nice and were able to set up an appointment within the same week that I went in for a consultation. The cost was the price of expertise and materials and a beautiful tattoo, so I’d say it was worth it.

           {Here’s my two cents, for all those that don’t quite understand or agree with the choice to get tattoos: my tattoos are mementos, reminders. My favorite part of this city is the constant display and arrangement of flowers that add color and life to city. Yes, there are colorful people and colorful buildings, but the connection with nature will never go underappreciated within my own mind. I have photos of these flowers and the scenes that made me smile but the mentality of having living things, or a tattoo of a living thing, on my body makes me much happier because I am a part of those things that live and grow and die and return after their death. Also: my body is mine and I am the only one who has a say in what happens to it. The end.}

           Moving on! My haircut was quite the adventure because I got it done for free during student exam/lessons for Toni&Guy salon, which is actually right across the square from my beloved Yogurt Barn. The whole experience took about two hours, in which the teacher gave quite the sass-attack to some of the students, and I realized the girl cutting my hair was really good, but so anxious about creating an irreversible mistake on my hair. I reassured her that hair grows and honestly, just do what you’re comfortable with—and that kind of bit me back in the long run because, to be honest dear reader, I was not entirely pleased with my haircut when I walked about of the salon. They gave me a center part and the undercut was a triangle, rather than a flat shave like I wanted, but fear not! I have grown to love it, and I can part it however I want, obviously. My wise and clearly-much-smarter-than-I friend, Kelly, called me out and told me to stop being a wuss and just tell people what I want when I go into a service industry. She’s totally right. I am a wuss. I don’t like to inconvenience people or to cause unnecessary stress if I don’t have to: it’s much easier to stay quiet and remember that, in this case, hair grows.

           Also, fun fact, The Netherlands isn’t as huge into Halloween as America is (we tend to be excessive about everything) but our neighborhood is full of expats and so we attended the cutest little coordinated trick-or-treat festivities all day and collected a non-chocolate centered candy haul after running around after a little blue dinosaur (Emilio’s costume), and I was busy being an obnoxious adult who cared too much about Halloween as I dressed up like Harry Potter.

           On to the next adventure! For three blissful days, my friend from home came to visit and we tore up Amsterdam and had the most fun I’ve had in years. A three hour walking tour lead by a naturally sociable guide led to an amusing and educational tour of the inner city of Amsterdam, including the Red Light District and some of the canals­­—and a café/bar with a cat! (my friend and I love cats, so this was a potential highlight on the “unexpected” list). After our tour we toured the Van Gogh Museum and I fell in love with an artist that I had already adored from afar back in my Art History classes at St. Mary’s. Along with the wonderful artwork, we also discovered that audio tours within museums are completely worth the extra charge if you want to feel more immersed within the works, or if you’re like us, and have someone who’s not entirely sure they’re interested in the artworks that they’re about to spend over an hour looking at. We used audio tours for all of the following museums we went to, including the Rijksmuseum, Anne Frank House, Rembrandt Studio, and Escher in the Palace (we went to a lot of museums, and thank god my friend actually enjoyed some of it, because they’re not really an art person like I am). While they visited, we stayed at an AirBnB and I can confirm that this is my preferred method of staying anywhere now. The comfort of a home with the amenities of a hotel all in one—I’ve started investigating long term stays for my trip to Ireland, but more on that later! Last couple of adventures in Amsterdam included a trip to the Zoo (mainly to see the Red Pandas), a great dinner out at a place called Haesje Claes, and the some time spent wandering around The Hague after two days of running ourselves up a wall to get all our planned activities done. A wonderful weekend with some great photos to commemorate the trip will be surely discussed when I return.

           The following weekend, the family and I traveled to Zaandam and went to the clog factory there, which is situated in the cutest little town that has been preserved from it’s factory days into picturesque quaint charm, surrounded by windmills and colored homes, and small shops. Although it rained for most of the time we were there, the atmosphere of the town was something I had been craving during my trip abroad, and something I plan to seek out again before I leave. I did not buy myself a pair of clogs—my mother’s rational voice of “when will you ever actually wear these” was constantly running through my head—but, I did buy a miniature pair that are more like keychain or display style because I loved the level of detail in the carving. The whole town was situated on a series of small canals and beyond the section where the “clog town” sat, lay fields and the actual world beyond. Only turning around to head home did we once again return to the city-scape and the more stereotypical Netherlands style homes.

           On to the final notes, which may come as a relief after reading two pages of single spaced story telling. I visited one of the oldest churchs in The Hague and it was absolutely stunning, as to be expected. I will never cease to seek out these beautiful creations that are testaments to the amazing works that can be created by man to worship amazing works done by God/Jesus. Honestly, I should be making an effort to explore more religious temples and grounds, but I’m not quite that comfortable yet with the invasion of other religions I don’t understand or know enough about. If you were curious, the church I visited is called “St. James the Church in The Hague,” and it was amazing to see how even within this church the details were naturally oriented, with vines and trees in the tile work and the general beauty of the rest of the art within.

             So, what’s next? This weekend I am touring the Peace Palace, and tomorrow, Sunday, I will be venturing out to some town to take photos of windmills—I haven’t quite planned that far ahead yet and therefor I can’t actually name anywhere yet. Next weekend, we have taken on the momentous task of hosting Thanksgiving (even though, in full European fashion, I am already skipping forward to Christmas), and then the final weekend I am here, I will be packing, prepping, and pretending I’m not about to be going home. That’s right folks, this Monday marks the two-week countdown for when I return home! The boring part of this means that I start working (hopefully) no later than December eleventh, but this also means I have so much fun to share very very soon with everyone and I cannot wait to tell you guys all about it!

 <3 M

 11.18.2017

[archdioceseofsuva-blog]

Sr. Genevieve Loo: A Life of Faithfulness, Fidelity and Fearlessness

To her family, she was Christina, to her students she was Sr. G, to her Religious family she was Jenny and to others she was Sr. Genevieve. A life lived in Faithfulness, Fidelity and Fearlessness up until the Lord called her to her eternal reward on 27 February, 2019. Her death leaves a huge vacuum in the Congregation of the Sisters of St Joseph of Cluny, the Alumnae of St. Joseph’s Secondary School, and the Archdiocese of Suva and indeed, the many lives she touched and mentored.

In his homily today, Archbishop Peter Chong reflected on Sr. Genevieve’s life and how she espoused faithfulness as an Educator to her students, as a Religious and her contribution to the work of faith formation in the Archdiocese of Suva. Her fidelity to her commitment as a religious was reflected in her dedication in the her work as an educator and her sincere desire to empower and mentor the many young women who passed through the study halls of St. Joseph’s Secondary where spent most of her years as Principal and St. Bede’s College in Savusavu as Vice-Principal. Only a life of faithfulness and fidelity to the vision of Blessed Anne Marie Javouey could have endured 48 years as an educator.

As an educator, Sr. Genevieve was both a visionary and a realist. No idea or concept was too difficult to translate into action. Once she put her mind to something, however Herculean, it had to be accomplished. When the Ministry of Education tried to do away with Office Practice as a subject, Sr. Genevieve took on the Ministry of Education single-handedly to ensure that Office Practice as a subject was kept to ensure the less academically inclined. She was fearless and no task was too difficult to undertake. She was a familiar face in the offices of the Ministry of Education. As one Senior Education Officer related, ‘it was easier to give Sr. Genevieve what she wanted than to delay or spend time arguing with her. She came to the Ministry of Education with all her homework done. Sr. Genevieve got what she wanted.’

Sr. Genevieve once shared with me that when she returned to Fiji as a newly professed Sister her first student was her mother who wanted to be received into the Catholic Church. As Sr. Genevieve explained the basic tenets of the Catholic faith, her mother listened attentively throughout the entire lesson. At the end of the first lesson her mother looked up and said, ‘what is the point of all this if I believe?’ This was a turning point in her life and a lesson she was to keep for the rest of her life. The gift of faith is granted even without human intervention.

As a member of the Editorial Team for the Fiji Catholic Times, Sr. Genevieve was an invaluable critic. With each issue she would scrutinize every page and have a list of comments to make. Her mantra was simple. ‘Articles should be written from the perspective of the readers. Only then will we be able to reach our readers.’ This advice is perhaps what has made the Fiji Catholic Times a success story with the awards it has scooped in the last three years at the annual awards of the Australasian Catholic Press Association.

Her regular calls were always prefaced with ‘did you know?’ or ‘guess what?’ When a piece of information was relayed to her the immediate response was almost always, ‘is that so?’ As a familiar face in the Communications Offices in the Curia to edit articles Sr. Genevieve’s simplicity was most evident. We would share whatever was offered and no matter what we ate she would share in the meal with great relish. Once I discovered she was a great cook I would ask her to bake something for our Editorial meetings. The simplest of ingredients were transformed into the tastiest of meals or snacks.

She was relentless once her mind was made up about something that had to done and if there were delays, one could expect endless phone calls to ensure that the task was accomplished. There were to be no shortcuts. Sr. Genevieve will be sorely missed as a familiar face in the Communications Offices at Nicolas House.

Her funeral liturgy today was truly a celebration of life. From the eulogies it was clear that Sr. Genevieve had touched countless lives. The tributes that poured in from all over the world testifies to the formidable woman that she was. She always saw the positive side of each person; a potential to be developed, encouraged and empowered.

As the final prayers were recited at the Lovonilase cemetery today there was a single roll of thunder; reminiscent of the firecrackers so central to Chinese celebrations and a shower of rain that blessed all those who came to bid farewell to a woman who meant so much to many and perhaps remind all present that her departure from this life is only the beginning for lives she touched to rise to the challenges of taking on the responsibility of being men and women of faith. As an icon of faith, education and commitment to the vision of Blessed Anne Marie Javouhey we give thanks to God for a life spent in selfless dedication to spreading the Kingdom of God.

Words alone cannot express the length, depth or height of the countless lives Sr. Genevieve has touched. She was in a class all of her own. A woman whose very life made a difference and someone who was not easy to forget once she had come into your life.

[jcausyn]

My Life With OCD

12/5/16

Before I begin allow me to introduce myself, my name is Jim Causyn. I grew up in a small town and I have a wonderful family. I am married to my beautiful wife Amanda, and also a proud father to my son Ryan. 

My family is the most important thing to me. What most people don’t know about me is I suffer from an anxiety disorder, OCD. I’ve had it most of my life and was officially diagnosed 7 months ago.

Before I get into my story and struggles with the disorder, I want to first Introduce “OCD” to those who don’t know much about it. “OCD” as we commonly have come to know it by, stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Obsessions cause excessive and intrusive thoughts, emotions, feelings and urges. 

In response to our obsessions we act out repetitive behaviors (physical or mental) in attempt to relieve the anxiety our “obsessions” cause. These behaviors are called compulsions. The most common examples of compulsions are hand washing, checking, reassurance seeking, counting and avoidance. The way I like to look at it is anything we do in attempt to relieve our anxiety. 

If you know this much already, great! I’m only scratching the surface though. My primary goal here is to educate you on other types of OCD that are not commonly discussed. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder has been commonly recognized for contamination, and perfectionism with compulsions such as hand washing, counting, checking, etc. On that note, I want to make it clear that just because you’re someone who’s neat, picky, organized or afraid of germs in no way means you suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

We all have our “quirks” which is a very significant difference from OCD. A good rule of thumb I like to use to separate the two is asking yourself two core questions. First, how long do you find yourself wrapped up in your worry or fear? Is it excessive? Is it interfering with your daily tasks?  Second, what if someone told you that you could not complete the task you felt compelled to do? Would it increase your anxiety? Would it cause you distress not being able to participate in the behavior? 

I will obviously remind you I’m not a doctor. But, through my experience I do feel that this is a good starting place for someone who feels they might struggle with OCD.     

With OCD being an anxiety disorder it causes a great amount of terror, worry and fear. Someone with an anxiety disorder can be alarmed when there is nothing to be alarmed over. They can be worried when there is nothing to be worried about. Your brain is misfiring, which in return you end up on high alert and over analyze everything.

This lands me into a less discussed topic of the disorder, “primary obsessions and mental compulsions”. Did you know obsessions can be fears of harming yourself or others? Typically this is known as harm OCD. Along with harm is sexual obsessions.

Sexual obsessions can lead to fears of sexual identity, becoming/being a pedophile, or being sexually aggressive. There are also religious obsessions that can lead to extreme fear of going to hell or being possessed. The list goes on and these are just some examples of primary obsessions. The one thing in common for those who suffer from primary obsessions is a lot of the compulsive behavior is mental.

Unfortunately, throughout the years I’ve experienced all of the above. We’ve all been there before, felt a way we didn’t agree with and thought something inappropriate. It may bring some discomfort for a short amount of time but most of you are able to filter the information. I like to call it “brain noise.” For someone like me it’s much more than noise, I obsess over it, day after day. I begin to question who I am and what this may all mean. In other words it all leads to catastrophic thinking.

It probably doesn’t shock you that these outrageous and disturbing fears lead to depression as well. You feel at war with yourself, which can take a huge toll on you mentally. Typically with OCD you will see physical behaviors, which are rituals that are acted out. Mental compulsions are acted out in one’s head. Some examples would be mental reassurance seeking, searching for information that will bring you relief, ruminating, stuck on a thought and replaying the event over and over again. Comparing, mental checking, consistently going over a thought to make sure “all is well.” In return, this can only make matters worse. 

Long story short someone with primary obsessions and mental compulsions have one goal. That goal is to “get to the bottom of it” desperately searching for 100 percent certainty. In search for answers that will put these awful obsessions to misery. The problem is that will never happen. Its false hope; OCD leads you on. Desperately getting to the bottom of your concerns is what makes it even stronger.  

It’s no surprise OCD has also been known as the doubting disease, it’s for a pretty good reason too. When you suffer from this disorder you can’t help but doubt. When I say doubt, I mean doubt that is so powerful you lose confidence in the most obvious answers.

For example, let’s say you’re about to take a test. You are at the top of the class, but not the best test taker. You come across a question on the test; a topic you’ve studied over and over again. I mean before this test you were a 97 percent you knew the answer. But then doubt settles in, what once was a clear mind has now become clouded. The more you doubt, the more you question, the less certain you become.

Someone with OCD finds themselves doubting more excessively, doubting everything, everyone and even themselves. The farther we dig for answers the deeper we fall. It’s a hard thing to overcome. The more we fight to break free the faster we sink. OCD desperately seeks evidence to prove to you this topic is something you have to look further into. Once in a while it will find some truth and that’s all it needs. That thread of truth can lead to a downward spiral.

I remember when I was younger having urges to touch door knobs a certain a number of times, switch a light switch off and on before bed and even walk up and down the stairs a number of times to feel the “task” was complete. Why did I do this? It was an attempt to prevent something “bad” from happening. I know what most of you are thinking by now.. “crazy!” I couldn't agree more with you. 

I wish more than anything this would all go away, but unfortunately it’s not that simple. Eventually, I was able to break free from those early habits and ignore them. For some time it felt like I out grew the grips of OCD. 

Because of my lack of education on the disorder, I had no idea it was happening right in front of me. It wasn’t long before my OCD shifted to primary obsessions and mental compulsions. The first of many fears was the fear of dying at a young age. I would fear I had a terminal disease such as cancer or a brain tumor. Let’s just put it to you this way, if I had a headache and felt nauseous, I automatically jumped to worst case scenario.

I found myself avoiding anything that had to do with terminally ill patients, hospitals and anything that would remind me of these fears. To me, and everyone around me, I was just your classic worry wart. But, this was much worse than being a worry wart.

It wasn’t until years later my OCD progressed. My fears became more intense and more irrational. I was vulnerable to TV, news headlines, horror films and disturbing documentaries. The world around me was riddled with questions “What if?” “Do I?” “Am I?” So why would I ask myself these things? Well, to me becoming or having such an awful situation in life terrifies me. An outcome you would never want to happen, a person you would never want to become. You find yourself doing whatever you can to make sure a tragic story, won’t be your story.  

For a long time OCD has found different ways to affect me. It shifts; adapting and latching onto the things I care and value the most. What is so tricky about it all is I know how crazy it all sounds, trust me. There is a reason I went years hiding this from everyone. I wish this could be something I could just shake off, but it’s not the case. 

On a positive note it seems I can be fine for months, even years, but then it hits me hard when I least expect it. What I’ve noticed, is depending on my mood or stress level it seems I’m more vulnerable and become easily triggered. How long it last falls into my hands. If I play the OCD game and give into what it wants (compulsions) then the vicious cycle continues. 

The less I entertain it, the more I am able to take control and mange it. One thing is for sure, OCD is a part of me; not all of who I am. Some of you who know me may think “oh it all makes sense now” but absolutely not, how serious I take my work, my passion, my drive is simply my character. Personal struggle is like my fuel. I do have something to prove and that is we are all capable of succes, no matter what we may face.

I haven’t been dealt the best cards in life, but at the same time I know my hand could be much worse. One thing is for certain, I refuse to let OCD define who I am. So I’m sure by now most of you are raising your eye brows thinking “why the hell are you sharing this about yourself?” Well, there are many answers to that question. I would be a liar if I said coming forward about all this didn’t benefit me. Breaking the silence has been very therapeutic for me. I’ve learned the more I accepted this part of me, and embraced this part of me, the less afraid of this part of me I was. It’s something I continue to work on.

The most important part of me coming forward is making a positive impact. If I could take this negative part of my life and turn into a positive, not only for me but for others who struggle not only with OCD but mental illness as well, that would be a great accomplishment. We need to encourage people to talk about it, come forward and lead by example.

It’s great for those who suffer from any metal illness to share their experience, spreading hope to one another through their struggles. But when we can get those who don’t necessarily understand but want to get involved, well that does volumes. The key to progress is support from everyone, especially those who don’t suffer. It’s a step in the right direction to making a change on how our society views mental illness. I believe it is important to give back to the world in a positive way.

Another important reason why I’m doing this is to start awareness. I feel the term OCD has been effortlessly thrown around. We’ve all heard it before “I’m so OCD”; a term being tossed around like it’s something to be proud of, being used as cute or funny. Anyone who truly struggles doesn’t really find it cute or funny. I want people to have a better understanding of this disorder. 

I think with me having OCD I can be looked down upon. Same can go with anyone who suffers with a mental illness. I mean who wants to be associated with a group where people think those who take a pill or see a therapist aren’t “normal.” That’s the very reason it has taken me years to come forward about this.

We are all searching for a place to fit in and life can sometimes feel like a race. But we should all remember it’s not how long it takes us to get where we’re going, it’s that we arrive. Never quit, and when it’s ugly, despite all odds make your goals a reality.

It takes a big heart and determination to reach where you want to be when you may have more odds to beat. It’s truly inspiring. Let’s all help those hiding and encourage others who need help to not be afraid, and that we all have the power to be successful.

Sharing this hasn’t been easy. I swore I would take this one to the grave with me, but here I am doing quite the opposite. It‘s all for a bigger purpose in my opinion. With that being said, I want to remind anyone out there who is afraid or in pain you are not alone. You may feel alone but I’m here as proof you are not. Finding happiness isn’t always easy. It’s something you have to work for.

This is far from a story of how I recovered. It’s a story of me on my journey to recovery. I refuse to let my challenges in life push me around. From time to time they do, but I have a life to live and you bet your ass I’m going to live it. So should you. 

So I’m close to wrapping this up and if you made it this far I want to thank you for your time. I truly appreciate your support. I especially want to thank my amazing wife who has been there for me every step of the way. There are days when the fears feel so real I’m weeping, terrified and afraid. She never ran for the hills when a lot of people would. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. I also want to thank god. My faith has been tested, but in the end has only made it stronger.

I’ve learned something through this long and awful experience, and that is just accepting this about myself. I’ve spent so many years scared of being judged, misunderstood, embarrassed, and looked at differently. The thought of anyone knowing I needed help upset me because I felt it made me weak. I’ve always wanted to be someone others could look up to, inspire and be a role model. The problem was pretending to have it all together, wasn’t even close to any of those things. 

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering if sharing this would be the best idea. A lot of that time spent wondering is because being a father is important to me. What will my son think of me? Would he be embarrassed to be around me? I care what my son thinks of me. I want to be his biggest hero and be someone he can look up to. Is sharing this about myself going to stop that from happening? A part of me worries that it will but a bigger part of me say’s no, it won’t.

Finding courage to come forward about a part of myself I’ve been hiding for most of my life is a way I can be his hero. At some point in my son’s life he might have some obstacles to overcome. What I want him to see in those moments is “If dad can, so can I.” Someone who is able to embrace their challenges and seek help when they need it, In my opinion that’s one of the bravest individuals we can be. It’s someone I strive to be every day. 

[mysteriouslyzealouspandalov-blog]

The Respectful Relationships Program Could Start by Respecting Parents.

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The Respectful Relationships Program Could Start by Respecting Parents.

It would seem that the only relationship that isn’t respected by those rolling out the Trojan horse program Respectful Relationships into our schools, is the relationship between parents and their own children.

Once Christmas ends, the first billboards from Officeworks are up, reminding parents that it’s back to school in only four weeks time!  Four weeks?  Seems like four months!

And parents are responsible for everything when the lists come out.  Uniforms, shoes, books, iPads.  Helping their older children determine what courses they should do.  Parents need to be informed about everything if they’re going to help their children.

Everything except when it comes to sex in the classroom, or the teaching of it, it would appear.

For the State Government of Western Australia, led by Premier Mark McGowan, has given the green light for nineteen schools to utilise various aspects of the Respectful Relationships program, all without any parental consultation.

It’s the same program that the far more (self-declared) progressive Victorian Andrews Government has been promoting in that state’s schools already.  And more schools are to follow in Western Australia in semester two of 2019.

Yet all of this has begun without the involvement of the most crucial relationship in the mix, in terms of schooling, the one between parents and children.

McGowan is staying mum (can I even say that?) on which schools, and which aspects of the program are being rolled out.  Which seems curious when there have been such controversies around the blatantly sexualised nature of the content being delivered through such programs, all in the name of respect, I might add (whatever that term means these days).

You would think the Premier, who, I’m led to believe, does not send his own children to a government school, much less one where this program is going to be taught, would seek to include all stakeholders when it comes to material that has such a blatant sexual and gender ideologies inbuilt, if not simply to allay any fears.

After all, such lack of foresight has blown up in the faces of other state governments in the past couple of years, with dubious links to dodgy sites being discovered, and a clear hard Sexular Culture agenda attached to seemingly innocent material being shown up for what it is.

But the quieter the government is about it, the more questions, and concerns it will raise.  So how about it Premier McGowan?  How about some conversations with all stakeholders when it comes to education?.

The stated aim of the Respectful Relationships program is lofty of course.  The stated aims of such programs always are.  It’s about breaking the pattern of domestic violence, and who could be against that after all?

Yet what does the Respectful Relationships program focus on? Here’s how local media in Perth reported the move to challenge “gender inequality”:

A business case for the program states that violence against women was partly driven by “beliefs and behaviours that reflect disrespect for women, low support for gender equality and adherence to rigid or stereotypical gender roles”.

The Education Department memo on the program stated:

“By challenging these drivers, we can break the cycle of violence,”

“Partly” is an interesting word isn’t it?  Does “partly” mean 10 percent of violence towards women is attributable to stereotypical gender roles?  15 percent?  80 percent?  And what are the other drivers? What percentage do they make up? We shall never know.  When you’ve got an agenda, actual stats are not always that helpful.

And it’s completely ideological agenda purporting, much in the way the discredited Safe Schools program did, to be about safety first and foremost.  And in this culture of all things safe, and bulldozer parenting, what’s not to like about safe?

Unfortunately domestic violence comes in all shapes and sizes and affects all sorts of families. My wife, with twenty years clinical psychological experience, has seen more than her fair share of cases.  It’s traumatic, tragic and crosses all social boundaries.

And all sexual boundaries. For the sneaky, unreported, and underreported, truth, though reported to me by a former gay activist is that domestic violence among male gay partners is off the charts.  In fact statistically, the percentage of domestic violence among gay couples is higher in heterosexual relationships, as this 2014 BBC report reveals.

Nothing particularly stereotypical about that.

Now it’s got to be said that the government has not yet decided which parts of the program are going to be utilised.  Indeed the details are buried within a state government report.  But the Year 3 material includes the following:

Provide a range of dress ups and toys to allow children to explore different roles and ethnic dress; put up pictures of women and men taking on different household tasks and gender roles in a range of ethnic groups. Read books that open up the possibilities about what girls and boys can be or do.

You can read the full report by Joshua Zimmerman here.

Let’s get it straight. A man doesn’t beat a woman – the women he lives with – because he is the primary bread winner in a traditional family who likes manly pursuits, wears checked shirts and jeans and boots, and doesn’t do enough work around the house, but will, after enough whinging, at least put the bins out on Wednesday night.

A man beats a woman because he’s a bully who likes power and desires to dominate someone, and he gets some sort of emotional release from his own fractured psyche through using his unrestrained anger to crush a readily available person within arm – and fist’s – reach.

And quite frankly it’s an insult to the thousands of working dads (and mums) who, in Perth, do live traditional roles in their marriages, yet who never lift a finger to their spouses, gay, straight or other.

And on the flipside.  My wife went to work today, to a meaningful, fairly well paid job that has a high level of job satisfaction.

And me? I cooked the breakfast (it was a cooked breakfast), vacuumed the house, put out the rubbish, did the washing, went and did some of the grocery shopping. Oh and all with enough time left over to slap her around the face before waving her goodbye as she drove off.

Of course I did all of the above, except for that last part.

But here’s the point: In an irony of cruel ironies, there are many celebrated cases coming to the surface of domestic violence and sexual abuse among the most “woke” of our day who champion the breaking of those so called stereotypes, both within the church and without.

I could provide a long list, but let’s start with the Bill Hybels case from Willow Creek – a church at the forefront of breaking down gender barriers -, yet sexual control was at its epicentre.

And then there’s the even more dismal case, of New York’s Attorney General, Eric Schneiderman, who proved, despite being a long term voice against sexual misconduct, not to be your friendly neighbourhood Schneiderman at all.

Schneiderman, a vocal opponent against Harvey Weinstein, was outed himself as an abusive sexual bully who pre-determined that his string of girlfriends liked to be punched and slapped, without him being polite enough to ask their permission to bruise their faces prior to indulging himself.

Which is not to say violence against women is not happening in traditional settings, for it surely is.  But it is to say that is is completely simplistic, and insulting, to equate domestic violence with traditional gender roles.

Perhaps the WA Government, indeed perhaps the Premier himself, would like to address this matter across the more traditional migrant communities – and religious communities – in Perth and admit it is far more complex than the material purports.

But let me go on. The Year 9 material includes the following:

Write a range of the following words on the whiteboard: Massage; Cuddling; Kissing; Sexting; Holding hands; Vaginal intercourse; Oral sex; Masturbation; Touching genitals; Rubbing nipples; Anal sex; Pornography. Have students form small groups and categorise each into either “sex” or “not sex”.

“Excuse me miss, will this be in the exam?”

For a start, this completely misreads how conversations around these topics operate in a less than safe setting such as a school.  For whoever determined that schools were safe? Such material completely negates the reality of the classroom, in which many students do not trust those within their own peer group with that sort of conversation, never mind their teachers.

So the young, late developing fifteen year old boy, who is shy and reserved, has to determine with the class jock, who already boasts about the blow jobs he’s had from girls in the school, whether or not oral sex is actually sex?  Where’s the safety or respect in any of that?

And then it goes on:

Discuss with students the different types of sexual relationships, such as “going out together”, “hooking up”, “bootie call”, “friends with benefits” and “one night stand”. Have students write down an estimate of what percentage of their peer group they think have experienced some form of sex.

That’s a seriously impressive list of sexual relationships right there, although it admittedly does miss out on that rather minor sexual relationship that’s been doing the rounds in our culture for some time; marriage.

But I guess if you’re the stats girl in the class you might enjoy compiling that information as a percentage list, if you can brush off the catcalls from the class tool to put actual names beside each of them.

All this is to say two things: On what planet are teachers, who are not trained sex counsellors or psychologists, any better placed to led these conversations than parents?  Not saying those are easy conversations to have as parents, but at which point do teachers assume the role of primary sexual overseer of students?

There’s something “woke” about our Education Departments these days, filled as they are with high level Boomers whose own sexual freedoms back in the sixties and seventies led us to exactly the toxic place we are today.  They seem almost grimly determined to ensure that the next couple of generations are as screwed up as they were.

Once again it simply proves that progressive ideologies and governments either despise  – or ignore – mediating institutions such as families.  Rusty Reno, in his book Resurrecting the Idea of a Christian Society, points out that progressive statism constantly seeks ways to infiltrate and subvert the “mini-governments” in our culture that keep statism at bay; “mini-governments” such as family units and religious communities.

And in a year in which we’re going to see a double pressure on such mini-governments by the overreaching statist big-government. First there is the pressure of such programs being rolled out at a state level that will circumvent parental acquiescence, and secondly, there is the pressure of a likely incoming federal Labor government in Australia that is almost gleeful in its desire clamp down on religious educational institutions in terms what sexual ethics are permissible among their faith communities.

Above all else, statism reverses the relationship between governments and their people.  The government is to be held accountable to the people, not the other way around. Big government loves to first loosen, and then reverse, the accountability structure.

Big government determines that stakeholders – such as parents or other groups of voters – would, if let loose, be uncontrollable, violence-inducing, uneducated types who don’t know better, and who need to be circumvented if any progress is to be made.  Yet the sad fact is, in this country and throughout the West at the moment, the reality is the other way around.

It’s time for our governments to start showing some respect themselves.

Source

The Respectful Relationships Program Could Start by Respecting Parents.

[delightfulranchdeputypanda-blog]

Extra #2:  My thoughts on Rules for Men/ Religion ( WARNING: This is a compilation of like two unedited entries from my person “diary” so please ignore the emojis and typos)

Okay so revisited the notes about suicide and this philosopher named Durkheim from like whatever many years ago in Paris who studied patterns in suicide. So he discovered ☝🏼 rates in suicide.                👇🏼rates in suicide       Single.                                     Married       Men.                                        Women       Wealthy.                                  Poor       Protestants.                            Catholics So if you analyze this you realize single rich men that don’t really have religious guidance or anything to set a moral compass for them are more likely to commit suicide. And obviously there are always exceptions but it makes a lot of sense. 1) So then our professor (literally love him! May Allah fill his heart with Iman ameen) had us think about American society and we as a class came to the conclusion (I didn’t really participate much so I cannot take credit for most of these ideas) that American men only rely on their wives and girlfriends for emotional support like they have beer buddies and hunting buddies and blah blah blah but their only emotional support system is their significant other. Whereas, women are more like to call up their girls and mom or close mother figure or even guy friends every now and then and spill all the teas. Okay so that one I didn’t relate much to religion but while they were discussing it I was thinking about the dynamic between friends and how desi people, well men in particular are ride or die for their “brothers” you know like yeah you have the groups that are guarded and don’t talk about feelings but as far as I know most of the desi men in my life have shared emotions with their friends as much as women, if not more. Also, they are not afraid to cry. I’ve seen all my uncles cry and even my dad. I have seen my grandpa cry. I have seen random babas on the street cry too. Based off of my experience men in Pakistan or even here (before they get influenced) show a lot of emotion and that is how it should be! 2) Then we talked about wealthy neighborhoods and how there’s usually one family in a large house and parents usually work a lot and only see their kids for short periods of time. Whereas, in poorer families, a lot more people live together which means you’re more likely to interact with more people throughout your day. Okay, then we talked about how neighborhood atmosphere right so in rich neighborhoods your walls and fences are taller and more gates and less interaction with people around you. However, in poorer neighborhoods, fences tend to be shorter fewer gates and neighbors converse with one another and on weekends especially like holidays and stuff people have bbq and block parties and share and connect with each other. Then I thought well what about golfing buddies and country club events and things. But then I realized the nature of those events is different (I used to volunteer to serve at events held for charity and got a chance to observe the difference in class systems). The way people carry themselves and the way they speak is very like like .. hm like not authentic it’s like robotic almost like even the jokes and laughs sound rehearsed. Then I thought about back home and what I had learned about my religion about how Islam promotes neighborly-ness. And how we are reminded to share and be inclusive. [side note: this got me thinking about race and how it doesn’t exist inshallah I’ll write about that another day and why I think it was created but as far my limited knowledge about my religion goes I’ve never heard color mentioned the lectures I’ve been to only talked about people of other religions and believers v. Nonbelievers but nothing about race]. 3) then we talked about religious guidance that catholicism forbids suicide and Protestants had various beliefs and each group was different and different branches and stuff so no one was on the same place. Then our professor said okay let's say you don't like people and you don't talk to neighbors or friends but you like working on you and you come to church because you’re obligated to do so then what? is that enough? People said no because yk you’re not getting the proper interaction you need to exist. And I started drifting and thinking about how even with prayer it’s better to do it as a group like unison amplifies prayer. But I disagree with the class a little I think both are necessary a balance between individualism and the responsibilities that come with that like working on being a better you, knowing yourself, your goals, strengths, weaknesses, etc. And at the same time working in a group and helping others grow and reach their goals and stuff. And it makes sense for me to think that way because when I was little I had one teacher tell me to not think of myself and to do for others before I do for myself and then another told me to do for myself before everyone else. [mini story time: So I came home confused (I was like 7 and opposing views were hard to understand) and I asked an Imam that used to live in our house if I was really really hungry and had only one small piece of Roti and I saw a baba with no food what should I do and he asked me what I thought so I remember saying that I would like to say that I would just give him the whole piece because he needed it more but I don’t really know what I would do and if I was a baba too and we were two babas that were both hungry with no other food for who knows how long then I think I wouldn’t want to give him the whole piece and then I think I would just break it in half and he didn’t say anything back to me he patted me on the head and then left for namaz lol ] so idk what to make of that but I think that moment in time signifies how important balance is to me. And inshallah I plan on educating myself more so I can know the answers to my questions but the more I explore my thoughts and the more I think about positive actions, I end up back at the same influence, my religion. I’ve always just done stuff because someone else wanted me to but I never prayed when I didn’t feel like it [which sucks I know but is the truth because I felt like it was worse lying about reading namaz(I felt like I wasn’t really reading if I was daydreaming in some parts and speeding through others) than not reading it at all] but the more I explore my thoughts and my goals for myself I make these little connections and they remind me of a very particular dua that I remember making as kind of a kid [mini story time: it was dark and raining and I was sitting in the veranda looking at the rain (I was like still 7 almost 8) and I remember thinking I should say Subhanallah right now because obviously Allah created this but I didn’t. then at the age of whatever age I was when I went to Pulliam after my grandpa died it rained again and I asked Allah to help me love everything as much as I love the rain] and I don’t remember the intentions of my words or what I meant by that but the more I take the time to think the more I remember and the more I try to grow I realize that dua has been answered. I love life, I grew to love people and school, and now I’m growing to love my religion. And I want to hold to this for as long as I possibly can I keep writing because I’m trying to bottle this love and appreciation because I’m scared it’ll go away or something. But yeah The point of all this is that humans need integration to be able to exist and I’m grateful to be created by a god that gave me a guideline to overcome challenges and every task that I’m asked to perform in the end only befits me and creates the happiness that we all seem to be chasing.

[thewhitepaper-media-blog]

EDHI HOMES: Homes to Muffled Cries

Behind bars…shut out for life ever after!

In our conservative patriarchal society, homeless women often end up in so-called rehabilitation centres. Azra Syed makes in-roads into Edhi Homes and exposes the life inside the tightly guarded walls.

“I��can sing very well. Please help me escape from here.”

“I know tailoring. This was my means of living when I lived in Saudi Arabia. For God’s sake, get me out of here.”“I am Qur’an Teacher and want to teach the holy book to children, but how can do that here?”These were just some of the desperate cries I heard as I enter the Bilquis Edhi Home

‘Apna Ghar’

in Shadman Town, North Karachi.Walking through the corridor I was confronted with disturbing questions. Why are these women here?Who dumped them in such a pathetic place where they do not even have a fan in such hot weather?Overwhelmed by such questions, I reminded myself that many of these women have no alternative but to take refuge in a

Dar-ul-Aman –

rehabilitation centre for shelter-less women. In our conservative patriarchal culture, many women dare not leave their parents’ or husband’s home because they fear hostility from their families and society in general. But those who dare to do it often have no choice but to take refuge in

Dar-ul-Aman

, or they are forced to land in any Edhi Home.

So what is really going on in most of the

Dar-ul-Amaans?

This can’t be explained in limited time and space. But what has been happening in the Edhi homes established especially for females, is a mystery which deserves a careful study.

Bilquis Edhi at work

The wrongdoings being committed by a renowned welfare organisation, as witnessed by this correspondent, are at best shocking. Here are a few examples of women I came across during my visit to Edhi Homes.

Mushtari Begum was a paralysed old woman who has been living at Apna Ghar for four years. She came from India and was married to a Pakistani National, an employee of Pakistan International Airline (PIA), who lived in Hyderabad. She wanted to go back but, as she said: “Edhi’s driver took me twice to Hyderabad, but both times, brought me back without taking me to my ex-husband’s home, saying the house is closed. She also alleged that her jewellery and money was taken by the staff at Apna Ghar and she never got it back.With tears in her eyes, she requested us: “Please help me get out of here.” Mushtari Begum was confident enough to live on her own. She said she had some money in the bank, besides some precious jewellery, watches and silks. “I can hire a maid and live a comfortable life,” she said. At the rehabilitation centre, she complained of pathetic living conditions. “I used to take a bath twice a day. But here I am lying on the floor without even a fan and a bed. I am paralysed and unable to maintain cleanliness. I need a helper, but who will help me in such a pathetic place?” she questioned.However, when asked for his comments regarding the allegations and conditions prevailing at Edhi Homes, Edhi said: “These women have no sense as to what they are talking about. They are mentally disturbed.”But then there is Amina, a slim Saraiki woman, accompanied by five other women, was preparing chapattis for all inside a big room. Upon spotting a journalist, she quickly moved towards me and started telling her story before we asked her anything. “I was living in Saudi Arabia, where I was earning my bread and butter by tailoring. My brother is still living in Saudi with his family. I came here to update my documents because the visa date had expired. The authorities did not allow me to go back and sent me to the Edhi Home instead,” she complained.

Helpless and Homeless: Waiting for Messiah

There are many Bengali women in Edhi Homes, and 20-year old Anwari is one of them. She was brought here when she was only twelve. Unlike most other women, she is very happy here. “This is my home. I feel comfortable here,” she said. Anwari and her elder sister Abeeja were trafficked to Pakistan from Bangladesh. The sisters parted at the border. She has forgotten everything about her childhood except her younger brothers and sisters left behind in Bangladesh. Anwari is fluent in Urdu and performs the duties of cooking with two other women, Nargis and Zubaida. Nargis was also trafficked to Pakistan from Bangladesh by a pimp who sold her in Pakistan. She cannot speak Urdu but understands it. She did not say anything but kept weeping.Another married old woman Ameer Jan claimed that about four months ago, she came to Karachi to shop for her son’s wedding. But some people from Edhi home carried her here.My discoveries about what really goes on inside the tightly guarded walls of Edhi Homes were reinforced by a joint research study conducted with Shabana Akhtar Siddiqui, a student at the University of Karachi. The study conducted a few months ago, looked at the “productive activities of women at Edhi Homes.” Starting disclosures where made as a result of the study which is probably the first of its kind.

About 50 women of different ages were selected at random from all the three Edhi Homes running in Karachi. A questionnaire covering age, education, number of skills, and further desire for working, was prepared.  About 68 percent women approached for the purpose, were between 14-25 years. Whereas 28 percent were between 26-35 years and remaining was above 35 years. Fifty percent among them were illiterate. Only 26 percent had primary education. About 40 percent had primary to middle schooling. Only 14 percent were educated between middle to matriculation, while only four percent fell in the range of matriculation and graduation level.

About 70 percent women came from urban areas, 26 percent from rural areas and only two percent belong to townships, whereas two percent had no knowledge about their native towns and cities because they have been living in Edhi Homes since their childhood.To begin with, the majority of the women in Edhi Homes are involved in unproductive activities.

They usually spend their time sleeping or sitting idle, playing games or chatting. Very few had a reading habit.

About 68 percent knew stitching, 54 percent knew embroidery including Kashmiri and Sindhi embroidery, Moti Tanka (bead-stitch) and Afghani Tanka (Afghani-Stitch) and mirror work. 32 percent were trained in knitting and crochet. About 34 percent knew skills like flower-making, baskets, caps and other household items made. Many had worked in offices and dispensaries. A few were diploma holders in different courses including typing, short-hand, midwifery, hand decoration (Henna painting), and beautician.All of them maintained that they had learnt these skills before getting into Edhi Homes. The majority of the women wanted to increase their qualification. They were keen to learn different skills like driving, nursing, stitching, office work, social welfare, teaching, religious education. These women had also requested the administration to provide them with opportunities for learning different crafts.The management promised to do so, but never put its words into action. Hence, only one of the women succeeded in getting admission in a training school but she could not attend classes because of other engagements at the centre. Another was refused permission by the management without any reason.When Bilquis Edhi was asked about the productive activities of the women living in Edhi centres, she replied: “these women are mentally disturbed and are unable to do anything or perform any duty.”When it was pointed out that the majority at the Clifton Centre and

Dar-ul-Baqa-e-Khawateen (Women welfare centre) appeared normal, she denied it and said:

“No they are also abnormal and you do not have enough knowledge about different types of mental disorders.”

She said that they get themselves injured with sharp objects like needles, scissors and knives when asked to cook or stitch.“Participation in various tasks, like stitching of shrouds for the dead bodies (Kafans), repairing of clothes, cooking, sweeping dish-washing and laundering is compulsory for all women otherwise their food supply would be stopped,” she informed.However, she maintained that usually the women perform all these duties at their free will and do not object to doing any of these tasks.According to Bilquis Edhi, the Foundation has chalked out a number of new projects for the shelterless women. These including the establishment of a ball pen factory and match factory, besides starting typing and stitching courses.She claimed that in order to provide education to every woman, from first to the sixth level.

“Nursing, midwifery, and laboratory work had been taught to those women who showed interest in these areas, so they could become independent,”

Bilquis Edhi claimed.

Talking about the issue of marriages of girls lodged in Edhi Homes, she said Edhi Foundation has arranged marriages of a large number of girls who had been divorced once or were widows. Only one marriage out of these ended in failure, she claimed.But most of Bilquis Edhi’s statements are questionable in the light of the allegations by the women at the centres.For example, it was observed during random visits to the centre there was nothing like proper education facility at any centre or none of the women interviewed mentioned it.

Edhi Homes- Where one feels insecure

She had been crying for the last two hours but nobody paid any heed to her cries and woes. She was old, begging for her son whom she had admitted, a few months ago, in Edhi Home’s ‘

Apna Ghar’ (Ours Home) situated in Sohrab Goth

, Karachi.“For God’s sake! Let me meet my son. He is the only one I can lean on in my old age.” She was crying outside the window of the office, as she pleaded with those inside, Apna Ghar Edhi Home office.No one tried to understand her pain. After a while one of them came toward and snapped at her, 

“jao mai tumhara beta mur gaya hey, Humari Jan chhorro” (Go away old woman, your son has died, leave us alone.) Once again she dissolved into tears: “You are telling a lie. How could he die? He was young and healthy.” “He was not healthy, he was a drug addict, so he simply died while sleeping at night,” was the reply.“Why did not you inform me?” she asked.This was met with silence.“Ok, if he is dead, then please hand his body over to me,” she requested.

“We have buried him.”

“Where have you buried him?”

“We don’t know. Hundreds of people die every day. How is it possible to remember where they are buried.

He is no more, forget him and don’t waste our time.” She was told.“You people are talking rubbish… you are lying, if not, then give me his body,” she shouted.Meanwhile, one of the staff members came out and pushed the old lady away.According to an Edhi Homes staff member, the old woman had a son called ‘Haider’ who had fallen victim to the curse of heroin andWas admitted in ‘Apna Ghar’ a year ago. He died a few months later as he failed to respond to the treatment.It was time to question the staffer;

“How did Haider get heroin at Edhi Home when the rules stipulate that nobody can enter any Edhi Centre, without the express clearance by Maulana Abdus Sattar Edhi, the founder and head of Edhi Foundation?”

The staffer could not answer properly and tried to gloss over the embarrassing situation. I turned to the old lady and questioned her about her position. “I am too poor to get my son admitted to a private or semi-private hospital. So I had no choice but to leave my beloved child here and regularly visited him. But these people were always reluctant to allow me to meet him. In the beginning, they simply refused because he was an addict.”After one month they informed her that Haider

had been shifted to another Edhi Home. She asked for the address which they deliberately withheld. She did not surrender and kept demanding information.“One month passed and they did not have a proper reply. One day one of the office bearers informed me that my son had expired and since then I have been begging them for information about his grave.”This is not a rare case but a routine practice at Edhi Homes.It has been observed that those who cannot afford treatment of either physically or mentally ill relative drop them at Edhi Home. Usually, after a few months or a maximum of a year, they are informed that the person had died or lost somewhere while being shifted from one of the Edhi Homes to another.Parents are not allowed to meet their wards lodged at Edhi Centres.Defending the decision, Ismail, the charge of ‘Apna Ghar’ at Sohrab Goth said: “If a parent or relative admits a child or a person at the Edhi Home, it means the person is unwanted.

Once they do not want a person they have no right to meet them because they lost their right when they threw the person out of their lives.So we discourage them and are not allowed to meet them.”According to Ismail, illiterate people bring their abnormal children to Edhi Centres. They fail to read the admission form in which it is clearly said that the person who has filled the form has no relation to the child or person. He or she is alone in the world, and so, is being admitted to the Edhi Home.Some of the staff members and insiders, while requesting anonymity, said that a physically healthy but mentally retarded person living in the Edhi Homes dies within two to three years. Nobody knows the reasons behind these early deaths. When asked, the people sitting in Edhi Homes replied that they die because they develop severe mental disorders.Can a mental disturbance be the cause of an early death?

[thewhitepaper-media-blog]

EDHI HOMES: Homes to Muffled Cries

Behind bars…shut out for life ever after!

In our conservative patriarchal society, homeless women often end up in so-called rehabilitation centres. Azra Syed makes in-roads into Edhi Homes and exposes the life inside the tightly guarded walls.

“I can sing very well. Please help me escape from here.”

“I know tailoring. This was my means of living when I lived in Saudi Arabia. For God’s sake, get me out of here.”“I am Qur’an Teacher and want to teach the holy book to children, but how can do that here?”These were just some of the desperate cries I heard as I enter the Bilquis Edhi Home

‘Apna Ghar’

in Shadman Town, North Karachi.Walking through the corridor I was confronted with disturbing questions. Why are these women here?Who dumped them in such a pathetic place where they do not even have a fan in such hot weather?Overwhelmed by such questions, I reminded myself that many of these women have no alternative but to take refuge in a

Dar-ul-Aman –

rehabilitation centre for shelter-less women. In our conservative patriarchal culture, many women dare not leave their parents’ or husband’s home because they fear hostility from their families and society in general. But those who dare to do it often have no choice but to take refuge in

Dar-ul-Aman or they are forced to land in any Edhi Home.

So what is really going on in most of the Dar-ul-Amaans?

This can’t be explained in limited time and space. But what has been happening in the Edhi homes established especially for females, is a mystery which deserves a careful study.

Bilquis Edhi at work

The wrong doings being committed by a renowned welfare organisation, as witnessed by this correspondent, are at best shocking. Here are a few examples of women I came across during my visit to Edhi Homes.

Mushtari Begum was a paralysed old woman who has been living at Apna Ghar for four years. She came from India and was married to a Pakistani National, an employee of Pakistan International Airline (PIA), who lived in Hyderabad. She wanted to go back but, as she said: “Edhi’s driver took me twice to Hyderabad, but both times, brought me back without taking me to my ex-husband’s home, saying the house is closed. She also alleged that her jewellery and money was taken by the staff at Apna Ghar and she never got it back.With tears in her eyes, she requested us: “Please help me get out of here.”

Mushtari Begum was confident enough to live on her own. She said she had some money in the bank, besides some precious jewellery, watches and silks. “I can hire a maid and live a comfortable life,” she said. At the rehabilitation centre, she complained of pathetic living conditions. “I used to take a bath twice a day. But here I am lying on the floor without even a fan and a bed. I am paralysed and unable to maintain cleanliness. I need a helper, but who will help me in such a pathetic place?” she questioned.However, when asked for his comments regarding the allegations and conditions prevailing at Edhi Homes, Edhi said: “These women have no sense as to what they are talking about. They are mentally disturbed.”But then there is

Amina, a slim Saraiki woman, accompanied by five other women, was preparing chapattis for all inside a big room. Upon spotting a journalist, she quickly moved towards me and started telling her story before we asked her anything. “I was living in Saudi Arabia, where I was earning my bread and butter by tailoring. My brother is still living in Saudi with his family. I came here to update my documents because the visa date had expired. The authorities did not allow me to go back and sent me to the Edhi Home instead,” she complained.

Helpless and Homeless: Waiting for Messiah

There are many Bengali women in Edhi Homes, and 20-year old Anwari is one of them. She was brought here when she was only twelve. Unlike most other women, she is very happy here. “This is my home. I feel comfortable here,” she said. Anwari and her elder sister Abeeja were trafficked to Pakistan from Bangladesh. The sisters parted at the border. She has forgotten everything about her childhood except her younger brothers and sisters left behind in Bangladesh. Anwari is fluent in Urdu and performs the duties of cooking with two other women, Nargis and Zubaida. Nargis was also trafficked to Pakistan from Bangladesh by a pimp who sold her in Pakistan. She cannot speak Urdu but understands it. She did not say anything but kept weeping. 

Another married old woman Ameer Jan claimed that about four months ago, she came to Karachi to shop for her son’s wedding. But some people from Edhi home carried her here.My discoveries about what really goes on inside the tightly guarded walls of Edhi Homes were reinforced by a joint research study conducted with Shabana Akhtar Siddiqui, a student at the University of Karachi. The study conducted a few months ago, looked at the “productive activities of women at Edhi Homes.” Starting disclosures were made as a result of the study which is probably the first of its kind.

About 50 women of different ages were selected at random from all the three Edhi Homes running in Karachi. A questionnaire covering age, education, number of skills, and further desire for working, was prepared.  About 68 per cent women approached for the purpose, were between 14-25 years. Whereas 28 per cent were between 26-35 years and remaining was above 35 years. Fifty percent of them were illiterate. Only 26 percent had primary education. About 40 per cent had primary to middle schooling. Only 14 per cent were educated between middle to matriculation, while only four per cent fell in the range of matriculation and graduation level.

About 70 per cent women came from urban areas, 26 per cent from rural areas and only two per cent belong to townships, whereas two per cent had no knowledge about their native towns and cities because they have been living in Edhi Homes since their childhood.To begin with, the majority of the women in Edhi Homes are involved in unproductive activities.

They usually spend their time sleeping or sitting idle, playing games or chatting. Very few had a reading habit.

About 68 per cent knew stitching, 54 per cent knew embroidery including Kashmiri and Sindhi embroidery, Moti Tanka (bead-stitch) and Afghani Tanka (Afghani-Stitch) and mirror work. 32 per cent were trained in knitting and crochet. About 34 per cent knew skills like flower-making, baskets, caps and other household items made. Many had worked in offices and dispensaries. A few were diploma holders in different courses including typing, shorthand, midwifery, hand decoration (Henna painting), and beautician.All of them maintained that they had learnt these skills before getting into Edhi Homes. The majority of the women wanted to increase their qualification. They were keen to learn different skills like driving, nursing, stitching, office work, social welfare, teaching, religious education. These women had also requested the administration to provide them with opportunities for learning different crafts.The management promised to do so, but never put its words into action. Hence, only one of the women succeeded in getting admission in a training school but she could not attend classes because of other engagements at the centre. Another was refused permission by the management without any reason.When Bilquis Edhi was asked about the productive activities of the women living in Edhi centres, she replied: “these women are mentally disturbed and are unable to do anything or perform any duty.”When it was pointed out that the majority at the Clifton Centre and

Dar-ul-Baqa-e-Khawateen (Women welfare centre) appeared normal, she denied it and said: 

“No they are also abnormal and you do not have enough knowledge about different types of mental disorders.”

She said that they get themselves injured with sharp objects like needles, scissors and knives when asked to cook or stitch.“Participation in various tasks, like stitching of shrouds for the dead bodies (Kafans), repairing of clothes, cooking, sweeping dish-washing and laundering is compulsory for all women otherwise their food supply would be stopped,” she informed.However, she maintained that usually the women perform all these duties at their free will and do not object to doing any of these tasks.According to Bilquis Edhi, the Foundation has chalked out a number of new projects for the shelterless women. These including the establishment of a ball pen factory and match factory, besides starting typing and stitching courses.She claimed that in order to provide education to every woman, from first to the sixth level.

“Nursing, midwifery, and laboratory work had been taught to those women who showed interest in these areas, so they could become independent,”

Bilquis Edhi claimed.

Talking about the issue of marriages of girls lodged in Edhi Homes, she said Edhi Foundation has arranged marriages of a large number of girls who had been divorced once or were widows. Only one marriage out of these ended in failure, she claimed.But most of Bilquis Edhi’s statements are questionable in the light of the allegations by the women at the centres.For example, it was observed during random visits at the centre there was nothing like proper education facility at any centre or none of the women interviewed mentioned it.

Edhi Homes- Where one feels insecure

She had been crying for the last two hours but nobody paid any heed to her cries and woes. She was old, begging for her son whom she had admitted, a few months ago, in Edhi Home’s ‘Apna Ghar’ (Ours Home) situated in Sohrab Goth, Karachi.“For God’s sake! Let me meet my son. He is the only one I can lean on in my old age.” She was crying outside the window of the office, as she pleaded with those inside ‘Apna Ghar’, Edhi Home office.No one tried to understand her pain. After a while one of them came toward and snapped at her, “jao mai, tumhara beta mur gaya hey, Humari Jan chhorro” (Go away old woman, your son has died, leave us alone.) Once again she dissolved into tears: “You are telling a lie. How could he die? He was young and healthy.” “He was not healthy, he was a drug addict, so he simply died while sleeping at night,” was the reply.

“Why did not you inform me?” she asked.This was met with silence.“Ok, if he is dead, then please hand his body over to me,” she requested.

“We have buried him.”

“Where have you buried him?”

“We don’t know. Hundreds of people die every day. How is it possible to remember where they are buried.

He is no more, forget him and don’t waste our time.” She was told.“You people are talking rubbish… you are lying, if not, then give me his body,” she shouted.

Meanwhile, one of the staff members came out and pushed the old lady away. According to an Edhi Homes staff member, the old woman had a son called

‘Haider’ who had fallen victim to the curse of heroin and was admitted in ‘Apna Ghar’ a year ago. He died a few months later as he failed to respond to the treatment. It was time to question the staffer;

“How did Haider get heroin at Edhi Home when the rules stipulate that nobody can enter any Edhi Centre, without the express clearance by Maulana Abdus Sattar Edhi, the founder and head of Edhi Foundation?”

The staffer could not answer properly and tried to gloss over the embarrassing situation. I turned to the old lady and questioned her about her position. “I am too poor to get my son admitted in a private or semi-private hospital. So I had no choice but to leave my beloved child here and regularly visited him. But these people were always reluctant to allow me to meet him. In the beginning, they simply refused because he was an addict.”After one month they informed her that Haider had been shifted to another Edhi Home. She asked for the address which they deliberately withheld. She did not surrender and kept demanding information.“One month passed and they did not have a proper reply. One day one of the office bearers informed me that my son had expired and since then I have been begging them for information about his grave.”This is not a rare case but a routine practice at Edhi Homes.It has been observed that those who cannot afford treatment of either physically or mentally ill relative drop them at Edhi Home. Usually, after a few months or a maximum of a year, they are informed that the person had died or lost somewhere while being shifted from one of the Edhi Homes to another.Parents are not allowed to meet their wards lodged at Edhi Centres.Defending the decision, Ismail, the in charge of ‘Apna Ghar’ at Sohrab Goth said: “If a parent or relative admits a child or a person at the Edhi Home, it means the person is unwanted.

Once they do not want a person they have no right to meet them because they lost their right when they threw the person out of their lives.

So we discourage them and are not allowed to meet them.”According to Ismail, illiterate people bring their abnormal children to Edhi Centres. They fail to read the admission form in which it is clearly said that the person who has filled the form has no relation with the child or person. He or she is alone in the world, and so, is being admitted to the Edhi Home.Some of the staff members and insiders, while requesting anonymity, said that a physically healthy but mentally retarded person living in the Edhi Homes dies within two to three years. Nobody knows the reasons behind these early deaths. When asked, the people sitting in Edhi Homes replied that they die because they develop severe mental disorders.Can a mental disturbance be the cause of an early death?

Written By: Azra Syed

_

Photography: Aijaz Hashmi & M Farooq Khan