Something you should know: I intensely disliked the movie Slumdog Millionaire.
I know it was a huge hit here in the United States, but I think what bothered me about it was that it played to the stereotypes that many people living in the West have about India. Poverty, despair, filth, crime, hopelessness, corruption… and something about the movie made me feel intensely awkward. Maybe the attempt to mix in all that joy, hope and other similar fuzzy feelings with what I perceive to be real and deadly serious problems.
Plus, it’s not the India that I know. So, yes, Slumdog Millionaire, super-duper-pseudo-Bollywood-crossover hit of the aughts, bothered me.
I feel the imperative to disclose here that my distaste for the film was exponentially compounded by the fact that I imagine hell is walking a treadmill listening to “Jai Ho” on repeat. I hate that song.
Still, it occurred to me very recently that just because Slumdog Millionaire doesn’t represent the India that I know doesn’t prove that this India does not exist. It does.
Furthermore, I realized that joy can live anywhere. It can live on Park Avenue or a slum in Bombay or Calcutta.
Because joy is not contained in geography, but within the human heart. I learned this when I watched another film tonight.
I’d seen bits and pieces of the documentary Born Into Brothels (2004) over the years, but for the first time this evening, I watched it in its entirety.
All I can say is, “Ouff.” That’s the Urdu equivalent of “Oye” or “Oh, boy.”
This was a very difficult movie to watch. It’s a documentary about the relationship a visiting photographer forms with several children living in a particular red light area (that’s foreign for brothel) in Calcutta. Zana Briski, the photographer, gives the children cameras and begins to teach them about photography.
As I assume would be the case with anyone, Briski becomes increasingly involved in the children’s lives and tries to help them escape the life that they seem absolutely destined to live. Her efforts are noble, but throughout the film they seem simply insurmountable.
And, make no mistake, these children’s lives represent every manifestation of what I envision to be hell on earth. Prostitution, deprivation, negligence, violence, addiction, discrimination, Jai Ho blaring in the background… Maybe not that last thing. Inappropriate.much? I couldn’t resist. Hate that song.
Seriously, it was absolutely heartbreaking to see children have to endure this place. And why? Because they just happened to be born there.
There’s this idea that anyone who lives a life of despair chooses to do so. This is so incredibly false. Especially when one considers that many of the people living these lives are kids who just happened to be born there. It’s not like they had a say in it.
I’ll say it again. Ouff.
You know what I did see tonight, though, that was astonishing, incredible and made the whole movie completely worth it?
Hope. Joy. Dreams.
If someone could bottle these kids’ abilities to hope, they would be a gazillionaire. They live in conditions of which we cannot begin to conceive and, still, they talk about leaving… going to a university… maybe studying in London… maybe even becoming a famous photographer.
And, oh, they laugh, and dance, and sing… and their faces are full of joy.
Of course, the mind says, “Hope doesn’t get you out. They’re doomed… there’s absolutely no way out for them.”
The mind is pesky and mean like that. Let’s just tell the mind to shut up and go balance our checkbook because that’s its job.
Besides, hope doesn’t live in the mind. It lives in the heart.
I could wallow in the despair I feel as I watch these children, but I’m too busy being in total awe of them and their ability to capture the beauty in the darkness around them with a camera lens.
And, of course, I am struck with admiration for their incredible ability to smile and dream big.
I watch them dream and I feel less afraid to do so myself.
They gave me courage.
Astonishing.
(Born Into Brothels is available on NetFlix On Demand. If your heart can bear it, you should watch it. Come back and let me know what you think.)
Some of you were surprised, some already knew and most just skimmed.
I want to weigh in on this one, as a Muslim, as a woman who does not cover, as a feminist and a lover of freedom.
The movement to ban face veils in France is wrong and misguided.
Am I denying that there are women who are forced to wear the veil? No.
Am I denying that it can be and has been and is being used as an instrument of patriarchy and oppression? No.
Still, this movement to ban is idiotic and represents the depths of ignorance to which “the mob” can sink when victimized by selfish political expediency.
Whether or not the veil is required is a contested issue within Islam. I’m not interested in discussing that in the least, nor where I stand on that. I simply want to address a movement that I beleive is mired in racism, xenophobia, intolerance and ignorance.
President Nicolas Sarkozy and his supporters would like to ban the Islamic veil because they believe it’s an instrument of patriarchy and supports Islamic fundamentalism and, therefore, is at the root of terrorism.
Okay. I can see the rationale behind categorizing the face veil as fundamentalist and patriarchal.
Except.
Except that I had a friend who converted to Islam and despite being a single white woman who was raised in America, with not one Muslim man in her family, chose to cover her face in mixed company.
Except that my mother chose to cover her face in medical school, even though not one man in her family required it of her.
Except that my sister in law, who holds a post graduate degree, is a working mother, is one of the most outspoken people I know and is a generally strong woman chose to veil her face despite constant discouragement from those elder to her (who are Muslim).
Except that a lot of Muslim women choose to cover their faces because they want to control the level of interaction that they have with the opposite gender.
Why they choose what they choose is not the point. That they have chosen of their own free will to exercise their religion in this manner is the point.
Their donning of a face veil is not denying a single other person the right not to wear one. The veil might offend the people of France or make them uncomfortable, but that is not a valid reason to pass legislation banning it. There is no philosophical point of demarcation between Sarkozy forcing women remove the veil and the Taliban making them wear it.
Fundamentalism denies exception. It operates from the philosophical standpoint that a specific set of ideals work wholly and appropriately no matter what the circumstances. This approach is one to which I am firmly opposed, regardless of the application.
It is why I put aside the traditional aspects of my faith and wholly and actively support legislation concerning a woman’s right to choose, LGBT rights and other “non-traditional” values.
I will not live in a fantasy world where everyone and everything fits into the neat little boxes that those before me created.
I will not ignore entire sectors of the world population, their emotions, their needs and their humanity so that I can live with the perception that all is right in the world and the only people that matter are the people that agree with me.
That is a hateful and unproductive way to live, and it is the path to humankind’s complete and total destruction.
Nicholas Sarkozy is a fundamentalist. He and his supporters will not address the exceptional. They have found their straw (wo)man and they are lighting the fires. They do not realize that for some women, having to show their faces to men who are not mahramis an oppression.
Being a favored son of western civilization does not prevent Sarkozy from oppressing women or from being a fundamentalist. He and his conservative supporters are making it abundantly clear that anyone who does not fit into their neat little box does not belong.
These people do not love liberty, equality and fraternity. They love their own specific ideas about them. The difference is significant. And scary.
This guy goes to study music at this old guy’s house. The guy and the old guy’s daughter fall in love, only to find out that the daughter’s marriage has already been arranged. Hilarity ensues. OK, no, no hilarity. But, it’s a good movie with an interesting perspective on arranged marriages. It’s a great “traditional” movie.
3. Guru (2007)
A polyester manufacturer embodies every capitalists dream come true. Plus he finds true love. Um. Come to think of it, it sounds more boring than it actually is. And, anyway, I just love this song. (It’s by the same guy that wrote Jai Ho).
4. Three Idiots (2009)
This will make everyone in the West feel a little better about our educational system. Favorite line? “At 5:15, I was born. At 5:16, my father said, ‘My son is going to be an engineer.’ “ If you do watch the film, please feel free to forward through the number “Zoobi Doobi.” Please. I beg of you. My dignity could very well hang in the balance.
I just like this actor because he reminds me of my husband. Plus, hey, it’s in English, so no reading!!
******
I picked these movies because I think they would have the most crossover appeal for a gathering that was mostly people who are not very familiar with Indian/Pakistani culture. And, yes, smartypants, I know they’re not the same thing.
Anything you’ve seen that you’d like to add?
Persons who contemplated writing either “Slumdog Millionaire” or “Monsoon Wedding” must forever live with the knowledge that they are, in fact, the most obvious persons on the planet.
Turn the volume up really, really loud on your laptop.
Take a deep breath and hit play on this video.
And dance. Dance your heart out. Let go. Feel the pain of the disco.
When it’s over? Know that I’m right here holding your hand.
You’re going to be OK.
P.S. For the rest of you, if you’re offended by bikini clad women and bare chested Bollywood actors dancing around hypersexually, you may want to pass on this one. Click view original post for the video, if you’re reading through FB.
The notion exists that, in some way, every person who leaves their nation to settle in the United States is running away from something bad and towards something good.
Frankly, nothing could be further from the truth for a great deal of the immigrants that I know. The truth is that in this nation there are many foreign born individuals who were neither tired nor hungry when they arrived on our shores.
The leaving of one’s homeland is a concept that is more than familiar to me. I’ve often referred to my family as jet setter bedouins of the modern era. In my head, of course.
Nearly sixty years ago, both of my grandfathers left their ancestral homes in India and crossed a man made border and became Pakistanis. Twenty years after that, their children left Pakistan and magically became Americans.
I am a woman who is quite aware of the artificial aspects of the construct we call “nationality.”.
Still, nearly two weeks ago when we received a letter from INS instructing my husband to report to his oath ceremony I reacted with a considerable amount of glee. “Daddy is going to be an American,” I cried to our daughter, “Isn’t that wonderful? Congratulations Daddy, isn’t this exciting?!”
My husband smiled an odd smile, not the kind of smile that I expected. It was not the usual smile, the one that can brighten any room or get us free tickets to Disney while we’re standing at the gates with our wallet out (yes, that happened, twice).
It was… a sad smile.
The kind of smile that you force onto your face when you know that you are leaving something precious and meaningful behind. The kind of smile that you must put on your face, so that others are unaware of the pain that lives behind it.
You see, like so many immigrants in this country, my husband has nothing to run from.
If he lived in India, his life would be beautiful and amazing. He would fit in all the time. He wouldn’t have to bend his mind around the most simple cultural nuances that we take for granted here. He would never have to mow a lawn, do the dishes, or clean the pool. Because, back home, they have people for that.
In all ways, his life would most likely have been easier in India.
These things didn’t occur to me until I saw that sad smile on his face.
That smile told me that being the native born American child of immigrants is not the same thing as being a naturalized American.
We, the children, are the beneficiaries. We do not feel the pain as acutely of turning over the old passport for the new one. We do not feel the sensations in our hearts that make us feel that we are somehow betraying who we are and those we have left behind.
I have no words for my husband on this day that will quiet those thoughts. They may very well be true, I don’t know.
I do know this, though.
I can recognize that he did not decide to become American because India is a bad place or that the people were bad there.
I can recognize that opening one door means closing another, and that it is alright and completely understandable to feel ambivalent and even a little sad about that.
I can recognize that he, like my parents, did this for me and for his children.
I can recognize that as our children get older and he tells them that he became an American for them, they will grow up, as I did, with a deep feeling of importance and a sense of destiny because of his actions today.
I can recognize the incredible strength it takes to forgo one set of emotional attachments for another.
I can recognize the wisdom that we live in a world where international alliances are precarious at best, and the borders and hearts of every nation become less welcoming with every year that passes. At the very least, having matching passports would offer us the perceived comfort of knowing that we will always be together.
I can recognize that like my parents, more than the word, “Congratulations” from me on this slightly bittersweet day, he needs to hear the words “Thank you.”
Thank you, Tariq, for becoming an American today for our family.
May this day open the doors before you to all sorts of joys, prosperity and goodness that will quiet the sad feeling that there may be some that are slowly closing behind you.
