Tuesday 13 November 2012

My book online

Hi everyone,
 
I just published my very first book titled Longing to Belong: An Immigrant Woman's Story. I had started writing this book three years ago. It took me all these years to get to this point.

I knew that book writing is a daunting job. I’m the managing editor of a by-yearly academic journal, but I had not realized that it would be this much work! Publishing my book from a reputable publisher is another hurdle that I'm still not over with. However, after I researched a bit about the processes and the cost involved in publishing my book the conventional way, I decided to take the self-publishing route.
 
Here is the link to my book:
http://ar.gy/2Qcv
ar.gy
And, here is the Preface of my book you may like to take a look
 
Sasi Kala is not my formal name but the one given to me by my parents. My parents didn’t have formal education but they were exceptionally talented, nevertheless. My mother was a good hearted intuitive lady with multiple skills, while my father was a handsome man and an astute entrepreneur. Both of my parents worked hard and treated their workers with dignity and respect.
 
On my husband’s side, his mother died when he was still a child, but his father made sure that all seven of his children had a basic education. There was no school in the village my husband was born, but his father hired a private tutor to provide a higher education to his only son, my husband.
I’m a dreamer. I grew up through imagination. I have been imagining my life since I was a little girl. I imagined the life I am living now many years ago.
 
My dreams are my visions. My childhood visions were only the beginning of the end. My life’s events happened not just because I had imagined them but also because I relentlessly pursued them by working hard and tolerating others’ views around me (even when they did not fit into my imaginings).
I strive to be different than the people around me but at the same time the concept of belonging is important to me. This book is about my journey to that belonging: marrying an educated man, raising conscientious children and be part of a ‘just’ society.
 
My sincere appreciation goes to all of those friends who took their precious time in not just reading my untested manuscript but also persuading me to publish it. My especial thanks go to Carole Whiteford and Edith Hautcoeur. Thank you both so very much!
 
I want to thank my family: my husband, Dev, our daughters, Lisa and Jenny, and our son, babu, for believing in me that I can write a book, encouraging me and approving this genuine portrayal of immigrants’ lives to put forth in front of millions others. Love you guys so much!
 
Sasi Kala

Saturday 3 November 2012

Family violence: an observation


Family violence has no territorial boundaries. It does not discriminate between genders or races, either. In one form or another, family violence is present in every culture of the world.

I have also noticed that it isn’t always the women taking abuse from their husbands (or other family members); in some households the men are vulnerable and their wives are abusive.

From the beginning, daughters are conditioned to behave in certain ways which seems to have contributed to family violence. Depending on the religion and the part of the world people live in, there seem to be two sets of rules for daughters and sons to follow. It is not just that gender- specific activities which are justified because of the biological differences between boys and girls, but the overall disciplinary curriculum for daughters and sons seem to be different also. And, even though sons are often raised more favourably than daughters, it is the daughters who seem to lend their sympathetic ears (at the very least) when parents fall into difficult situations later on.

The paradoxical truth I’ve found about sons and daughters being raised differently is that most daughters gain resiliency when they’re treated unfairly within their family, while their counterparts (their brothers) lose their plasticity (flexibility) and are less able to handle adversity when they are faced with it, which proves Darwin’s theory of Natural Selection. So, for daughters there seems to be some hidden advantages of being discriminated against within their families.

However, I have also noticed that some of the daughters raised in that situation for a long period of time losing their buoyancy, while others had learned to accept it as a cultural thing and were able to move forward with their lives. But both groups of women, when they become mothers themselves, raise their daughters with the same treatment that they received in their families. This is the tendency that I have seen in most families which concerns me a great deal!

Daughters raised in discriminatory families (and societies) discriminate against their own daughters because that’s what they had learned from their mothers (the family is a child’s first school). I have seen this trend continuing until a daughter (or mother) determines to stop this repetition for good.

When I first came to know about the female circumcision performed routinely in some African and Middle Eastern societies, I was appalled! I was disturbed even more when I read that mothers in those countries not only allow the removal of their daughters’ clitoris but also encourage it. I thought, how can a mother tolerate such an act of violence against her own daughter? Then, as I got familiar with other kinds of family violence around the world, I noticed that mothers in many households customarily treat their daughters very unfairly.

In my view, one of the reasons why mothers routinely discriminate against their daughters is that no matter which part of the world they live in, they’re living within a male-dominated society. Men make rules and break them. Most women simply follow those rules either because they don’t think they can break the conventional rules or they do so to keep peace in their household. Fighting against well-rooted (systemic) discrimination takes a lot of courage that most women don’t have.

Even the very few who have that kind of courage would hesitate to go out in public with their stories simply because they know that they wouldn’t have the kind of support they need to win their case. They live within a male-dominated society; what can they expect?

Surprisingly, when discovering women in abusive situations, not only most men but also most women turn a blind eye. The predators know this. Because of this, when there is a conflict at work, the male boss usually wins. Within a family, the woman takes the blame automatically.

It seems to be true, also, that most households are together because of the women belonging to those families. If the woman in the household tolerates or uses prudent tactics to keep her family together, the husband takes the credit. On the other hand, if the woman is unwilling or unable to keep the family together, the family members go their separate ways and the woman gets the blame.

Also, I have found that most women take pride in keeping their families together, whereas most men feel proud only when they can fulfill the providers’ role. Further, most women feel that they’re responsible for keeping the family together. On the other hand, only a few men feel that way. Women also seemed to take pleasure in family-success more than their own personal success.

Those were the conclusions of a survey I’d conducted when I was doing my MBA nearly a decade ago. Many of the women I interviewed (in person or by phone) asserted that they had some issues to be resolved in their family. On the other hand, their husbands told me that they didn’t have any problems and were offended by my questions.


Family violence among immigrants

When compared to non-immigrant families, the hostilities within immigrant families seem to be much more prevalent than I had previously imagined. My findings are not based on empirical studies where I can show statistics to prove my point (although no empirical studies can prove anything indisputably), but based on my observations and the conversations that I’ve had with immigrants and non-immigrant people over the last 30 years.

In my recollection of those stories, an overwhelming percentage of the immigrant men told me that they left their country of birth for better opportunities, while their wives reported that they’d left their country for better quality of life. The desire to become wealthy drove most of the immigrant men to work hard, while their wives worked hard to fulfill their family’s requirements. However, in a few households the opposite was true.

Most immigrant men in my observations/conversations appeared to have the “nation building” ambition and were pursuing their careers with vigour. But their wives had a more balanced approach to life.

Also, the immigrant men in my study took time to make new friends in their host country. When they finally made friends, most of the friendships were formed around mutual activities. Most of these men seemed to have forgotten about their old friends once they made new ones here. But for immigrant women, although they made new friends easily and quickly after moving to a new society, they took years to replace the ‘buddies’ that they’d left back home.

By definition, most immigrants are young, energetic and ambitious when they move to a new country. They move to the country with the ambition to become “somebody”. They focus on their target and don’t mind working hard to meet their goal. For these reasons, they’re called “nation builders”.

In an article entitled, “Survival of Necessity Immigrant Entrepreneurs: An Exploratory Study,” Professors Elie Chrysostome and Sebastien Arcand assert that many immigrants are necessity entrepreneurs. They find it difficult to integrate into the new job market for various reasons and that forces them to start their own business. They do that first to survive and then to prosper. “Entrepreneurship gives immigrants social dignity in the host country,” write the Professors in the Journal of Comparative International Management, Vol. 12, No. 2.

This kind of entrepreneurship creates some prospects for them, their co-ethnic employees and the spill over effects of these two groups raise the overall welfare of society. But this welfare comes with costs; I will discuss this shortly.

Immigrant parents’ career choices are often guided by money and certificates. They seem to produce more professional-minded sons and daughters than non-immigrant parents. The immigrant parents want to avoid their children going through the same hardships they had to go through. They make extra efforts to make sure that their sons and daughters choose the professions which secure their financial futures. But not all children of immigrants become professional, which creates a huge apprehension within the immigrants’families.

The difference between immigrant men and women and the non-immigrant men and women I found are the ways they feel about their responsibilities, their wants and needs. For most immigrants, having a big house, professional children, money and certificates are “must have” things. Most non-immigrants also want these things, but don’t seem to want to work as hard to achieve these things because their energy levels are not the same as the new immigrants who have just started their new life in their host country.

All these “working hard”, “making sure” and“must have” conditions that most immigrants create for themselves seem to be behind the hostilities (which are rarely known to outsiders) within their families. However, we know that nothing is free of cost. There seems to be a great number of immigrants battling inside with emotional problems that eventually invade their physical system as well. Therefore, behind the nation builders, there are some not-so-fabulous stories that most people don’t know. My purpose in creating this blog is to expose these stories in my upcoming chapters.

Let’s shape our girls’ future


On December 2, 2011, Janet Bagnall wrote “the system failed” (Montrealgazette.Com) referring to the 2009 murder case involving Mohammad Safia’s family. The four ladies of Safia’s household screamed for help but nobody,“The school staff, the Montreal police, both of the city’s child-protection services, relatives, friends, boyfriends, the women’s shelter, the stranger on the street,” had the guts to intervene. Why?

The system failed miserably not because of the “unfamiliarity with the cultural differences”. There was no shortage of cultural-interpreter or the experts with knowledge in multi-racial/multicultural issues. It failed because of lack of interest on the part of the authorities and their fear of conformity with regards to the case.

Safia’s case may be an extreme example of an immigrant woman alleged to have participated in murdering her own daughters (and her husband’s wife she rather see dead), but there are many others who customarily participate in similar activities without even realizing because of their upbringing--from the beginning daughters are conditioned to behave in certain ways.

Mohammad Safia’s house rules may sound too harsh to many of us, but immigrants (in general) with strong religious beliefs and traditions face similar challenges everyday with regards to adopting new culture that is forced upon them. Usually, the stronger the beliefs, the longer it takes for the immigrants to settle down in a new society they move into. But their hardships seem to be nothing compared to their children’s struggles to fit into the new society, studies show. These children are pulled and pushed by two sets of rules, one set imposed on them at home and another out in the public they are forced to follow. These children often feel displaced (from the culture and people they knew) and seem to have developed distrusting attitudes towards grown ups when they grow up.

Depending on the religion and the part of the world people live in, there seem to be two sets of rules for daughters and sons to follow. It is not just that gender-specific activities, which are justified because of the biological differences between boys and girls, but the overall disciplinary curriculum for daughters and sons seem to be different, also. And, even though sons are often raised more favourably than daughters (in many cultures), it is daughters who seem to lend their sympathetic ears (at the very least) when parents fall into difficult situations.

Daughters raised in discriminatory families (and societies) discriminate against their own daughters; that is what they learned from their mothers (the family is a child’s first school). I have seen this trend continuing until a daughter (or mother) determines to stop this repetition for good.

When I first came to know about the female circumcision performed routinely in some African and Middle Eastern societies, I was appalled! I was disturbed even more when I read that mothers in those countries not only allow the removal of their daughters’ clitoris but also encourage it. I thought, "how can a mother tolerate such an act of violence?" Then, as I got familiar with other kinds of family violence around the world, I noticed that mothers in many households customarily treat their daughters very unfairly.

There are many reasons why mothers routinely discriminate against their daughters. Among others, here are a few:

1) Lack of self confidence (lack of emotional intelligence, asserted by Daniel Goleman, et al.) in mothers seems to be one of the major contributing factors giving rise to family violence situations. To be confident, girls need to be able to evaluate, control and manage their own as well as others’ emotions around them. Unfortunately, not many families allow their girls to assert these notions.

2) Most girls are taught to ‘serve’ others first then only take care of their own concerns, while most boys are used to being served first. This was working when the works were distinctly divided based on gender before the industrial era. But time has changed! Now, men and women both work outside and inside their home (although there is still a huge wage gap between them). However, most families are not caught up with these new phenomena. This is another root cause of some family violence.

3) When one member of the family (either husband or wife) exerts too much power and manage to get his/her away all the time, the other one feels left out and used. This seems to be another cause for family violence occurring. Therefore, ability of mothers to love themselves and be able to include their needs on the family’s ‘priority ‘list seems to help, not hinder, in preventing family violence.

4) This is still a man’s world. No matter which part of the world they live in, they’re living within a male-dominated society. Men make rules and break them. Most women simply follow those rules either because they don’t think they can break the conventional rules or they do so to keep peace in their household. Fighting against well-rooted (systemic) discrimination takes a lot of courage that most women don’t have.

Even the very few who have that kind of courage would hesitate to go out in public with their stories simply because they know that they wouldn’t have the kind of support they need to win their case. Since they live within a male-dominated society, what can they expect?

Surprisingly, when discovering women in abusive situations, not only most men but also most women turn a blind eye. The predators know this. Because of this, when there is a conflict at work, the boss always wins. Within a family, the woman takes the blame automatically (in most household).

It seems to be true, also, that most households are together because of the women belonging to those families. If the woman in the household tolerates or uses prudent tactics to keep her family together, the husband takes the credit. On the other hand, if the woman is unwilling or unable to keep the family together, the family members go their separate ways and the woman gets the blame.

That is being said; however, I still find it hard to believe that the mother, Tooba Mohammad Yahya, with all her conscience would devise a plan to murder her own daughters. If she did plan, was she forced to put her “priority” straight; I wonder?


Mia Farrow's story


It was closed to 1A.M when I finished reading Mia Farrow’s memoir, “What Falls Away”  last night. I didn't know what to make out of the book until the very end. It was kind of confusing, you know?

I must admit starting the book with some presumptions that I wouldn’t like the book. She is a celebrity, born and raised in a privileged home. This is not the kind of story I enjoy reading, I thought. But my feelings changed as each chapter progressed.

First I said, “Poor child,” when she was struck with polio at the age nine. Then her affairs with Frank Sinatra I was not impressed. At her tender age she didn’t need the love and betrayal of that manipulator, I thought.

Mr. Sinatra practically wrapped her around in his thumb. He was using her as his spare shoe, called her in his place and visited her when he needed. Asking her to sign a divorce paper she had not even read was preposterous! I pitied Mia for her inability to stand up for herself.

After all the anguish with Sinatra, she fell in André Previn’s trap. “She is so shallow. She can’t control herself when she sees rich and famous men; what for?,” was question. I was angry with her!

I had lost complete respect for Mia by the time I read her marrying the eccentric bully, Woody Allen.  Her inability to keep her adopted baby girl (Soon-Yi) away from his sexual touch angered me a lot!

I also thought it was very immature of her to keep adopting so many children when her own personal security was in jeopardy. “What is she trying to prove?” “Was she trying to create a human-shield for herself, so that nobody can hurt her anymore?” I accused her.

Then, I went on searching for more of her stories to make some sense out of her life and legacy. The more I came to know her, her desire and the devotion for her biological as well as the adopted children, the more respect grew in me for her.

She was a child of immigrant parents. She grew up watching her parents’ struggles and triumphs in trying to establish their new lives in the adopted country, USA. Her parent’s short-lived fame and fortune had introduced her to the world of rich and famous life-style. She had learned to admire the ‘privileged’ people, not knowing exactly what lay underneath their pretentious lives.

Her sense of righteousness seems to have sprung from Dr. King’s “Letter from Birmingham jail”, a response to the clergymen’s “A Call for Unity” in 1963. But her passion for love and her need to be compassionate seemed to have grown out of her own insecurity at home and from her unstable marriages, in my opinion.

My concluding thoughts about Mia are that she is a woman who always longed for love but there was none for her when she needed the most. She understood the futility of life, perhaps more than others. Loving the destitute (kids) provided her the redemption and salvation she needed so badly since she was a child.

My favorite paragraph from her memoir:

“I’ve often thought how presump- tuous I was – to assume that I could be good enough to be the person that all of them need...”. “I just knew that … it’s a philosophical question: if you walk by a pond and there’s a baby drowning, are you allowed to walk by the pond? Well, people are walking by the pond all the time.”

Suva's story


Hello, my name is Sudha, but people here call me Suva. I was born and brought up in the United States to the Nepalese immigrants from Nepal. My parents came to the States in the 1960s. They told me that they had just gotten married when my father, an electrical engineer, was offered a teaching position by the University of Pennsylvania. So, he left my mother with his family and flew to the US in pursuit of a better life in America.

At the time my father left, he was not sure that my mother was pregnant (with me) and neither was my mother. My mother had suspected that something was going on inside of her belly and had told her husband (my father) before he left, but she was embarrassed to let the family know about this. “Besides,” my mother whispered in my ear, "your father didn’t want me to report my missing period to his family or mine”.

Like this one, my mother had told me many such secrets of her and my father when I was a kid. I was too young to comprehend the grown ups' issues at that time. But now I understand perfectly why my father -- a young man of 27 year old would not want to report his family that his wife was pregnant.

My parents’ Hindu tradition was that a girl during her first four days of her period (menstruation) could not sleep with her husband and live separately from all her family members and others.  She need to sleep in a bed made mostly out of straws, use only the tin-utensils (e.g., stainless steel cups and plates, etc.) to eat and drink from, clean these utensils right after finish eating and dry them completely before others could use them again.

There is a whole series of rituals Hindu ladies go through during their period. It’s a long story but very interesting one, one of my friends who was born in India says.  When I told her my own story about this issue, she urged me to write about it and publish. “There will be a lot of interest for this kind of story,” she said. I’m not sure there will be such interest, but I think the immigrants’ children, like us, will appreciate it.

So, here it is. It's one of the incidences with regards to menstruation and how my traditional relatives treated me when I visited back home quite a few years ago:


My mother and I were longing to see my father's birthplace for many years, so we made it happen in my last visit to Nepal with my mom.

My father’s side of families are from the district of Palpa, in western Nepal, originally. They lived in a remote village, of about less than two thousand families living there when I visited. This was my father's ancestral place, away from the city where my father and his siblings later migrated.

It was the summer time. The weather was pleasant during the days, but got colder early in the mornings and evenings.

We reached there after a day's straight walk and that was after we had one whole day’s bus ride! We’re quite exhausted by the time we reached there. My father's extended families gave us a heartfelt welcome and made us feel right at home once we got to know them.

As the evening got darker, more and more neighbors came to see us with some sweets that I had never tasted before. The name of the sweet was “Kurauni” and it was made by thickening the milk. Kurauni was the most amazing thing I’d ever tasted! When I asked my cousins how it was made, they told me that it’s got its own long story, but I got the sense that this is the 'real' thing behind all sorts of milky-sweets made in Nepal. Except, it is called '"khua" in Kathmandu, where my other relatives live.

Getting back to my story, the neighbors asked us all kinds of questions. Since I was new to all of them and could not speak their language fluently, my mother and the cousins did all the talking and replying. I just listened attentively and shook my head “yes” or “no” when the questions were directed at me. However, I could make simple conversations in Nepali, but they had very heavy accent that I could hardly make out what they were asking!

To make my story short, I was enjoying the supper that evening with about seventeen extended family members. Suddenly, I felt something cold and wet running in my panty. I figured what might had happened to me (this was my third period) and shivered with fear. I knew I’d have to leave my dinner and separate from everyone and spend the first four days in a dark dungeon, for there is a tradition that all girls have to be hide from the public for 12 days for the first time, 7 days for the second time and 4 days for the third time.  My mother had told all this even before I went to Nepal.  So, I decided not tell anyone what was going on with me. However, I had to tell a girl in the family to get her help in this very difficult time of mine!

That evening, I did not use the regular toilet (there the toilet was made out of a pit dug on the ground and two wooden planks laid across on top to sit with legs apart) for the fear that I might “drip” and someone will notice. I went farther away deep into the woods where no one could see me. Then, I stuffed all the toilet tissues we’d carried with us to use during our stay there. We knew that we would need to use outdoor toilet and there would be no running water or toilet tissues to clean afterward. However, now that I used up all the tissues for another purpose, I didn't know where to throw those soaked tissues without somebody seeing it or some animals picking on it.

Back at my family’s home, they were going to have a big gathering (kind of reunion) the next day. Early in the morning, my great-aunt hollered out, “Get up all boys and girls, it’s already 5:30 in the morning. Girls fetch the water and heat it in the pot I’ve made ready for you on the front lawn. Keep the water boiling until Ram does his business. Boys take the other animals to their pasture before Ram arrives...”.

Ram was a man, actually a boy about 18 - 19 years old, lived next door our great aunt. Apparently he like chopping goats' heads in that village. Everybody called him “Ram is good” “He does it at one shot." "He is great!”

The boys were my third and fourth cousins. They got up obediently with our great aunt's shout, washed their face and chassed the animals to near by jungle for grazing. We, girls, carried few buckets of water and started the fire to boil it, so the men (man relatives) could clean the freshly slaughtered goat after Ram kills it with an axe.

I remember how my cousins and I were grossed out with the whole situation there that day! I was never for killing, anything. I couldn’t even kill an ant during my childhood or the adolescent years. I hated the idea of killing an innocent animal for food. I still do! But I could not tell that to my relatives there. Moreover, my mother knew how I felt and she was keeping her eyes on me. There was no chance for me to make any un-friendly remarks to my relatives! And, my girl-cousins loved eating meat even though they didn’t like the killing part.

So, my cousins and I boiled the water until Ram arrived, then ran to the woods before he did anything we didn’t want to see. We were enjoying the  delicious fresh berries until our great-aunt hollered us back.

Coming back to my story, I was fully soaked and had started to leak by the time we were called back. I started crying out of the fear and my cousins started scolding me, “You horrible girl from America. What do we do now?” Then, they suddenly started laughing. They laughed so hard, widening their eyes, covering their mouth, steering and gazing at each other. “She hid the whole thing up to now,” said one of the cousins at last and laughed again.

One of the cousins asked me to stay there and ran home to collect some rags for me to use. Others attended great-aunt and did what she asked them to do so.

One the cousin return with the rags, she started to instruct me, "You're not to touch the Gods and Goddesses outside and inside of our great-aunt's home. I was also to stay away from all the foods our families were to eat.

The day before my mom and I was going to return to Kathmandu, my cousins hugged me one-by-one and whispered in my ears, “You want to change our tradition, right? Well, this you did!” All of the conversations with our families there were in Nepali, of course!, but I could understand most everything by the time we left the Palpa.

My visit with my father’s side of families would have been a horrible memory had I not have my cousins so understanding and accommodating. My cousins told me all kinds of stories -- story that how some animals had visited in their neighborhood and had eaten their dogs and chicken right out of their coupe; story about a pregnant woman who had met a rhino (rhinoceros) few years ago while she was on her way to the jungle to collect some woods. Apparently, the poor woman had carried some popcorn in her waist for lunch and the rhino had ripped-open her stomach after smelling the food. Rhino loves popcorns that much;I did not know!

In another story, they told me about a man who was chassed by a tiger and how the other men walking by at that very moment had rescued him by throwing their axe at the tiger and how the tiger had ran away, etc., etc...

My cousins also briefed me on the rituals Hindu girls are forced to follow when they start their period. They said that I was lucky it was not my first or second time. "More sin I would have committed if it was", they  said. 


Apparently, the tradition there is that when a Hindu girl gets her first period, she needs to be hidden away from her father, brothers and all other males for 12 days; second time 7 days and the third time for 5 or 4 days. Usually the girls would be sent away at their neighbor’s or relative’s home where they spend their whole days in a small dark room, usually made for storing things (storage room), they explained. They said that the girls could not see the sun or any man or hear men’s voice during those days. “Especially their they could not see or hear their brothers' voices or let them hear her voice.

The superstition was that the consequence of a girl seeing (or be seen), hear (or be heard) her brother during her first three periods could be deadly--mental or physical injury believed to occur to the brothers/father as a consequence!


My cousins not only protected me from the animals but also from the villagers and distant relatives who made fun about the way I dressed up (I wore pants and shirts, instead of the frocks and long dresses the unmarried girls did there) and the way I spoke with the American accents. My cousins were always there whenever I needed them. I was like a queen bee and they were my army. They assured me that I could do what I wanted, irrespective to what others had asked me to do.

I became vegetarian for a period of 2 years after I returned to America, and although,
I didn’t follow those rituals when my own girls got their period in the US many years later, I kept feeling guilty inside of me. In my sub-conscious mind the whole ordeal of period kept creeping and I determined not to pass this stupid tradition on to my next generation!

Philosophically, I tell my girls the staying away from everyone during the menstruation period is a good idea. They were preventing the germs from spreading to others by sleeping on the straw-bed and eating from the tin-utensils.

Note: Not all Hindus follow exactly these rituals. Suva's story  explains how girls' menstruation is dealt in some Hindu communities. If this story inspired you and you want to know how other religions deal with their girls' menstruation, here are a few links to visit:

http://www.milknhoney.co.il/holy/4.html
http://www.mum.org/religcel.htm
http://sisters.islamway.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=448

Winny's Story


My name is Winny (for winner). But I feel that “loony” (for loser) would have been better suited name for me. You see, I was born a few days before my father had died in a car accident. I grew up with my widowed mother and three siblings who think I brought a bad luck to my family. They never told in those words, but I knew that’s what they had in their mind. To give you an example, they would tell me things like “well, I at least had a father for a while” and “I’m not the one wondering how my father looked”, etc.

They would also gather together and talk about me when they thought I was not around and would stop when I walk in suddenly. Their faces used to be red on those occasions and they looked uneasy when I asked, “why did you stop talking, go on. Let me hear what you are talking about”.

However, my mother was exceptionally good to me! She took my side whenever my siblings and I got into arguments and defended me even when I was wrong. I guess, she was sorry for me and felt the need to protect me!

I was married off very young; I was barely 16 years old at the time. I remember my mother and a few relative-ladies talking about my future husband, “He is so good; we can’t let him go. Our Winny is so lucky to find such a man...”

My husband was born in an elite family and he had already built good reputation of his own by the time we were engaged. He was also good looking and I was infatuated with his look the first time I saw him. I was mesmerized by the way he looked at me and asked me questions that were not even relevant, come to think of it!

He was a master’s student at a prestigious university; my mother had told me. He was living in his university’s dormitory, which was a day away from where his family lived. And, living in a university dormitory was a prestigious thing that none of my relatives could afford back then.

However, as I got to know him better and understood his intensions of marrying me --a girl who was 10 years younger to him, born in the family who had much lower status than his own--I felt that I was being used!

Soon after we’re married, my husband left home for America. I stayed behind in Nigeria with his family for a year and then joined him. The next year our daughter was born and a year later our son came along.

My husband was an unusual lad, and in a sense, he still is. He grew up admiring the “queen’s traditions” in England and tries living much the same way as the rich “English” man would. For instance, he wears tailor-made clothes made in England and France; follows the British table manners and uses fork and knife to eat his “Nigerian-foods”. His colleagues are mostly from England or other European countries. He is very conceited and doesn’t treat people politely, but expects others to be ‘civilized’ with him.

He had rented two bedrooms apartment in America when I joined him. He used one of them as his private-bed-room where children were not allowed to visit.

My husband expected our children to be quiet and polite, as he believed that “children should be seen; not heard”. He decided that our daughter ought to be a doctor and son an engineer. Any other career was not acceptable to him. However, responsibility of raising them and making sure they become what my husband expected was totally left on me.

Raising children in the foreign country was hard in the sense that I had no real help when I needed it and since my husband was raised in the family where even his female family members didn’t take part in the household chores, I didn’t expect him to help me around the household. That was okay, too, since I didn’t have much education and was taught to cook and manage household activities before I left Nigeria.

The problems I faced were related to children’s discipline. They listened to me and did pretty much what I told them to do, but they didn’t understand the dual-rules (double standards) imposed upon them by their father. They didn’t comprehend why their father would say he was a ‘progressive English man’, but expect his family to behave much like the traditional Nigerian households, and I had hard time explaining to them.

My husband had started teaching at a university by the time our children started their school, so my husband got up, ate his breakfast, went to teach, came home and expected his dinner ready to be served. He demanded all of these things be done on time by reminding me constantly, “I’m talking about the English time, okay?”

My husband never served his food by himself or to us. On the dinner table he would ask our son and daughter how they were doing in their school. Then he would turn to me and ask how their class marks were. I would let him know their marks, sometimes adding a few more on to what they actually had received. With that, my husband would be satisfied and go about his business.

The point of writing all this is that my husband only cared about his children’s marks but not other things that were equally important to them. For example, he never knew when our children were ill or were bullied in their school. He didn’t think social skills such as the mixing up with their peers and participating in extracurricular activities were important to them. This led our children to think that other things were not important as long as they got good marks in their school.

Our children eventually made their father’s dreams reality: Our daughter became a family physician and our son an engineer. Few years after that, they got married and settled down. But then, things started to fall a part!

Our daughter’s boyfriend had married her for her money. It was apparent to her only after she had conceived his child. By then, she had already bought him a Yamaha (motorcycle), a Lexus (car) and a whole lot of tailor made suits and, he was demanding for more. Then she found out that he’d been seeing another woman all these years. She was heartbroken to find out that the man she thought was her lover was using her to get what he couldn’t afford to buy for himself.

Our son had married with his high school sweetheart, who was a bit overweight, but now she is over the board and our son is afraid to suggest her any medical or dietary solutions to control her body with the fear that she might be offended. The hardest thing for me to see is our obese grandchildren. All of them are excessively overweight. Imagining their life when they get older makes me giddy!

Our grandchildren are never told “no, you can’t do it,” and when I point this out to our son and daughter their answer is “mom, we don’t want to raise our children like a bird in a cage; they’ll be fine when they grow up”!


Sasi Kala's story


My name is Sasi Kala. I lost my beloved mother more than six months ago, but the image of her helpless body lying in her last resting place stubbornly appears every time I close my eyes. My mother was 86 years old; fit both physically and mentally until she was knocked down by a stroke. I was not there, but my family said they had found her naked, sitting in the corner of my brother’s bedroom. They could not tell me what made her take off her clothes and how long she was sitting there before they discovered her. And since she had lost her ability to speak, she could not explain what had preceded her stroke.

I saw my mother a week after the incident. She was hospitalized and was fed only liquids through a tube. She had no facial expressions from which to guess what was going on inside of her body (or mind).

People say that she lived her life (she was 86 years old) and that I should try living mine. Even my own family, my siblings included, says that she was lucky to go after only a few weeks of suffering. But I protest, “she should not have had to suffered at all, not even for a day”. My mother was a woman of high morals. She helped everybody she knew throughout her life. “What’s the use of helping others?” I cried. I asked God, “Where was her reward for limiting herself and giving all of her energy and possessions to others?”

I had never seen anyone dying until this time. I had prayed God to never let me witness any of my family members dying in front of me, and until then, God had granted my wish. But now I was reversing my prayer. Now, I asked the same God to let my mother go to heaven in peace. It was too painful for me to watch my own mother lying lifelessly on the hospital bed with a feeding tube in her nose and a breathing mask over her mouth. By the time I reached her, her lungs were already infected with pneumonia and I knew that she would never recover. Her condition was more acute than I could take. It was unbearable for me to watch my vivacious mother lying there helplessly and suffering!

I knew my mother was losing her strength, as my siblings had reported to me before the stroke. They told me that she had started to compromise her activities, gradually ceasing her daily walks and social visits. My mother loved meeting people and always kept herself busy doing things for others. I was especially alarmed when my brother told me that she had not cared to attend her own grandson’s wedding a few days before the stroke. My mother had been anxiously awaiting this particular grandson’s wedding day.

But when I had talked to her on the phone a few weeks prior to her stroke, she gave me no indication of a deteriorating memory or loss of interest in life. We talked about her health and she asked me about her favourite son-in-law (my husband) and grandchildren (our children). Then, she began talking about her distant past, rather than what was happening in her current life. But I didn’t give this much thought, thinking that she was simply recounting fond memories of past.

My mother was a super-woman. She was truly a rare breed. She was practically a child- 12 years old- when she married my father, who was 30 at the time. It was an arranged marriage and the age difference was not too unusual in that time and culture. My father was a tall, handsome, and shrewd man. He carefully calculated all of his words and said only a few things that made a lot of sense. My mother, on the other hand, was a small-framed woman, short, very smart, but not shrewd. She pretty much did what her heart told her to do!

My father was also big on work ethic and believed that children should be strictly disciplined. He never beat me. He did not have to. One harsh look from him was enough to put me in a cold sweat. So, I always told him the truth. However, I witnessed my father beating my brothers a few times. He used to tell them, “look me in the eyes and tell me you did not do this”, when detecting that they had lied to him. My brothers did try cheating him a few times, but were always caught.

My parents had a large home with a huge courtyard set behind a flower garden. The courtyard was bricked and fenced in on three sides by low walls. Beyond the low brick-walls were white belly-flowers (called jasmine in the West). There were other flowers also: gardenias, brightly colored roses, lilies, and so on. Beyond that garden were fruit trees. Then there were the tall exterior walls surrounding my parents’ property. My father designed this landscape by himself!

Behind their house, they had a few acres of very fertile land. When I was growing up, my parents had a caretaker family living in their house. This family planted all kinds of vegetables on the land. They gave my parents plenty of vegetables, kept some for themselves and sold the rest for money. However, their major crops were corn and soybeans in the fall and mustard plants in the spring. Mustard oil was the main source for cooking oil back then; corn and rice were staple foods. They threw a few radish seeds here and there in the mustard field, so the land looked like a garden, full of bright yellow mustard with purple-bordered white radish flowers stretched over a few acres of land. I still remember people visiting the field in the autumn to take pictures. One spring we even had a film crew shoot a short video in our fields for a movie, though I don’t remember the name of that movie now.

Growing a flower garden was one of my father’s favorite hobbies and I helped him tend it. My brothers kept the courtyard clean. My father was very proud of his ‘creations’ – his three sons and his properties. He watched my brothers playing soccer for hours in the courtyard with half a dozen of their friends from the neighborhood. I remember my father proudly declaring “I bought this big house for my 3 sons. When they grow up, they don’t have to build another home. Each can take one floor and raise their children side by side”. He said all this in the Nepali language, of course!

My parents had six children together. We all went to school. My mother got very little help from us with her household chores. She also raised a few cattle when I was growing up. She got up at 4 am and went to bed at 8 pm. She worked like a machine and never complained. She was also very inquisitive and crafty. She was a quick learner and took interest in just about everything she came in contact with. And, she was not afraid of undertaking any new adventure. For example, one year she knitted sweaters for us from the sheep slaughtered at our house. She had woven mats from the hay grown in our field, after seeing how one of her neighbors had woven hers. My mother also used to sew our clothes. She did more than I can describe here. My husband thinks I exaggerate about my mother’s abilities. But I don’t!

My mother always carried something with her when she visited people and urged us to do the same. “One should never visit someone empty-handed”, she used to tell us. She took a lot of pleasure from distributing her belongings to everyone who needed them. One Christmas when my mother came to visit us in Canada, one of our relatives told her, “everybody took advantage of your giving except me. There is no one in your family or in the neighborhood who did not get something from you.” She was known for her generosity.

My mother’s death is still too raw for me to bear. I’ve lost many nights of sleep and have burned with regret during the last six months. Knowing that I can’t change my past, I’m now trying to channel my thoughts to a more constructive path. I’m on the Internet 24/7 to keep me occupied (its helping me a lot!). I’ve also renewed my library card and have started to check out more books. I’m reading books that are mostly spiritual in nature: the courage to give, to give it up, how to forgive when you can’t forgive and infinity in a box, to name a few. I’m also determined to do what I can to make my mother’s wishes come true. She fulfilled her responsibilities and now I’ve to fulfill mine, I have concluded. With these thoughts I’m trying to let my mother rest in peace.

She is gone, but her voice calling me “sasi” (my family nickname) is still there, sharp, in my ears. She spoke fast and clear. I never found her confused or absentminded. She was a product of the early 19th century, but her thinking was very contemporary. She worshipped ‘her God’ but she believed in a self-help philosophy, rather than depending on God to make things happen. She used to ask me why my children were postponing marriage and when I said, “marriages are made in heaven, mom, their time has not yet come,” she would say “you’ve to bring that time- don’t let them wait too long.”

My mother did not come to me in my dreams, or my siblings’ dreams, for about a month after she died. Then she started appearing. In my dreams she always looks 35-45 years old, not 86. My siblings say the same thing. We wonder why she has not aged in our dreams.

My siblings and I see our mother in her ‘own house’ doing things as she used to when we were growing up. Her life was so intertwined with that house. This was the first home my parents had bought after separating from their own parents. My mother spent most of her youth (and energy) in that house. Although we were all born elsewhere, with the exception of my younger sister, that was the house we grew up in. My mother had also welcomed her three daughter-in-laws and half a dozen grandchildren in that house. She was proud of her home! My parents had rented out two flats out of the four in the house, and she used to tell us proudly “all of our tenants bought their first home while they were still renting our flats”. She strongly believed that her home had brought good luck to the many people who resided in it.

In my dreams, my parents’ house represents them. Before my father died, I used to see this house shaking and almost falling down. I had heard that my father was deteriorating fast. My family knew that he was not going to last much longer and they had made me aware of this. In those days, I remember going to bed and praying to God to please not let me see ‘the house’ fall. I never saw the house fall down completely- nevertheless my father died, and a decade later the house also fell apart for everyone to see.

I thought I knew what grieving means. I had mourned the loss of my father, father-in-law, sister-in-law, uncles, aunts and a few others. Losing someone to death was hard; I had gone through the grieving process many times. But this death is different. This one is teaching me the true meaning of death. Only now have I realized that I’ve lost my empathic listener, authentic well-wisher and the one who truly loved me. I now know the true meaning of grieving. For the first time in my life I’ve realized that grieving includes regrets that one can’t do anything to erase.

I regret the things I could not do for my mother (or the things I did, which I should not have). She knew I loved her and that my love for her was not contingent on her material wealth. She lived with one of my brothers and had a good rental income of her own, so she did not have to depend on anyone financially. However, she had a piece of land that she used for growing fruits and vegetables to give away to those who did not have any. This land was taken away from her a few years ago, and though I made considerable efforts to get it back for her (compromising my relationships with my siblings), I was not successful.

My mother also talked a lot about celebrating her “chaurasi”. Chaurasi is the Hindu occasion for when someone reaches 84 years and performs a series of pujas (worship) and gives away clothes, food, etc. (dhan) to 84 others. My mother believed that this was one of the most important steps for her to attain moksha (heaven) and break the cycle of life and death. I had tried organizing the chaurasi for her, but was not successful, either. Retrospectively thinking, I should have tried harder- why didn’t I?
 
A lot of people say that they would not change a thing even if they could (A lot things different by Kenny Chesney), but I would if I had one more chance.

Sarah's story


Hi, my given name is Saraswoti, but people call me Sarah for short. I was born in England (United Kingdom), but have been living in the US (United States of America) since 2008 with my family. I’m married with a school teacher and together we've two boys.

Physically my parents live in England, but they've created a “little India” there for themselves. They’ve been living there for the last 40 years, but they were born and brought up in Uganda. They were part of the “ethnic cleansing” campaign of Idi Amin, then President of Uganda.

I had to hear so much about this notorious leader when I was growing up. My brother did even more since he was born in Uganda and was old enough to lend his sympathetic ears when our parents needed them the most. My brother used to tell me “it’s your turn to listen to your mama and papa, I’ve done my part”. I guess he was tired of hearing my parents’ maddening stories about the country they were born and the way they were forced to leave, giving up everything they had earned during their lifetime, there, for free!

My parents are living the same life their ancestors had lived in India hundred or more years ago. For example, buttered-chapatti and spicy lentil soup are still their staple food. They perform puja everyday (pray mostly to the god and goddess of wealth: Gnash and Laxmi), mingle with their like-minded friends, snack on deep-fried foods and argue about Indian politics. However, unlike most of their and friends, my parents take chicken and fish curry once or twice a month, which Brahmins weren’t suppose to in India, they tell me.

I grew up with my elder brother. He is an intelligent man with an attractive body to go with his brain. He is a pediatrician, as my parents wanted him to be. He owns a mansion in Bedford, not far from our parents, and lives with his girlfriend. This is his 5th girlfriend and my parents are hoping that she will marry him soon. My brother has three children from previous marriages; two of which live with our parents.

My brother grew up with a lot of manoeuvrability options! He was allowed to hangout with his colleagues until late at night, spend nights with his girlfriends, visit friends outside of hometown, say things he didn’t mean and no household chores were assigned to him. All he had to do was to bring A+s in his school assignments!

My mother calls me on phone most everyday and talks about my brother. “Your brother did this, or didn’t do that...”. I wish she would talk about me and my family sometimes. But I don’t tell her that. My husband tells me that I should let my feelings known to my parents. “You should tell them to find someone to listen to them,” he says. But I can’t. They are the only parents I got. I understand their frustrations with my brother. He makes tons of money but doesn’t retain them. He lives close to his parents, but never makes an effort to visit them. He is a doctor, but he does not know what medicine his father takes for his coronary heart disease. His mother is struggling to cope with her arthritis; he probably does not even know about it.

Our parents worked day and night in Uganda and had built an envious fortune, I was told. Even after immigrating to England, our father worked at two jobs and our mother brought home a couple of hundred pounds working at a local grocery store while we attended school. Working day and night and raising two small children in a new society must have been very hard for our parents!

Patricia’s story


My name is Patricia. People call me Pat for short. I’m an immigrant living in the United States with my family for 21 years. I’d been secretly visiting a marriage counsellor for some time, but I’d told my husband that I was consulting a career counsellor.

My husband and I were classmates all through our college life in back home. Before moving to the U.S., both of us had earned our degrees in the same field and from the same university. But when we immigrated here, I had to stay home to look after our little children, while my husband improved his English language and was able to land a reputable job fairly quickly. Other than the few teachers and the parents of our children, I’d no chance to meet with anyone until our children grew up, which was not too long ago.

My husband is considered as a successful man, here. He is confident, proud and climbed up his career ladders fairly quickly, while I’m feeling failure and hopeless. While he was travelling around the world and giving speeches as a successful entrepreneur, I stayed home with children and made sure that they did their homework and kept themselves fit.

I should be happy with my husband’s progress. Because of him, I’m living in a mansion and owned so many jewelleries and I other luxury stuff that I never could have even dreamed of. Our children are lucky, too. They go to private school and have everything they want.

But I’m not happy. I often imagine about the career I never had. The reputation I was hoping to earn, I never did. My husband says “what more do you want?” “Don’t people treat you with respect?” They do, but this isn’t the kind of respect I’d dreamt of when I was in college.

My parents were poor. I couldn’t afford to go to English medium school as my husband did. But I worked hard and graduated from the same university my husband had. I was as good as my husband in terms of academic qualifications and was better than him in other areas such as dealing with difficult people and meeting my deadlines. But now, it seems to me, that the only thing I’m good at is being a house wife and keeping my house in order!

Being an extremely ambitious man, my husband is always on the go. He didn’t have time to notice my discontentment. In a way, it’s my fault also, because I don’t tell him everything. I see him always occupied with some issues. He sets his alarm clock for early in the morning and comes home at mid-night; some times even late. I don’t have heart to make him listen to my complaints!

I was busy with children, but now they’re on their own. I see people with my age working and doing something that sounds not only fun but also respectful. They’re praised for doing that, too! But me, well, nobody cares what I do. They see me dressed up and put on a big smile. They say I’m lucky to have married with such a charming man who treats me like a princess in front of people. I appreciate that, but I need something more. I need to do something of my own and get my won praised for those things.

Anyhow, as I wrote earlier, I’d been seeing a marriage counsellor for some time. One day my counsellor told me that I should express my inner feelings with my husband and I did. After hearing what I’d to say, my husband said “why didn’t you tell me you’re feeling like this, before?” “When did you start feeling like this?”

Well, I’d been feeling like this ever since we left our country of birth. But I was focusing on our family’s welfare first once we arrived here. I thought, when my husband secures a permanent source of income, I’ll have chance to develop my own career. Then, I thought well may be I should wait until our children finish their high school. My husband has earned enough money to last our life time and our children are in their college for some time, but my position had remained the same.

Now that my husband knows how I’m feeling, he signed me up for couple of activities that he thought I would enjoy. I’ve also started my language classes. I’m learning English as well as the French and I even had a trip to France last month. It was fabulous!

My friends tell me that I look good. I’m feeling good, too! But, I do think it’s a bit too late to start a brand new career at my age. However, I’m little more comfortable with my position and for the first time, I respect my husband more than I ever did before.

 

Nadia's story


My name is Nadia Adhikari. I was born in Bhutan. However, because of the political situation there my family fled to Nepal to take refuge when I was only one year old. I grew up with my family in that refugee camp. We were there for 16 years.

Our life inside the camp was like animals living in a zoo. We could not leave the area without permission. We had very little food (i.e. 5kg rice per person for 15 days) to survive on. We were given a tiny hut to live in with no electricity. The hut was made out of bamboo and mud.

I was only nine years old when my father passed away in the refugee camp, leaving me and four of my siblings in my mother’s care. Despite our poor conditions in the camp, there were a lot of positive things also that we were thankful for. For example, we were safe inside the camp. We were surrounded by loving friends and families. We were also provided with good education run by CARITAS Nepal. CARITAS Nepal is a social development and relief organization run by the United Nations High Commission for Refugees with the help of the Roman Catholic Church.

With my siblings, I attended English school run by the CARITAS Nepal up to the grade ten. After I graduated from grade ten and received my School Living Certificate, I was granted a scholarship to attend a college, called the University of Birtamode. There I was studying English, Economics, Nepalese and math for three months. Then, my family was awarded with an opportunity to come to Canada on refugee status.

Because of the Canadian government’s generosity, my family got an opportunity to come to Ottawa and I could attend one of the most prestigious high schools in the common wealth (I heard). Ottawa is a beautiful city with lot of space. I find people here are very friendly. Everybody we met has been helpful and kind to my family. Although we came here as refugees, we feel that people are treating us with some dignity and respect, which we were longing for so long! It’s been only three years since we arrived in Fredericton, but I already feel that I’m part of the society and I belong here!

This is my final year at Pressman High School. I’ve been working hard in my school and making sturdy progress. Although, my grades are not up to the level I would have liked to, I’m reasonably happy considering the fact that English language was not my mother-tongue. Also, I work part-time at a hotel during the summer time and in weekends to support my mother financially.

In addition to that, I’m in the co-op program at PHS. I wanted to work for the Everest hospital, but it was already full by the time my application reached. However, I got the opportunity to work for the Thomas Hall nursing home when I started grade 12. I’m very much enjoying my work there and I know the patients appreciate my company also. I see them smiling when I enter into their room. They hug me and listen to me when I asked them to do certain things. For example, there were a few patients refusing to take their meal, I was told. But when I explained to the same patients how important the meal is for their body, they listened to me and ate without a quarrel. I’m also able to convince them to take bath when others were not able to. This experience has given me the confidence I needed to go into the healthcare profession I had always dreamt of. Working for the nursing home has been a very rewarding experience for me!

My father was a poor man, but he had big heart. Whatever little he had, he always shared with his friends and relatives inside of the camp. He told us to work hard, live honest life and help others. His words have inspired me to help others and that was my main reason of going into the nursing career!

I want to pursue the Nursing program at University of Ottawa for many other reasons also. The two most daring reasons for me, in addition to honoring my father’s words, are, 1) I enjoy being with people and working for them; 2) I also want to make sure I’ll have steady income when I complete my university, so that I can help my family, especially my mother. My mother was only 34 years old when my father died in the refugee camp. She was young with her own desires. She could have remarried, but she chose to raise us giving up her happiness! I want to “thank” her with my nursing degree. I want to make sure I’ve the financial security she did not have, and I know this is what she wants from me!

When I was in Nepal, I used to dream of becoming a doctor. Because of that I had started volunteering at an organization called “Save the Children Fund”. But now I’ve realized that going to medicine is a huge commitment that my family can’t afford. Nursing career is perfect for me. I get to care the patients in need and at the same time, I don’t have to worry for my basic needs. In addition to that, nursing career also gives me the opportunity to give back “my service” to the Canadian society which helped my family regain our dignity!