A preamble of sorts
As I think about telling the story of India, I can't help but realise a stark inadequacy for words. In general, I'm a quiet person. Although, I definitely can get very passionate, I'm not much of a writer. Sure I've written a few songs, but I'm not a writer. The following is a copy of a travelogue written by jon foreman. It not only combines information with creative flair, it has heart and it would pretty much be my exact words...IF i knew how to write...Its a long read...but it will be worth it. Trust me.
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I'm not exactly sure when it first started. Maybe it was my neighbors when I was growing up, or the roommate I had in college, or perhaps just a faded picture in an old National Geographic. Whatever it was, I have been enchanted by India for some time. To me, it represented all things exotic and mysterious. I kept the sub-continent safe in a sacred place in my mind, reserved for only the most alluring ideas. Traveling to India, then, was a delicate prospect, one that held the potential of shattering superlative myths that I had long held in my imagination.
I went nonetheless and I am thankful to say that this was not the case. I returned with an even greater respect for the history, the culture, and above all, the beautiful people of India. It is a country of exotic diversity, full of colors I had never seen, melodies I had never heard - a country with fourteen national languages and nine of the world's major religions. Balancing the history of a three-thousand-year-old culture alongside a technological revolution creates a land of clear dichotomy.
I was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds and tastes of humanity in a country that more that holds fifteen percent of the world's population. I was privileged to spend time with its people - amazing people, many of them unknown and unrecognized by their own countryman. As I recount my experience, I am interested in telling their story, the story of men and women fighting a shrouded battle for social equality and human rights. It's one we should all hear because in America we won't, unless someone tells us.
Oct 9 Tokyo to Delhi
"You evil-eyed people, may girls be born in your homes."
Today, my wife and I are flying to the country where these words were scrawled near the ashes of houses still smoldering from the fires of oppression. Surely, this must be a scene from years gone by, from some feudal war-torn land where the women were viewed as a curse. Surely this is just an isolated event. Surely this cant have happened this year.
"The crime is systemic, societal, and structured," says P. Sainath of the Hindu. "The countless reports on the subject over the years do not show discrimination against Dalits to be dying away ... Yet the number of such cases ending in conviction of the criminals is dismal ... The events in Gohana and Akola are just a part of an ongoing crime against humanity. For that's what caste-based discrimination is." Where does the hostility come from? How can it be tolerated? I suppose these questions are why I'm in the back of a plane headed to India; because I still don't fully understand the situation myself. The stories I hear from my Indian friends are hard to stomach: lynching, slavery, forced child prostitution. Can this be the same developing nation where so many western dollars have been migrating recently? The life of a Dalit is worth less than the life of a cow. Did an Indian government official really say this? (VHP Vice President Giriraj Kishore)
Truly, no culture is above hatred. I've seen racism, sexism and other forms of intolerance in my own country. But I've never heard these stories before. Perhaps the estimated 100 million child laborers will live to see a brighter day. Perhaps their children will hear these stories as a part of Indian history: a story of the triumph of human rights, children's rights, and women's liberation. My Indian friends tell me that a quiet revolution is underway, a new day is dawning. These acts of ignorance and hatred may become a thing of the past; three-thousand years of what has been dubbed "religious fascism" might become history within our lifetime. And it also might not. I want to understand the struggle. Today I will set foot on Indian soil for the first time. I am headed to visit the very person who first informed me of the Dalit struggle for freedom. I am here to listen and learn.
Oct. 10 Delhi to Lucknow
Humans. Rights.
As my first full day on Indian soil comes to a close, I find that I am having a hard time sorting through the traffic in my head: exotic melodies are still ringing in my ears, foreign intervals, strange, entrancing rhythms. And the color! Yes, the colors - the shawls, the saris, the smiles, the kindness: they weave intricate patterns through the dust in my crowded mind. Yes, the crowds. Crowds of mopeds, crowds of bikes, of rickshaws, all challenging death on the amorphous roads with a steady nonchalance. I can still hear them from here, honking from the road.
But above the road I hear singing. I hear the songs of a social revolution. I can still hear the Dalit voices of empowerment, of their bitter struggle against oppression, of the history of their people. I close my eyes and I can see their eager faces, passion, frustration, anger, and joy flashing from their eyes. "They do not value our lives," they sing in Hindi. "They do not value our labor." They plead for an India without caste. The determined tone reminds me of some of the soulful spirituals I've heard, maybe something from the civil rights era or earlier. A young woman sings with fire. She describes how every modern rule in India has used caste to keep her people down. She sounds like an ominous Dylan to me.
I learn that Dr. Ambedkar is the M.L.K., Jr. for his people. I can hear his name mentioned in the songs. Sometimes Jesus and Mary are mentioned. Sometimes Gandhi, though there is a dark shadow over his memory in the minds of the Dalit. I am told that although he was against untouchability, he fought for the caste system to endure. And endure it does, as India's version of apartheid. Today, I have heard more stories of rape, of hatred, of as many as forty-thousand Dalit children forced into child slavery.
Human rights. Humans. Rights. Are these an obvious group of moral or legal entitlements that belong to every person? How wonderful it would be to live in such an egalitarian world where all races and both sexes possess this intrinsic, empowering quality. Elementary school mantras of equality ring inside my head: "We hold these truths to be self evident..." And yet human rights are not available to all humans. Not in the world that I know. Not in America. Not in India. No. Not if you are born with a certain skin color or a certain genitalia. Not if your daddy doesn't have a certain amount of money. Am I cynical? Maybe. Or maybe things just need to change.
As I considered these things, the cynic in my head began to laugh with a deep, dark, smoker's cough: "Ahhaugh! Ha, ha! You cannot change this! You can't. This is the way it has always been." But I was not listening anymore. And he cannot stop me from standing alongside those who are in need. He cannot stop my best intentions, one hand to lend, one day at a time. If that's the closest I can come to aligning myself with justice then that's where I hope to live. Under my breath I curse the cynic.
Oct 11 Lucknow
The man who prays for death.
What glowing wonder beams from these wide eyes! We are greeted by a choir of children in English, "Good morning Sir! Good morning Madam! I'm so glad to welcome you!" These are proud, thankful students. Proud to have a uniform to wear. Proud to be learning. Proud to greet us in English. For in India, and especially in the indigent, rural areas, English is esteemed as the language of upward mobility. This is one of the few schools in the area that accept Dalit children for enrollment. Because of this, when the school first started the teachers received threats from an influential upper caste family. The community, however, fought to save the school deeming the school's education more important than the cultural customs that were broken by including Dalit children.
The soft spoken woman who runs the school tells me that families seldom enroll girls. They believe they are unworthy of the cost of education. The issues that women face here are daunting and complex; few know these intricacies better than Indira Athwale, General Secretary and Maharastra State President of All India Conference of SC/ST Organizations. Recently, she addressed the US House International Relations Committee to speak about the oppression Dalit women endure: "India has just celebrated 59 years of independence and we boast about being the largest democracy in the world. Yet, there is no independence or democracy for a large portion of the population: Dalit women. Women are daily the victims of atrocities, slavery, and exploitation related to the ongoing practice of caste. Her oppression is threefold: as a woman, as a Dalit, and as the poor. The Dalit woman must fight at all three levels every day." Eventually I pull myself away from the smiles of the young boys and girls to catch up with our guides. They were speaking with an older man who was pleading with them, tears in his eyes, begging for something in a local Hindi dialect. He might have been my father's age. His skin was brittle, worn thin by his years on the planet. He was angry with god because his prayers for death had not yet been granted. How do you answer this man? What can you say to ease the pain of living? I don't have any real answers to offer, let alone a framework for what these two were saying. When I walked by the old man he was still crying, tears drifting down his weathered face. He is a man who has seen too much. His eyes were pleading, looking up at us for some consolation. As we passed, his gaunt, haunting face followed us down the road. I wonder if his prayer will ever change.
I am still haunted as we drive on - further away from Lucknow toward another village for evening tea. The men have built a stage in the middle of the village. With a portable microphone and a make-shift P.A system, they begin the evening with song. The melodies begin to wash the evening sky like a dream that has not yet happened: a complete immersion into an ocean that I have never experienced. It is like seeing, feeling, smelling the Pacific for the first time. Melodies, rhythms, wavelike voices - they wash over me in ripples of energy. Intervals and patterns, streams of melody, taking flight then diving. A musical sky with new stars and new dreams, all spinning in a rhythm of dancing color.
The songs span some fifteen minutes. They are the narrative of the people's past, each one telling the story of the Dalit. During many songs, they open a history book on the floor and the singer follows the story directly. The past, present, and future through the eyes of the Dalit: broken, crushed, oppressed. And though I cannot unravel the spoken words, I still understand the sounds, their faces, their hands, the drips of sweat trickling from their furrowed brows into fisted eyes. Yes. I think I understand.
Oct 12 Lucknow
The village where the bracelets will be made.
I have a hard time describing the man I met today. Dressed entirely in white, Mudra Rakshas possessed an air of wisdom that seemed to permeate the room. The patches of white hair framed his wizened face; they betrayed his eyes, sparkling with youth. "I was delighted to find out you are a musician," he said to me as he entered the room. "You see, many of our finest musicians and artists in India have always been Dalit or of the lowest castes. So it is appropriate that you, as a musician, hear firsthand of our oppression." Mudra went on to explain that tradition holds that many of the musicians are unclearn. The instruments they play are made from the skin and bone of animals. He explained that within every caste there are sub-castes directly affiliated with occupation. There are even sub-castes devoted to music. Yet many times, these lower caste or outcast musicians are not accepted by the higher castes no matter how talented they are. He went on to name some of the finest Indian musicians, painters, and sculptors. These artists had changed their names and identities to associate with people of the higher castes. "Every artist has to conceal his identity," he explained, "and show that he is part of the upper caste - only then will he be accepted."
"Sad, isn't it." Our guide, Joseph, was shaking his head. "The names he mentions are phenomenal musicians. But they all have despised their own identity to be part of the upper caste." Mudra continued. "There is a place where we have a signboard; on it is written, 'Here two statues of Buddha were installed by a businessman.' The name of the businessman is displayed. The person who made those images, those Buddha figures, is not mentioned on that board. Nowhere will our sculptor be mentioned, great sculptor of ancient times. Nobody will mention the great painter of old time. Why? We have caves where there are paintings two-thousand-one-hundred years old. Now, why [is it] that the name of the painter is not mentioned. Because the Hindu scriptures state that any person who participates in drama, who is a musician, who is a sculptor or a painter is a shudra and must never be allowed to live in the city, must live outside the city ... this is written in Hindu scriptures ... All artists, all theatre-men, all painters, all musician, they are shudras and they must be thrown out of the city."
"Welcome to the Dalit world," Joseph interjected.
Mudra went on. "It is very clearly stated that they must not be allowed to have any social right. They can't even have their house. They can't have new clothes. They'll have to wear the clothes thrown [away] by the upper caste people. This is the situation. We know the names of western artists like Michelangelo ... other great sculptors' names are also known. In India, the ancient sculptors and painters are not known. It's not that the names are absent - names are available. But they are not mentioned in history."
Oct 13 Lucknow to Delhi
Still beautiful. Still Dalit.
Soon after landing, my wife and I were meandering around Delhi in a rickshaw. Our guide Jose jokingly reminded us that we are, after all, simply tourists in a strange land as we headed for one of the most popular sightseeing spots in the capital city of India: the Red Fort. Constructed primarily out of red sandstone, the Red Fort is an extraordinary structure used during both Mughal and British rule. This place was a visual history lesson where crude, decaying British structures stood alongside of beautifully preserved Indian pavilions - a graphic illustration of the politics of the last several hundred years.
I was especially amazed by the intricate, vibrant pictures inlaid on the marble. The colors lie flush with the stone, withstanding time. Jose tells me that the family who crafted these beautiful pieces of art is still at it today, still using a secret glue to vouchsafe their art for generations, still creating beauty, still Dalit.
On our way out of a nearby store, a man was trying to sell us something. And he was going for the hard sell. As we neared our destination, Jose took him aside with a smile and began to explain that we weren't interested. The vender asked Jose's last name, the name which would reveal his Dalit identity. Jose told him and then asked him if he would eat lunch with us in spite of their difference in caste. The man replied that the stigmas of caste were not as strong in that city and besides, he was so hungry that he wouldn't mind who was eating with him. Then he reconsidered. He explained that he was too busy to eat and made one final attempt to push his wares before my foreign eyes. We declined and he left us and walked up the road.
Oct 14 Delhi to Tokyo to L.A. to San Diego
The first day home.
The curb was warm and dry outside the San Diego commuter terminal. It had to be one of the hottest days of the year. No wind, no clouds, no one but the traffic officer to see me. I had a winter jacket on with both hands in its pockets. My lips were blue, my teeth were chattering, my jaw was frozen stiff. I'm pretty sure they call it Delhi belly. It's not nearly as funny as it sounds. I squint to my left to check for our ride. No one yet. Mr. Policeman does a concerned doubletake. I close my eyes and try to remember the Indian sun on my skin.
My mind drifts back to the men and women I met and the silent war they are fighting over an issue that has no easy answer. During my stay in India, many of the Dalits I met compared their situation with that of apartheid. Mudra Rakhsas called India the biggest South Africa this world had ever seen. Archbishop Emeritus, Desmond Tutu, has called for the end of a system of discrimination, "as heinous as the former apartheid system he and his generation fought against in South Africa." He is encouraging international solidarity in tackling the "scourge" of untouchability wherever it exists in India and the other countries of South Asia. Kancha Ilaiah, a visionary thinker on the subject, maintains that the oppression the Dalit people endure should be taken as seriously as the racism that we fight within our own borders. "Indian industrialists must realize that the greater presence of Blacks in American industry has not made it any the less productive. They must realize that keeping Dalits out has not made Indian industry any the more productive."
Dr. Udit Raj, the National Chairman of the All India Confederation of SC/ST Organizations & Indian Justice Party, sums the situation up well. "The developed countries, particularly the United States, must uplift the Dalits in a situation where their own countrymen consider them worth less than animals."
I recall all this and, yet, I am stuck wondering what I can possibly do to change anything. I am sitting on a warm curb, thousands of miles away, unable to stand up straight. What can I possibly do to help? The simple answer came back to me. It was something I heard over and over while in India. "Tell our story. Let the world know what is happening. We are people. We are human. Tell our story."
[jon foreman is a musician and songwriter. He is currently the frontman for the San Diego-based band, Switchfoot.]
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I'm not exactly sure when it first started. Maybe it was my neighbors when I was growing up, or the roommate I had in college, or perhaps just a faded picture in an old National Geographic. Whatever it was, I have been enchanted by India for some time. To me, it represented all things exotic and mysterious. I kept the sub-continent safe in a sacred place in my mind, reserved for only the most alluring ideas. Traveling to India, then, was a delicate prospect, one that held the potential of shattering superlative myths that I had long held in my imagination.
I went nonetheless and I am thankful to say that this was not the case. I returned with an even greater respect for the history, the culture, and above all, the beautiful people of India. It is a country of exotic diversity, full of colors I had never seen, melodies I had never heard - a country with fourteen national languages and nine of the world's major religions. Balancing the history of a three-thousand-year-old culture alongside a technological revolution creates a land of clear dichotomy.
I was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds and tastes of humanity in a country that more that holds fifteen percent of the world's population. I was privileged to spend time with its people - amazing people, many of them unknown and unrecognized by their own countryman. As I recount my experience, I am interested in telling their story, the story of men and women fighting a shrouded battle for social equality and human rights. It's one we should all hear because in America we won't, unless someone tells us.
Oct 9 Tokyo to Delhi
"You evil-eyed people, may girls be born in your homes."
Today, my wife and I are flying to the country where these words were scrawled near the ashes of houses still smoldering from the fires of oppression. Surely, this must be a scene from years gone by, from some feudal war-torn land where the women were viewed as a curse. Surely this is just an isolated event. Surely this cant have happened this year.
"The crime is systemic, societal, and structured," says P. Sainath of the Hindu. "The countless reports on the subject over the years do not show discrimination against Dalits to be dying away ... Yet the number of such cases ending in conviction of the criminals is dismal ... The events in Gohana and Akola are just a part of an ongoing crime against humanity. For that's what caste-based discrimination is." Where does the hostility come from? How can it be tolerated? I suppose these questions are why I'm in the back of a plane headed to India; because I still don't fully understand the situation myself. The stories I hear from my Indian friends are hard to stomach: lynching, slavery, forced child prostitution. Can this be the same developing nation where so many western dollars have been migrating recently? The life of a Dalit is worth less than the life of a cow. Did an Indian government official really say this? (VHP Vice President Giriraj Kishore)
Truly, no culture is above hatred. I've seen racism, sexism and other forms of intolerance in my own country. But I've never heard these stories before. Perhaps the estimated 100 million child laborers will live to see a brighter day. Perhaps their children will hear these stories as a part of Indian history: a story of the triumph of human rights, children's rights, and women's liberation. My Indian friends tell me that a quiet revolution is underway, a new day is dawning. These acts of ignorance and hatred may become a thing of the past; three-thousand years of what has been dubbed "religious fascism" might become history within our lifetime. And it also might not. I want to understand the struggle. Today I will set foot on Indian soil for the first time. I am headed to visit the very person who first informed me of the Dalit struggle for freedom. I am here to listen and learn.
Oct. 10 Delhi to Lucknow
Humans. Rights.
As my first full day on Indian soil comes to a close, I find that I am having a hard time sorting through the traffic in my head: exotic melodies are still ringing in my ears, foreign intervals, strange, entrancing rhythms. And the color! Yes, the colors - the shawls, the saris, the smiles, the kindness: they weave intricate patterns through the dust in my crowded mind. Yes, the crowds. Crowds of mopeds, crowds of bikes, of rickshaws, all challenging death on the amorphous roads with a steady nonchalance. I can still hear them from here, honking from the road.
But above the road I hear singing. I hear the songs of a social revolution. I can still hear the Dalit voices of empowerment, of their bitter struggle against oppression, of the history of their people. I close my eyes and I can see their eager faces, passion, frustration, anger, and joy flashing from their eyes. "They do not value our lives," they sing in Hindi. "They do not value our labor." They plead for an India without caste. The determined tone reminds me of some of the soulful spirituals I've heard, maybe something from the civil rights era or earlier. A young woman sings with fire. She describes how every modern rule in India has used caste to keep her people down. She sounds like an ominous Dylan to me.
I learn that Dr. Ambedkar is the M.L.K., Jr. for his people. I can hear his name mentioned in the songs. Sometimes Jesus and Mary are mentioned. Sometimes Gandhi, though there is a dark shadow over his memory in the minds of the Dalit. I am told that although he was against untouchability, he fought for the caste system to endure. And endure it does, as India's version of apartheid. Today, I have heard more stories of rape, of hatred, of as many as forty-thousand Dalit children forced into child slavery.
Human rights. Humans. Rights. Are these an obvious group of moral or legal entitlements that belong to every person? How wonderful it would be to live in such an egalitarian world where all races and both sexes possess this intrinsic, empowering quality. Elementary school mantras of equality ring inside my head: "We hold these truths to be self evident..." And yet human rights are not available to all humans. Not in the world that I know. Not in America. Not in India. No. Not if you are born with a certain skin color or a certain genitalia. Not if your daddy doesn't have a certain amount of money. Am I cynical? Maybe. Or maybe things just need to change.
As I considered these things, the cynic in my head began to laugh with a deep, dark, smoker's cough: "Ahhaugh! Ha, ha! You cannot change this! You can't. This is the way it has always been." But I was not listening anymore. And he cannot stop me from standing alongside those who are in need. He cannot stop my best intentions, one hand to lend, one day at a time. If that's the closest I can come to aligning myself with justice then that's where I hope to live. Under my breath I curse the cynic.
Oct 11 Lucknow
The man who prays for death.
What glowing wonder beams from these wide eyes! We are greeted by a choir of children in English, "Good morning Sir! Good morning Madam! I'm so glad to welcome you!" These are proud, thankful students. Proud to have a uniform to wear. Proud to be learning. Proud to greet us in English. For in India, and especially in the indigent, rural areas, English is esteemed as the language of upward mobility. This is one of the few schools in the area that accept Dalit children for enrollment. Because of this, when the school first started the teachers received threats from an influential upper caste family. The community, however, fought to save the school deeming the school's education more important than the cultural customs that were broken by including Dalit children.
The soft spoken woman who runs the school tells me that families seldom enroll girls. They believe they are unworthy of the cost of education. The issues that women face here are daunting and complex; few know these intricacies better than Indira Athwale, General Secretary and Maharastra State President of All India Conference of SC/ST Organizations. Recently, she addressed the US House International Relations Committee to speak about the oppression Dalit women endure: "India has just celebrated 59 years of independence and we boast about being the largest democracy in the world. Yet, there is no independence or democracy for a large portion of the population: Dalit women. Women are daily the victims of atrocities, slavery, and exploitation related to the ongoing practice of caste. Her oppression is threefold: as a woman, as a Dalit, and as the poor. The Dalit woman must fight at all three levels every day." Eventually I pull myself away from the smiles of the young boys and girls to catch up with our guides. They were speaking with an older man who was pleading with them, tears in his eyes, begging for something in a local Hindi dialect. He might have been my father's age. His skin was brittle, worn thin by his years on the planet. He was angry with god because his prayers for death had not yet been granted. How do you answer this man? What can you say to ease the pain of living? I don't have any real answers to offer, let alone a framework for what these two were saying. When I walked by the old man he was still crying, tears drifting down his weathered face. He is a man who has seen too much. His eyes were pleading, looking up at us for some consolation. As we passed, his gaunt, haunting face followed us down the road. I wonder if his prayer will ever change.
I am still haunted as we drive on - further away from Lucknow toward another village for evening tea. The men have built a stage in the middle of the village. With a portable microphone and a make-shift P.A system, they begin the evening with song. The melodies begin to wash the evening sky like a dream that has not yet happened: a complete immersion into an ocean that I have never experienced. It is like seeing, feeling, smelling the Pacific for the first time. Melodies, rhythms, wavelike voices - they wash over me in ripples of energy. Intervals and patterns, streams of melody, taking flight then diving. A musical sky with new stars and new dreams, all spinning in a rhythm of dancing color.
The songs span some fifteen minutes. They are the narrative of the people's past, each one telling the story of the Dalit. During many songs, they open a history book on the floor and the singer follows the story directly. The past, present, and future through the eyes of the Dalit: broken, crushed, oppressed. And though I cannot unravel the spoken words, I still understand the sounds, their faces, their hands, the drips of sweat trickling from their furrowed brows into fisted eyes. Yes. I think I understand.
Oct 12 Lucknow
The village where the bracelets will be made.
I have a hard time describing the man I met today. Dressed entirely in white, Mudra Rakshas possessed an air of wisdom that seemed to permeate the room. The patches of white hair framed his wizened face; they betrayed his eyes, sparkling with youth. "I was delighted to find out you are a musician," he said to me as he entered the room. "You see, many of our finest musicians and artists in India have always been Dalit or of the lowest castes. So it is appropriate that you, as a musician, hear firsthand of our oppression." Mudra went on to explain that tradition holds that many of the musicians are unclearn. The instruments they play are made from the skin and bone of animals. He explained that within every caste there are sub-castes directly affiliated with occupation. There are even sub-castes devoted to music. Yet many times, these lower caste or outcast musicians are not accepted by the higher castes no matter how talented they are. He went on to name some of the finest Indian musicians, painters, and sculptors. These artists had changed their names and identities to associate with people of the higher castes. "Every artist has to conceal his identity," he explained, "and show that he is part of the upper caste - only then will he be accepted."
"Sad, isn't it." Our guide, Joseph, was shaking his head. "The names he mentions are phenomenal musicians. But they all have despised their own identity to be part of the upper caste." Mudra continued. "There is a place where we have a signboard; on it is written, 'Here two statues of Buddha were installed by a businessman.' The name of the businessman is displayed. The person who made those images, those Buddha figures, is not mentioned on that board. Nowhere will our sculptor be mentioned, great sculptor of ancient times. Nobody will mention the great painter of old time. Why? We have caves where there are paintings two-thousand-one-hundred years old. Now, why [is it] that the name of the painter is not mentioned. Because the Hindu scriptures state that any person who participates in drama, who is a musician, who is a sculptor or a painter is a shudra and must never be allowed to live in the city, must live outside the city ... this is written in Hindu scriptures ... All artists, all theatre-men, all painters, all musician, they are shudras and they must be thrown out of the city."
"Welcome to the Dalit world," Joseph interjected.
Mudra went on. "It is very clearly stated that they must not be allowed to have any social right. They can't even have their house. They can't have new clothes. They'll have to wear the clothes thrown [away] by the upper caste people. This is the situation. We know the names of western artists like Michelangelo ... other great sculptors' names are also known. In India, the ancient sculptors and painters are not known. It's not that the names are absent - names are available. But they are not mentioned in history."
Oct 13 Lucknow to Delhi
Still beautiful. Still Dalit.
Soon after landing, my wife and I were meandering around Delhi in a rickshaw. Our guide Jose jokingly reminded us that we are, after all, simply tourists in a strange land as we headed for one of the most popular sightseeing spots in the capital city of India: the Red Fort. Constructed primarily out of red sandstone, the Red Fort is an extraordinary structure used during both Mughal and British rule. This place was a visual history lesson where crude, decaying British structures stood alongside of beautifully preserved Indian pavilions - a graphic illustration of the politics of the last several hundred years.
I was especially amazed by the intricate, vibrant pictures inlaid on the marble. The colors lie flush with the stone, withstanding time. Jose tells me that the family who crafted these beautiful pieces of art is still at it today, still using a secret glue to vouchsafe their art for generations, still creating beauty, still Dalit.
On our way out of a nearby store, a man was trying to sell us something. And he was going for the hard sell. As we neared our destination, Jose took him aside with a smile and began to explain that we weren't interested. The vender asked Jose's last name, the name which would reveal his Dalit identity. Jose told him and then asked him if he would eat lunch with us in spite of their difference in caste. The man replied that the stigmas of caste were not as strong in that city and besides, he was so hungry that he wouldn't mind who was eating with him. Then he reconsidered. He explained that he was too busy to eat and made one final attempt to push his wares before my foreign eyes. We declined and he left us and walked up the road.
Oct 14 Delhi to Tokyo to L.A. to San Diego
The first day home.
The curb was warm and dry outside the San Diego commuter terminal. It had to be one of the hottest days of the year. No wind, no clouds, no one but the traffic officer to see me. I had a winter jacket on with both hands in its pockets. My lips were blue, my teeth were chattering, my jaw was frozen stiff. I'm pretty sure they call it Delhi belly. It's not nearly as funny as it sounds. I squint to my left to check for our ride. No one yet. Mr. Policeman does a concerned doubletake. I close my eyes and try to remember the Indian sun on my skin.
My mind drifts back to the men and women I met and the silent war they are fighting over an issue that has no easy answer. During my stay in India, many of the Dalits I met compared their situation with that of apartheid. Mudra Rakhsas called India the biggest South Africa this world had ever seen. Archbishop Emeritus, Desmond Tutu, has called for the end of a system of discrimination, "as heinous as the former apartheid system he and his generation fought against in South Africa." He is encouraging international solidarity in tackling the "scourge" of untouchability wherever it exists in India and the other countries of South Asia. Kancha Ilaiah, a visionary thinker on the subject, maintains that the oppression the Dalit people endure should be taken as seriously as the racism that we fight within our own borders. "Indian industrialists must realize that the greater presence of Blacks in American industry has not made it any the less productive. They must realize that keeping Dalits out has not made Indian industry any the more productive."
Dr. Udit Raj, the National Chairman of the All India Confederation of SC/ST Organizations & Indian Justice Party, sums the situation up well. "The developed countries, particularly the United States, must uplift the Dalits in a situation where their own countrymen consider them worth less than animals."
I recall all this and, yet, I am stuck wondering what I can possibly do to change anything. I am sitting on a warm curb, thousands of miles away, unable to stand up straight. What can I possibly do to help? The simple answer came back to me. It was something I heard over and over while in India. "Tell our story. Let the world know what is happening. We are people. We are human. Tell our story."
[jon foreman is a musician and songwriter. He is currently the frontman for the San Diego-based band, Switchfoot.]
posted by Cheryl & Darrell | 7:34 PM
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