A few letters ago (Letter-19: Unpalatable Patriotism), I discussed the perils of Peace Corps Missions II and III. These missions include representing U.S. culture overseas and taking an alien culture home, legally. So permit me to talk about today’s comida.
In México, comida is the big meal of the day and occurs about two o’clock in the afternoon. Traditional Christmas dinners in the United States tend to start at three in the afternoon. Combine that coincidence with the fact that I walked off with the big prize at a departmental shin-dig last week, and we have got a "Christmas comida".
Last Thursday, the general management division of the engineering research center where I volunteer had a grand breakfast to celebrate Christmas. After trying every which way to avoid winning, I ended up with this turkey. Not only did I feel guilty as a guest of one month’s standing taking the prize, I was mortified because I do not know how to cook nor does my novia.
Frankly fed up with my yammering over what to do about this fifteen pound predicament, a colleague bailed me out by offering to cook the turkey. That is when His Eminent Brilliance put two-and-two together for the Christmas comida. So my running all over town (i.e., to an upscale Mexican market, WalMart and Costco) combined with the help a lovely lady who pitched in a tasty salad and my colleague's masterful job -- actually that of his sisters -- on the turkey yielded a solution.
Monday would have been the logical day. No way; I immediately vetoed that idea. Call me a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee – a Northerner still fighting the War – but I could not see throwing a party, even in another country, on the one hundred-fiftieth anniversary of the secession of South Carolina from the Union to precipitate a war that claimed about as many of our countrymen (both South and North) as every other war put together.
History aside, today’s was a truly American Christmas comida with turkey; Mexican stuffing and salad; cranberry sauce (with the can-ridges as noted by my sister); brie and crackers; mashed potatoes and gravy; sparkling grape juice (in lieu of wine, per major school rules); chocolate almonds; as well as, of course, pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Out of thirty people eating, only two Peace Corps Volunteers (Brian Johnson and I) were from North of the border.
My Mexican colleagues loved the Christmas comida. They gave me a big group cheer, amid my blushing. One senior exec said to me, perhaps giving me my best gift this Christmas, “Thank you, Ned. People will remember this fiesta for a long time…” As gratifying, I had the privilege of paraphrasing a condensed version my father’s traditional Thanksgiving grace in my halting, frightful Spanish:
“Dios, pedimos la bendición ahora para esta comida de navidad porque nuestra familia son amigos y nuestros amigos son familia. Gracias.”
(Supposed to say: God, we now ask for your blessing for this Christmas dinner for our family are friends and our friends are family. Thank you.)
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Letter-26: Christmas wish for Afghanistan
A former FaceBook friend wrote me an impassioned response to my sending a soldier an e-mailed Christmas card with the additional comment of hope that our younger brothers and sisters be home unharmed and in time.
Though I can no longer respond directly to her, I am posting specific comments in response to parts of her e-mail; they appear as comments to this shorter letter. The intellect involved here is far stronger than mine and these angry comments should have currency this Christmas season.
Afghanistan remains dreadfully transparent, even in the North where I was. The United States is caught between Iraq and a hard place (as King Hussein used to say about Jordan). My response expresses a helpless sense of ambivalence about Afghanistan; it comes across as weak.
Personally, I am at the point where enough is enough; I have lost confidence in the crowd that thinks “this time will be different”. In writing this, I want to repeat that I know and respect many soldiers facing very difficult situations this Christmas. They actually make a big difference in the everyday lives of beleaguered people.
While I have butted heads with many of these soldiers during my four stints in war zones, I could never lose sight of the fact – and it is a fact – that these people have been among the finest I have known. And it is time for our soldiers to come home, the sooner the better.
Apparently, troops will be in Afghanistan until or through 2014, implying a 2½-3½ year time-line. This time-line is a depressing disappointment. Since a phased withdrawal may take more time than the one year I would prefer, my disappointment falls short of disillusionment.
Political calculation may be at play, here, in trying to get this increasingly troubled misadventure off of the re-election radar in 2012. Things are neither simple nor subtle. Afghans exhibit the same ambivalence toward U.S. troops that Americans used to have towards Congress: “Congressmen are corrupt and rotten, with the exception of mine."
Likewise, many Afghans hate the Americans except for 'their' Americans. For all of its high-profile glitz, the ‘Whole-of-Government’ approach simply does not work. USAID’s development model is, when viewed charitably, ineffective; other USG Departments are having difficulty fielding workers.
The soldiers in the communities - not over-paid USAID or USDA field-workers - provide much more direct (and appreciated) community development. There remain two fundamental concerns with a precipitate withdrawal. First, would a likely Taliban victory in Afghanistan lead to an expansionist 'Pashtunistan'?
This uniting of the Pakistan and Afghan Taliban, quarrelsome as the two appear to be, would probably emerge from the almost certain collapse of Pakistan, hardly a nation in its own right. A bigger, bloodier war over Kashmir might then erupt among two nuclear powers and a nuclear renegade from the 12th century.
Further, a Taliban victory might precede a whole sale slaughter of thousands of Afghan women activists and local leaders brave enough to challenge an archaic and brutal culture. The mainstream arguments cited most often against withdrawal are elegantly geo-political but inevitably amoral.
Another sense of the word withdrawal comes to mind: the withdrawal involved in de-toxifying from drug abuse. Every drug-addict hates it; but, to be free, the unpleasant transition must occur sooner or later. There are always a thousand excuses for putting off the difficult, but rarely an over-riding reason.
As eloquent as the interventionists’ arguments are, the circumstances, upon which they base their arguments, will be there in a another year, two or ten. Another approach is now in order, is it not? So, I say: let the surge be the surge. Then pull back the development efforts to those truly secure parts of Afghanistan, maybe just 5-10%.
With the funds saved by a full withdrawal by mid-to-late 2012, the U.S. governmnet can lead multi-lateral efforts to ring-fence ‘Pashtunistan’ while re-settling in safer areas current women activists and local leaders standing up to the Afghan Taliban.
If we leave without protecting those brave Afghan men and women currently risking their lives for the establishment of human rights and local governance, the blood from their likely slaughter will be on our hands and conscience.
Though I can no longer respond directly to her, I am posting specific comments in response to parts of her e-mail; they appear as comments to this shorter letter. The intellect involved here is far stronger than mine and these angry comments should have currency this Christmas season.
Afghanistan remains dreadfully transparent, even in the North where I was. The United States is caught between Iraq and a hard place (as King Hussein used to say about Jordan). My response expresses a helpless sense of ambivalence about Afghanistan; it comes across as weak.
Personally, I am at the point where enough is enough; I have lost confidence in the crowd that thinks “this time will be different”. In writing this, I want to repeat that I know and respect many soldiers facing very difficult situations this Christmas. They actually make a big difference in the everyday lives of beleaguered people.
While I have butted heads with many of these soldiers during my four stints in war zones, I could never lose sight of the fact – and it is a fact – that these people have been among the finest I have known. And it is time for our soldiers to come home, the sooner the better.
Apparently, troops will be in Afghanistan until or through 2014, implying a 2½-3½ year time-line. This time-line is a depressing disappointment. Since a phased withdrawal may take more time than the one year I would prefer, my disappointment falls short of disillusionment.
Political calculation may be at play, here, in trying to get this increasingly troubled misadventure off of the re-election radar in 2012. Things are neither simple nor subtle. Afghans exhibit the same ambivalence toward U.S. troops that Americans used to have towards Congress: “Congressmen are corrupt and rotten, with the exception of mine."
Likewise, many Afghans hate the Americans except for 'their' Americans. For all of its high-profile glitz, the ‘Whole-of-Government’ approach simply does not work. USAID’s development model is, when viewed charitably, ineffective; other USG Departments are having difficulty fielding workers.
The soldiers in the communities - not over-paid USAID or USDA field-workers - provide much more direct (and appreciated) community development. There remain two fundamental concerns with a precipitate withdrawal. First, would a likely Taliban victory in Afghanistan lead to an expansionist 'Pashtunistan'?
This uniting of the Pakistan and Afghan Taliban, quarrelsome as the two appear to be, would probably emerge from the almost certain collapse of Pakistan, hardly a nation in its own right. A bigger, bloodier war over Kashmir might then erupt among two nuclear powers and a nuclear renegade from the 12th century.
Further, a Taliban victory might precede a whole sale slaughter of thousands of Afghan women activists and local leaders brave enough to challenge an archaic and brutal culture. The mainstream arguments cited most often against withdrawal are elegantly geo-political but inevitably amoral.
Another sense of the word withdrawal comes to mind: the withdrawal involved in de-toxifying from drug abuse. Every drug-addict hates it; but, to be free, the unpleasant transition must occur sooner or later. There are always a thousand excuses for putting off the difficult, but rarely an over-riding reason.
As eloquent as the interventionists’ arguments are, the circumstances, upon which they base their arguments, will be there in a another year, two or ten. Another approach is now in order, is it not? So, I say: let the surge be the surge. Then pull back the development efforts to those truly secure parts of Afghanistan, maybe just 5-10%.
With the funds saved by a full withdrawal by mid-to-late 2012, the U.S. governmnet can lead multi-lateral efforts to ring-fence ‘Pashtunistan’ while re-settling in safer areas current women activists and local leaders standing up to the Afghan Taliban.
If we leave without protecting those brave Afghan men and women currently risking their lives for the establishment of human rights and local governance, the blood from their likely slaughter will be on our hands and conscience.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Letter-25 to Friends and Family: ¿Spiritual Nutrition or Attrition? You make the call.
Unfortunately, I have had little to report the last two weeks, at least on Mexican culture, for life has been busy with the reading – and, yes, reviewing – of an eight hundred page document in Spanish on how to harmonize accounting standards. That and compliance with Salvador’s gauntlet. Salvador is a kindly older neighbor here in Querétaro, who occasionally gets fed up with my whining about a different catastrophe in my life every week.
Around Thanksgiving, Salvador announced that he had enough and so he pointed his finger at me and said something to effect that “your people are making a big production out of saying thanks right now.” Salvador lives up to his name. He challenged me to write down any two people for whom I felt grateful during each of the fifty-three years of my life.
This group could include anybody – family member, movie actor, teacher, John Lennon, friend, national leader, anybody. Dutifully, I dissected the past – usually found wanting – and realized that my fashionably tragic life had produced more mirth than myth. In fact, the two man rule swept many dear friends into the great dust-bin of history; I think, in retrospect, that was the point.
Feeling fitly smug after this ‘spiritual discipline’ and winding down the Chinese palabra torture, I magnanimously consented to my novia’s desire to see a recent Julia Roberts flic, “Eat, Love, Pray”. Bracing myself for a piping tepid chick-flic, I was pleasantly surprised. The story-line is a romantic adventure about a woman setting out to find her authenticity in three very spiritual places: Rome, Calcutta and Bali. In the film, Smiley finds her inner peace with some simple ideas for complicated people.
A pilgrimage defying all expectations
Like Julia Roberts, but at a younger age, and like a great many others, I made the requisite trip to India. Unlike the film, where Smiley works scrubbing the floors of an Ashram, I worked in a hospital. My inspiration to lose myself in “the East” was not from a dark night of the soul, like Smiley; yes, in truth, I was inspired by Mia Farrow in the Woody Allen film, ‘Alice’. Perhaps not the best start, but enough.
On the trip over and during my stay, I hunched over the Book of Tao; the King James from Saint Edmund’s; the Buddha’s sayings; the least boring book by Joseph Campbell I could find; Parzifal by von Eschenbach; and, the Little Prince. This disciplined study intended to lay the foundation for some Unitarian version of the pilgrim’s catharsis, if not progress.
In Calcutta, the quarters were spare and the work demanding. Nevertheless, during my short stay, I had some riveting experiences like blowing chow apocalyptically and being saved by the capitalist pigs of Pepsi Cola. There were young people from all over the world at this hospital.
One such youngster was an acquaintance from the West Coast, Richard. As the only two Yanks in the place, we spent some time together, when I wasn’t busy vainly seeking enlightenment from one of three beautiful Parisian women with whom I practiced la belle langue and, dammit, nothing else.
Since I am a little doofy and almost barfed when cleaning feces the first time, my Cali-bud -- the temporary head of volunteers owing to his seniority -- did not know what to do with me. Out of a potent mix of exasperation and desperation, just prior to lunch one steaming hot India day, he asked me to sit with a patient who was obviously agitated.
The lesson learned
This poor fellow was in cot #33 by the Y-shaped entrance (main door, anteroom, two doors on either side up a few stairs). The anal details apparently had great significance as I later learned from a psychic who was the wife of a friend of my sister and brother-in-law. So I sat down with the man. He looked like a Muslim; since I could speak neither Arabic nor Hindi, I could only sit there like a dumb ass.
Around Thanksgiving, Salvador announced that he had enough and so he pointed his finger at me and said something to effect that “your people are making a big production out of saying thanks right now.” Salvador lives up to his name. He challenged me to write down any two people for whom I felt grateful during each of the fifty-three years of my life.
This group could include anybody – family member, movie actor, teacher, John Lennon, friend, national leader, anybody. Dutifully, I dissected the past – usually found wanting – and realized that my fashionably tragic life had produced more mirth than myth. In fact, the two man rule swept many dear friends into the great dust-bin of history; I think, in retrospect, that was the point.
Feeling fitly smug after this ‘spiritual discipline’ and winding down the Chinese palabra torture, I magnanimously consented to my novia’s desire to see a recent Julia Roberts flic, “Eat, Love, Pray”. Bracing myself for a piping tepid chick-flic, I was pleasantly surprised. The story-line is a romantic adventure about a woman setting out to find her authenticity in three very spiritual places: Rome, Calcutta and Bali. In the film, Smiley finds her inner peace with some simple ideas for complicated people.
A pilgrimage defying all expectations
Like Julia Roberts, but at a younger age, and like a great many others, I made the requisite trip to India. Unlike the film, where Smiley works scrubbing the floors of an Ashram, I worked in a hospital. My inspiration to lose myself in “the East” was not from a dark night of the soul, like Smiley; yes, in truth, I was inspired by Mia Farrow in the Woody Allen film, ‘Alice’. Perhaps not the best start, but enough.
On the trip over and during my stay, I hunched over the Book of Tao; the King James from Saint Edmund’s; the Buddha’s sayings; the least boring book by Joseph Campbell I could find; Parzifal by von Eschenbach; and, the Little Prince. This disciplined study intended to lay the foundation for some Unitarian version of the pilgrim’s catharsis, if not progress.
In Calcutta, the quarters were spare and the work demanding. Nevertheless, during my short stay, I had some riveting experiences like blowing chow apocalyptically and being saved by the capitalist pigs of Pepsi Cola. There were young people from all over the world at this hospital.
One such youngster was an acquaintance from the West Coast, Richard. As the only two Yanks in the place, we spent some time together, when I wasn’t busy vainly seeking enlightenment from one of three beautiful Parisian women with whom I practiced la belle langue and, dammit, nothing else.
Since I am a little doofy and almost barfed when cleaning feces the first time, my Cali-bud -- the temporary head of volunteers owing to his seniority -- did not know what to do with me. Out of a potent mix of exasperation and desperation, just prior to lunch one steaming hot India day, he asked me to sit with a patient who was obviously agitated.
The lesson learned
This poor fellow was in cot #33 by the Y-shaped entrance (main door, anteroom, two doors on either side up a few stairs). The anal details apparently had great significance as I later learned from a psychic who was the wife of a friend of my sister and brother-in-law. So I sat down with the man. He looked like a Muslim; since I could speak neither Arabic nor Hindi, I could only sit there like a dumb ass.
The poor fellow would not take any food. Despite my diversions employed to sneak some orange juice into his mouth, only to see this dying man maintain his dignity by spitting out the juice. The obvious conclusion stiffened me momentarily: this man was prepared to depart.
So, I tried the technique of Erich Fromme by gently rubbing the shaking man's forehead and saying softly enough for him alone to hear, "I need you because I love you." That may sound strange but that was all I could think of to say.
So, I tried the technique of Erich Fromme by gently rubbing the shaking man's forehead and saying softly enough for him alone to hear, "I need you because I love you." That may sound strange but that was all I could think of to say.
Remarkably, the fellow calmed down and seemed soothed by my make-shift succor. When I returned from lunch, cot #33 was empty; my temporary companion had departed. Captain California noticed my ambivalent success and assigned me to cot #33, once again into my morning shift.
The same sobering scenario unfolded again. When I returned from lunch, cot #33 was empty once again. There was a quiet dignity to these men as they faced their deaths with calm, aided by me, and with a diligent dignity practiced long before I showed up.
Needless to say, I approached the impromptu foreman the next morning and said, "Richard, if I am to sit by cot #33 again, perhaps you should get the permission of the patient first.
The lesson earned
My California friend took to saying in response to my frequently unanswerable and mainly rhetorical questions, “Eat dessert first; life is uncertain.”
¡EUREKA! Mission accomplished…I am Zen; Zen again, I am Ned. Time to go home.
Some weeks later, braving the raw temps of April in New York, I was walking back to my apartment late on a stormy week-day night. Venturing South on Lexington Avenue, I walked past two blocks around Seventieth Street that hosted beautiful pre-War red-brick buildings. The rain was hard, cold and strident. The umbrella had been useless since at least Eightieth Street. I was only a little less drenched than the damnable trench coast.
On the first floor of these buildings were fine toilet shops, heirlooms-bought-or-stolen-and-sold and an obnoxious interior decorating store. That decorating store would switch its display periodically but never deviated from its formulaic format of a Victorian couch with fine, goofy pillows, one of which had a needle-pointed platitude like “Eat, Pray, Love”.
As I passed the display window, I wiped the lens of my glasses to read some trite and true saying. And what was that month’s perfect pillow-talk? You guessed it: “Eat Dessert First; Life is Uncertain.”
This time around, ‘Eureka’ was hardly the first word to cross my mind.
Needless to say, I approached the impromptu foreman the next morning and said, "Richard, if I am to sit by cot #33 again, perhaps you should get the permission of the patient first.
The lesson earned
My California friend took to saying in response to my frequently unanswerable and mainly rhetorical questions, “Eat dessert first; life is uncertain.”
¡EUREKA! Mission accomplished…I am Zen; Zen again, I am Ned. Time to go home.
Some weeks later, braving the raw temps of April in New York, I was walking back to my apartment late on a stormy week-day night. Venturing South on Lexington Avenue, I walked past two blocks around Seventieth Street that hosted beautiful pre-War red-brick buildings. The rain was hard, cold and strident. The umbrella had been useless since at least Eightieth Street. I was only a little less drenched than the damnable trench coast.
On the first floor of these buildings were fine toilet shops, heirlooms-bought-or-stolen-and-sold and an obnoxious interior decorating store. That decorating store would switch its display periodically but never deviated from its formulaic format of a Victorian couch with fine, goofy pillows, one of which had a needle-pointed platitude like “Eat, Pray, Love”.
As I passed the display window, I wiped the lens of my glasses to read some trite and true saying. And what was that month’s perfect pillow-talk? You guessed it: “Eat Dessert First; Life is Uncertain.”
This time around, ‘Eureka’ was hardly the first word to cross my mind.
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