In Praise of Al-Jazeera

Posted on 14 January 2012 by Carol

I remember some time ago, sitting in our living room in Bogor, Indonesia, and turning on the TV to watch our first news broadcast from Al-Jazeera.  We were skeptical beforehand, anticipating news coverage with a serious pro-Arab bias.  It was our practice at that time to watch CNN or BBC broadcasts each morning and evening, and  we had in fact been rather dismayed at what we perceived to be the deteriorating quality of both (CNN even more than BBC).  We were rather shocked, when we recognized several of the Al-Jazeera  newscasters; they’d been longstanding favorites on CNN, and had switched to Al-Jazeera.  We were even more surprised as we listened to the newscast.  Eventually we managed to hear some pro-Arab ‘bias’, of course, but most of what we were hearing seemed both balanced (not in the Foxx News manner) and unusually broad in terms of geographic coverage.  As time went by, we watched more and more of Al-Jazeera, abandoning our old standbys.

When we came to the US, in 2009, we expected to resume our custom of listening to such daily news broadcasts.  We turned on our television set, and found first that Al-Jazeera wasn’t available on our cable ‘package’.  We tuned then to the local stations (too local). We were dismayed to learn that the US version of CNN provides even less interesting coverage than the international versions; it was full of news about celebrities, sports, scandals, with only very narrow attention to international issues.  Africa, Asia and Latin America were generally ignored.  Of the small amount of international news provided, most was on US action in Iraq, Afghanistan, occasional pro-Israeli bits about that country, and perhaps one other short story about another disaster zone (ethnic rampages in Sudan or Somalia; religious conflicts in Malaysia or Indonesia).  Real news about politics, culture, economics in most of the world was simply not on. 

We switched to BBC, which had been our best option in Bogor before Al-Jazeera came on the scene.  But the US version of BBC seemed to have taken its lead from CNN.  Although slightly better, it too provided very rudimentary coverage outside the few global hotspots.  Ultimately, I’m embarrassed to admit I simply quit watching the news.  What was available on TV told me little of what interested me.  I couldn’t seem to motivate myself to spend even more time on my computer, looking at the news.  By the time I finished my work-day on it, I was ready for some other form of electronic interaction!  And I wanted to spend time with my husband, sharing perspectives on the news.

So, what has taken the place of our routine news fixes?  Admittedly, I’ve not been totally oblivious to the world at large:  I listen to National Public Radio (NPR) when I’m in the car.  That provides some information, though it’s hit or miss, since my life is comparatively unscheduled; and although the programs are interesting, each tends focus on one specific incident or topic.   Another semi-solution has been to watch Jon Stewart’s Daily Show and The Colbert Report on TV’s Comedy Central.  These programs, though tongue in cheek and very amusing, at least deal with real issues.  They have provided me with some sense of what happens outside my tiny sphere. 

Instead of informing myself about the world, I’ve found myself spending the evening hours watching episode after episode of Law and Order with my husband.  At least these fictional programs examine genuine philosophical and ethical issues; and the acting is usually good.  But I’ve been missing out on the kind of daily news overview that I had in Indonesia—until today!  My husband’s new I-Pad receives a streaming Al-Jazeera; and we sat at the breakfast table this morning, watching Al-Jazeera cover events in Egypt, Tunisia, Lebanon, Italy, Germany, France, the United States—far broader coverage than is typical on US news channels.  I used to resent my husband’s addiction to the news (and that could pop up again Smile ); but for now, I’m just happy that we’ve found a convenient and shared way to learn about the broader world on a daily basis.

I’m sure that most Americans are even more skeptical about Al-Jazeera than I was before I saw it.  Sadly, most are unlikely to be exposed to it.   The foolish antagonisms between the US and the Middle East, between Christians and Muslims, have interfered with our access in the US to a source that provides a broad spectrum of news from all over the world.  We really need such exposure—the world is too interconnected now for us safely to continue with our heads in the sand (watching football, crime programs, and, for some, ‘real housewives’).

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American Football—Some Pro’s and Con’s

Posted on 8 January 2012 by Carol

What a topic of ambivalence.  This ambivalence is captured in the tongue in cheek commentary of American ‘humor columnist’ Dave Barry.  Capturing the absurdity of this year’s events, he concludes, “…repelled by the drainage ditch that our political system has become, we turned for escape to an institution that represents all that is pure and wholesome and decent in America:  college football” (oregonlive.com, 2 January 2012).

It is a violent game, in which young men are regularly physically damaged for life—something I deplore.  I recall Australian and American men debating whether rugby or American football was the more dangerous (greater prestige going to the more dangerous, of course).    I remember the look of shock on some of my European colleagues’ faces when I acknowledged, a few years back, that I actually enjoyed watching it.  It certainly glorifies the physical strength of men, over women—again, something I deplore.  This year there’s an obnoxious ad on TV, shown repeatedly during breaks in the game, about Dr. Pepper (soda).  It explicitly excludes women:  ‘This is not a drink for women’.  The actors, dressed in military camouflage, driving jeeps, engage in a variety of ‘manly’, violent, outdoor activities, further exemplifying men’s purported preferences.

Overseas, many consider the game bizarre. One year in the late-1990s, my husband and I were invited to a showing of the Superbowl on a special TV link in Bogor, Indonesia (where we lived at the time). We got up at some ungodly hour in order to see it live, drove across town, and joined an international group of folks who also wanted to witness this infamous all-American event. In attendance were Indonesians, Filipinos, Irish, Australians, quite an array of folks from other countries, besides the American host. The non-Americans were mystified by the game, and amazed both at the spectacle itself and at the routine stoppage of play, due to minor infractions of one rule or another. The second-by-second alterations between play time and discussion of rules and infractions struck them as quite peculiar (and not particularly enjoyable). This experience made me think a little more deeply about something that had been such a familiar part of my life.

I’ve now been back in the US for the last three football seasons, and the centrality of the game in American life has struck me anew.  In some sense, of course, it’s been with me from birth:  my father and brother were avid fans.  Mom basically bid adieu to Dad in August as the pre-season games got underway—pretty much until football season was over.  Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners had to be scheduled around the big games of the day.  One year my father abandoned us during one of these ritual meals.  The meal had unavoidably overlapped with a game, so he just retired to the TV room—shocking us all!    Later in his life, when he was invited to teach in the Middle East—Al Ain or Dubai, I forget which—he negotiated firmly, and ultimately successfully, with the sheikhs in charge:  he wanted to remain in the US until after the Superbowl.  Such was the power of football.

In my brother’s case, we could always count on a welcome reception of ‘San Francisco 49-ers’ football memorabilia for Christmas or birthday gifts.  One year, in his youth, I made him a giant red and gold pillow with the 49-ers’ motif on it; another year, it was a waste basket with the same symbol; yet another year I did a needlepoint version.  He was, and remains, an avid sports fan. My son in law is equally passionate about the ‘Philadelphia Eagles’. Last year he gave my brother a red snuggly covered in the 49-ers emblem for Christmas—football mania continues.

I’ve lived overseas much of my life, so American football was neither available, nor in fact did I seek it out.  But in September of 1992, my father was diagnosed with a deadly cancer, and a year later, when it was clear that he was going to die, I returned to the US to be with him during his final days and help my mother care for him.  During that fall, I watched more football than I had in all my previous life combined.  Dad and I would sit together in the TV room, watching game after game.  Dad explained many of the rules to me, and I grew to actually enjoy watching!  It now both holds memories of my father and, with greater knowledge of the complicated rules, it’s simply fun to watch.

When, in 2002, my husband and I came back to the US for a year’s sabbatical at Cornell University, I again voluntarily watched football games.  One of my American friends had suggested checking out the players’ bums, an element that had not occurred to me—I took her advice and began noting these as well.  Over time I identified some real favorites (teams, players).  On the East Coast, the San Francisco 49-ers, my family’s favorite, were rarely shown, so I developed an interest in the New England Patriots, the Jets and Giants of New York.  I remembered my father’s distaste for the Dallas Cowboys (he was from the neighboring state of Oklahoma), his resentment of the successes of the Green Bay Packers (a northern team).

Now that we actually live in the US, we’ve become somewhat more avid fans, watching particularly ‘religiously’ at this crucial time of the football year—the bowl games, the upcoming Superbowl. The University of Oregon Ducks have developed a fast-paced kind of play, and they have become our special favorite—surely also influenced by my own long association with Oregon. I realized the strength of my husband’s new-found devotion to the sport when he almost turned down a dinner invitation that he feared conflicted with a game on TV.   The other night we watched the Cotton Bowl in Dallas, Texas (Arkansas vs. Kansas State; the Ridgebacks vs. the Wildcats), and I was struck by several interesting social interstices in these extravaganzas.  In proper Texas fashion, a gargantuan, rippling American flag was laid out over the entire football field as the Star Spangled Banner was sung; the first President Bush was in attendance; there were beautifully uniformed bands from both universities, playing rousing music during the game and providing even more elaborate entertainment at half time.  The drama and pageantry (and expense!)—though typical of bowl games—were remarkable, when one thought about them (somewhat) objectively. 

Here we have a wondrous confluence of drama, education (in the broadest sense), and politics, playing out both traditional American sex roles and some of our ideals:  competition, youth, teamwork, playing by the rules.  These recurring rituals—the games—are watched by millions of Americans every year.  They provide a nexus around which people from across the nation, of all ages and ethnic backgrounds, and even, to some extent, both genders, come together.  We are reminded of our love of country, our shared American citizenship, through the symbolism of the flag and routine reference to politicians in attendance.  Players stand solemnly on the field before the game, with their right hands over their hearts, as they sing along with the national anthem (led by one famous personage or another), lined up in their respective teams.  Nor is the private sector neglected:  industrial magnates play prominent roles in ensuring that the games continue, through their funding and organizational efforts.  One such magnate (never a woman, to my knowledge) typically performs the coin toss that determines which team gets the ball first—a moment of tension and excitement for all.

The game, as played here, clearly links the actions of brave and strong young men, willing to risk life and limb for fame and accomplishment, with a university education.  My father insisted that football players were ‘smarter’ than other athletes, that they had to be because of the complexity of, and strategy required by, the game.  Whether my father’s generalization is true or not, surely the glamour of college games draws many young men to higher education, as they aspire to this dramatic combination of adoration, prestige and—if they are good enough to ‘graduate’ to the pro’s—ultimately wealth.  Conceptual links between teamwork, competition, excellence on the one hand (so beautifully illustrated in these games), and a man’s ability to provide for his family (a strong traditional value), on the other, are clear and desirable in the minds of many Americans.  Additionally, beautiful, graceful, and sexy young women can be seen briefly from time to time on the TV screen, urging the players on from the sidelines—in traditionally appropriate wifely fashion.  The commentators, all male and many of whom are ex-football players and coaches themselves, keep up a running dialogue, explaining the action on the field, commenting on the players with promise, interpreting the referees’ rulings.  They, along with the actual coaches on the sidelines, function as the ‘elders’.  The drama, excitement and pageantry of these events highlights this epitome of a traditional, ideal, American masculinity—most obvious in the person of the quarterback, the ‘leader of the pack’.  The temptation for an anthropologist to analyze these varieties of symbolism (animals, colors, gender, power, age, and more) is nearly overpowering!

I, like many of my compatriots, find it quite impossible not to be impressed with the speed, agility, strength, and strategic talents of many of these young men.  Football games are exciting, wonderful spectacles. But I also find myself ruminating on the messages they convey—some I like, some I don’t.  I’m sure I’m not the first to ponder the parallels with the circuses of ancient Rome—distracting the populace from the important, political issues of our time. 

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On Swiddens, Swiddeners and the Passions of Those who Study Them

Posted on 30 December 2011 by Carol

I stop in the midst of writing an academic treatise on swidden agriculture globally. The paper is full of rationality and reason, carefully constructed sentences, the making of valid statements, supported by believable evidence. Yet, bubbling beneath this rational superficiality is a passion that I know is not mine alone. I question the source of this bubbling passion shared by many of us who have done long term research among shifting cultivators.

Is it simply our love for the people among whom we worked and who shared their lives so graciously with us? Perhaps, but I do not feel the same overpowering love of the total system when I think of my work in the Pacific Northwest among loggers and bureaucrats or my earlier study of cognition among Native Americans at Chemawa Indian School. I could imagine that these are too familiar, that my passion comes from ‘otherness’, from the exotic. But I find that neither do I feel such passion about my work on health, population, and agriculture in the [more alien] Sultanate of Oman. Yet still I cared about all these people as well.

Perhaps it is the close link between the people in swidden systems and their environment, their dependence on it and love of it, its central role in their world view and way of life. Perhaps being with people who live so close to nature brings the researcher closer as well. I think of the studies of the beneficial effects of being in and around nature (by Patricia Shanley or Qing Li). Certainly, I was more ‘in nature’, more directly dependent upon it, while living among shifting cultivators than in other contexts of daily life. Whether we had meat for dinner depended directly on someone’s hunting success; the vegetables we had depended on what was in season and what someone had the time to harvest (only rice and cassava leaves during the lean times).

Or is it our appreciation of the complexity of the system, our passion further fueled by our dismay that others fail to recognize and value it? I think of the knowledge required to select a forest area to clear, one that will be sufficiently fertile to produce a good rice crop; the understanding of animals’ patterns of behavior needed to protect fields from pests, conduct a successful hunt, avoid over-harvesting a species; the knowledge of edible plants and their seasons, ensuring a reliable and varied diet most of the year; the variety of products—fibers, foods, medicines, timber, firewood—available from the different stages of forest regrowth, as the swidden turns, year by year, back to beautiful and lush forest.  The common emphasis in development circles on ‘poverty alleviation’ totally misses these wonders among ‘the poor’.

Or is it the aspect of unpredictability, the wildness, of such systems—both human and ecological? A swiddener in Borneo, the system I know best, awakes each morning and considers what to do that day, depending on the time of year, the weather, his/her inclinations: Should I go to the ricefield and weed? Or perhaps go out fishing? Should I take a walk in the forest and harvest some of those durian that I saw fruiting yesterday? Or shall I participate in my neighbour’s work party on her ricefield? The course of the day is rarely pre-set—granting each person a kind of autonomy and freedom we rarely have in more ‘civilized’ contexts. I appreciated this freedom from expectations about what exactly I would do on any particular day. Such freedom may not be characteristic of other systems; I’ve found Bornean systems to be special in their acceptance of personal autonomy, their appreciation of individual strengths and acceptance of corresponding weaknesses.

The wildness of the environment continues to draw me to it as well: the beauty, the complexity, the lushness of the foliage. I remember fondly my own delight, sitting in a canoe, or paddling beneath overhanging branches reflected in the waters around me; my amazement when I realized how quickly the tropical foliage took over when left alone; my wonder at the diversity of plants and animals that populated the forest.

I suppose all these experiences and perceptions contribute to my own passion. I wonder if these are the same factors that produce the passion I also see in others…

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Oregon and the Death Penalty

Posted on 23 November 2011 by Carol

I woke early this morning in my mother’s household in Portland, Oregon.  I quietly made a pot of coffee, fed the cat, and padded out into the cool November rain to get the morning paper for my mother, who reads it religiously every day.  I don’t always look at it, but today I glanced at the headline, which brought genuine joy to my heart and tears to my eyes.  It said  “Kitzhaber blocks all executions”.  Oregon’s Governor Kitzhaber, a doctor who had, of course, sworn to protect life, had struggled with the conflict between the will of the people (who had reinstated the death penalty in 1984) and his own conscience.  Twice, in the 1990s, he’d allowed executions to proceed; but he was drawing the line this time.  Besides his conscience, he highlighted the arbitrary nature of the law’s application, the expense of keeping most people on death row (much more costly than a normal ‘life in prison’ sentence), the dangers of wrongful convictions, as additional factors in his decision.  He has now followed four other states (beginning with New York in 2004, followed by New Jersey in 2007, New Mexico in 2009, and Illinois last year) that have repealed their death penalty statutes.  I hope this reflects a growing trend towards a more admirable, more civilized United States of America.

I have been against capital punishment since childhood.  One of my first term papers, in high school, was on the subject.  What I learned then strengthened my antagonism to this practice, and that antagonism has only grown as I’ve aged.  My personal feelings have been reinforced by scientific advances that have allowed us to identify and correct many errors of conviction in the criminal justice system around the country.  We pretend to be a progressive and humane nation.  Yet too many of us condone this barbarism, this recidivism that harks back to humanity’s earliest days, no, to the animal kingdom itself.  

I most sincerely and passionately applaud Kitzhaber’s action, and hope, even pray, that other governors and State Supreme Courts will follow suit.  I do love my country; but I feel that it has generally been in error on this subject since 1984.  We should not be taking each other’s lives.

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Time for Protest—Again

Posted on 14 November 2011 by Carol

The guitarist and songwriter, Makana, sang his wonderful protest song, We are the Many, at a gathering of APEC in Honolulu on Saturday night.  He sang it, and was allowed to sing it, for 45 minutes, to a group of world leaders.  The song brought back my own youth, the 1960s, when we were all attuned to protest.  The protests of our generation contributed to bringing home America’s youth, to stopping the bombing, the use of mines, of Agent Orange, and other destructive forces that killed and maimed the people of mainland SE Asia.

We are now confronting a danger just as destructive of people’s lives, if (at least in the West) in a less immediately deadly manner.  Obama came to power with promises to address the inequities that plague our country, our world.  His efforts, admirable as they are, have been constrained at every turn by the power of the existing system (including even the strange collusion of many of America’s own poor and middle class).  But people around the world are rallying to this cause: the creation of a more just world.  The Arab Spring is one global manifestation.  Academics are speaking out, sharing their findings, decrying the growing inequities they find everywhere.  Those who have ‘occupied Wall Street’ in cities throughout America are making a dramatic statement, demanding effective resolution, a genuine fix of this broken system.  And a protest singer is allowed to sing his song.  Perhaps this joining of the multitudes, of the high with the low with the in-between, can bring about real change. 

We all know the power of song—and this is one powerful song.

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On the Coming of Winter

Posted on 30 October 2011 by Carol

On October 28, 2011, Etna, New York had its first snowfall of the coming winter, with some of the snow remaining on the ground for a day or two in the higher elevations.  By 30 October, the temperature had dropped to 24 degrees in the early morning.  Winter’s arrival seems early to me.

Images of past snowfalls come to mind:

A group of some 40 people on a field trip to a village in the Swiss Alps in April 2004.  All were participants in a workshop I’d helped to convene, focusing on global decentralization processes.  Among the participants were two Zimbabwean men, who had given a paper:  one, an older village leader probably in his 60s, was providing information on the effects of decentralization in his home village; the other a young, enthusiastic researcher (named, interestingly, Witness), was providing analysis and developing shared prose appropriate to an academic audience.  As we drove along, these two men, who had been reserved and quiet in the workshop, had their first sight of snow.  As we alighted from our bus, they were able to touch it for the first time.  The older man approached it with some hesitation, the wonder, near-fear, evident on his face; but Witness bounded out of the bus, grabbed a handful of snow, felt its coldness, put it on his face, ran his fingers through the snow on the ground.  Soon the two of them were laughing, forming snowballs and throwing them at each other with wild abandon, their faces expressing the pleasure, the joy of a wondrous, new experience.

My husband, son and I, en route to Portland, Oregon from our home in Muscat, Oman, stopping for pleasure in Wengen, Switzerland, in July 1990. The area around our hotel was green with summer pasture—we saw a black and white cow, suspended from a stirrup, hanging under a helicopter, high above our heads (being taken from one pasturage to another!).  One day we took a near-vertical train up the beautiful, snow-covered Jungfrau.  My 9 year old son, who’d spent his life in Hawaii, Indonesia and Oman at that point, had rarely seen or touched snow.  He’d occasionally seen it from afar, on Portland’s two visible, glacier-laden volcanoes, Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens, but he didn’t remember ever touching it.  He couldn’t wait to escape the confines of transport and buildings.  Once outside, he grabbed greedy handfuls and began pelting his father with snowballs, laughing with utter delight and glee.  The two of them enthusiastically attacked each other (getting thoroughly wet and even colder in the process), as I gratefully looked on—happy, but also relieved that my son had chosen to pelt his father, rather than me! 

In December 1968, heavy with my first child (due in February), visiting my parents’ home in the southwest hills of Portland, Oregon, over Christmas vacation; There was an unusual and heavy snowfall.  I had borrowed a strange, grey, quilted jumpsuit—perhaps from my father?—to accommodate my large midriff; and my then-husband and I took out my 10 year old brother’s sled.  My brother joined us, all spending hours riding down the sloping driveway and the nearby hilly (and empty) roads.  I see myself clearly, balancing on my bulging belly, zooming down the white and icy hills, feeling the cold wind on my face, the exhilaration of speed, the tiny fears and anxieties of mild danger—amplified slightly by concern for my unborn child, but feeling the over-weaning joy of being young and wild and playful and free.

In December 1961, my parents, brother and I, having recently moved to the East side of Portland, Oregon.  The snow began to fall, and kept falling, exciting my baby brother and me; we couldn’t wait to get out into it.  But it kept falling and falling; and soon we heard on the radio that the schools would be closed the next day.  This announcement brought delight to me, always happy to have a day off from high school.  But I remember vividly the utter shock on my mother’s face.  She’d grown up in Chicago where snow falls routinely.  She simply could not believe that a city would shut down with what she considered ‘a few measly inches of snow’.  It took her a while to get over it.

Snow remains an exotic experience for me.  As a child, in Bloomington, Indiana or Ankara, Turkey, I remember occasional snows, a few times each winter.  Later, in Portland or Seattle, its arrival was rarer, stopping all traffic and economic or educational activity, creating city-wide delight if it lasts a day or two, dismay if it lasts longer.  But these places do not get the kind of snow we get here—-where once snow falls and coats the earth, the landscape remains white for months on end.  Etna doesn’t have the hindrances to normal activity—impassable roads, closed businesses—that paralyze the Pacific Northwest.  Local governments, transport systems, businesses and schools are prepared for it; it happens every year.

I don’t really want to go out in it, to get cold; but I still love looking at it from the warmth of a cozy house.  Its beauty remains a source of delight.  I wonder (and am often asked) how long my fascination with it will last.  We’ll see.

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On War and its After effects

Posted on 20 October 2011 by Carol

My friend, Beth, recently learned that one could lend a Kindle book for two weeks to a friend. She wanted to figure out how to do it, so, having several books she thought I’d like, she kindly selected me as her guinea pig. After a couple of false starts, we managed to get her copy of the book, Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War (by Karl Marlantes), onto my Kindle. Although I’m sure she told me what she was lending me, I guess its significance didn’t quite get through. I’d never read a war story in my entire life, nor would I have read this one under different circumstances. But my friend’s efforts on my behalf encouraged me to give it a try. It has been a moving and educational experience.

I was a young woman during the Vietnam War (called ‘the American War’ in SE Asia), and as everyone knows, its conduct was the subject of much dissension, even violence, on the home front. My friends and colleagues demonstrated, some students elsewhere were killed, and the society was torn apart by controversy over it. My pains related to that war were all sympathetic, however. I had no direct experience of deaths and disfigurements among those I loved. I would say that though I was against the war, I was several steps removed from it, and truth be known, was fairly ignorant of its deeper meanings.

This book, which is extraordinarily well written, brings it all painfully home. It introduces a group of men, some educated, some not; some black, some white; some ‘lifers’, some members of the reserves. It slowly, methodically, and beautifully describes the characters, through their thoughts and actions. It portrays the social and psychological forces at work, as a group of men, young men, copes with the horrendous conditions of war. The horrors are described in appalling clarity and realism. As one reads, one feels the pain of tropical sores (something I’ve endured in very small measure), the misery of hunger and thirst, of alternately excessive cold, damp and heat on long marches, or waiting, bored and frightened, in trenches. The author (himself a Marine who served in Vietnam) conveys the feelings of esprit de corps, drilled into Marines, and the genuine selflessness displayed at times, with contrary feelings of skepticism, cowardice, and self-aggrandizement, in convincing counterpoint.

Much of the book takes place in the countryside, where the soldiers’ effort is divided between staying/keeping each other alive and ‘killing gooks’; but there is another thread that characterizes those above the soldiers, those who make decisions elsewhere for them. One comes to understand the bad decisions made by distant officers (exacerbating the near-unbearable suffering and death in the field), as the interplay of the officers’ past experiences, social pressures and personal ambitions unfolds. The actions and reactions at field level and at headquarters are reminiscent of the complexity of motivations, mistakes, and good intentions one sees at these two levels in international development contexts. But in the book, which must surely reflect what goes on in war, the effects are truly matters of life and death.

In 2007, I made my first trips to Laos and Vietnam, places that were routinely in the news, in my youth. I’d heard about Vietnam’s recent economic successes; and about the beauty of the landscape in Laos. I was anxious to see for myself. I did not expect the intensity of my own reactions to the visits. In Hanoi, the feelings of the 1960s came back to me immediately on arrival, as I drove by Hồ Chí Minh’s well-lit tomb, and worked the next day in a building draped with a gigantic flag of his face. I remembered the uproar caused when Jane Fonda went to Hanoi in 1972. I wondered, as I walked the streets, if people knew I was American and if they were feeling hatred in their hearts. In Laos, my feelings were even more intense. I went to small villages in the northeast, where we planned a conservation and development project. In Muangmuay, there was a poster on the wall with UXO written on it—‘unexploded ordinance’—and pictures of all the different kinds of dangerous mines and other killing devices. The village head wore a T-shirt he’d won by memorizing all these UXOs. Not far from there was the Plain of Jars, which was said to have more unexploded mines than any other place on earth. It was all I could do to refrain from crying.

I spoke with another Laotian man, who saw me walking one evening as dusk approached, and invited me to join him on a bench along the roadside in the small town of Viengkham; he wanted to chat, perhaps practice his English. I was overwhelmed with sorrow, and expressed my feelings of regret and guilt about what had happened to these people. He reassured me, telling me that it was not really America’s fault, that it was a fight among brothers, among the Laotians themselves, and that the bigger powers had simply been drawn in. I suppose there’s a grain of truth there as well, but I feared he was mainly being kind. Such kindness from someone who has seen the violence of war, certainly exacerbated by my own country, touched me. It still touches me—that people can be so forgiving. 

But to return to the book, which takes place in Vietnam near the Laotian border, it does not address the pain and suffering of the people of Vietnam or Laos. It only describes the experiences of the American soldiers. For myself, I have found it exceedingly painful to read; but I have learned from it, more realistically, more basically, what war really means. Each night I read some more (I’m 3/4 of the way through), and I wake in the night feeling sadness that we, the human race, are still willing to sacrifice the lives of young people—no matter what nationality—-in such ways. The waste and suffering on all sides surely never goes away, despite the kindness I’ve witnessed as a former enemy in these two countrie.

 

The waste is truly unconscionable.

 

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On Population and Perplexity

Posted on 20 October 2011 by Carol

I am perplexed. I’ve spent the day in meeting rooms with interesting, intelligent, motivated people in Airlie Center, a lovely resort an hour or so out of Washington, DC, in the Virginia countryside. We were concerned about and trying to address the issue of gender and REDD+ (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and forest Degradation). [The plus sign (+) in REDD+ refers to the additional social and environmental issues that global actors have decided must also be addressed.] The people assembled were all either very experienced in topics of relevance, or actively engaged in such topics. The discussion was lively and stimulating. Many excellent ideas were put forth by the participants for consideration by USAID (the convener) and by other participants.

As the afternoon wore on, and our plenary discussion turned to brainstorming, stimulated by earlier thematic conclusions from small group discussions, I remembered a topic that had not yet been addressed and I put it forward: I noted the links between population growth/density and deforestation/degradation in many areas, on the one hand; I emphasized the advantages to women of access to birth control, on the other. I have published analyses showing the educational, health, income generation, status, and agricultural productivity gains that can accrue to women when greater proportions of their energies are released from childbearing and childcare responsibilities. I suggested that women were closely linked to population issues, and that this would be a productive avenue for involving women in REDD+ efforts. I also stressed the importance of responding to felt needs, to addressing such concerns carefully and diplomatically, in ways that were consistent with local realities, and only with women’s consent. I saw some serious head nodding in agreement as I spoke, from some participants (usually an indicator of agreement).

Yet the facilitator did not add my suggestion to the flip chart, as had been done with other suggestions; it was not registered as an intervention.

I recalled another similar instance. I was at a meeting of COHAB (Cooperation on Health and Biodiversity) in Ireland a few years back. It was organized in a similar fashion, with small group discussions, later expanded in plenary. In my small group, the issue of population came up as an important issue related to COHAB’s mandate. In this context, several people made interventions related to its importance. Yet the small group facilitator did not record the interventions; and the rapporteur did not convey them to the next plenary session. I find it difficult to speak up in a large group, but I ‘girded my loins’ and raised my hand to add the population topic to the list being compiled at the front of the room. Again several others supported my intervention and it was added on the flipchart.

Yet when I saw the written summary of our conclusions, population issues had again disappeared! I was able, by following each step of the proceedings in this case, to get them reinstated. But everyone seemed to want the issue to ‘just go away’.

In another meeting, of IUCN in Bangkok, a few years earlier, a scientist had just given a damning presentation about the state of the world’s biodiversity, without mentioning anything about global population growth. It seemed obvious to me that population growth was a crucial element in the deterioration of the environment — not everywhere, but in many contexts. I raised the issue—again, requiring more courage than I prefer to muster. The speaker disdainfully disregarded my suggestion, stating that studies had shown that population growth did not result in biodiversity loss [a serious over-generalization]. In the plenary setting, there was no opportunity for me to argue my case; and no one else spoke up publicly.

Instead several people came up to me privately, to express their agreement, even to congratulate me on my courage in bringing it up publicly!

At the Center for International Forestry Research, I tried for several years to get the institution to incorporate such concerns into our portfolio. But one Director General was convinced that human creativity could solve any problems that emerged from population growth. The next DG also opposed such an effort, despite her interest in encouraging gender equity. She considered it too much of a political hot potato.

I have learned over the years that mentioning human population growth as a problem subject to human intervention is effectively taboo in natural resource-related scientific and policy circles. Many scholars, conservationists, and development experts agree privately that population growth is a problem, that the earth’s capacity is not limitless, that our quality of life has already been adversely affected by the number of human beings on earth (food and fuel shortages, conflict, climate change, etc.). I neither suggest that population is solely responsible nor that it is equally important everywhere. There are even places suffering from loss of population. I also understand and agree with the equally serious need to reduce consumption in the West. My points are and have been, rather, that

  • ·      we need to examine population issues carefully, addressing the problems identified;
  • ·      such issues have significant implications for people and their environments;
  • ·      they represent an obvious entry point for involving women more effectively in many political, management and economic spheres; and finally
  • ·      they represent an opportunity in efforts to enhance gender equity.

I remain perplexed, feeling that many intelligent people are hiding their heads in the sand, ignoring abundant evidence before us—particularly when there are such obvious advantages for the environment and for women’s lives in addressing the issue head-on and proactively. I will continue to try to overcome my cowardly feelings, and speak up, despite the taboos exemplified above against bringing up the subject, in many of my social and professional circles.

Posted in deforestation, gender, population, REDD+ | 1 Comment

Am I Engaged in Biosociality?

Posted on 24 September 2011 by Carol

I was initially drawn to Cornelia Guell’s  recent article entitled “Candi(e)d Action:  Biosocialities of Turkish Berliners Living with Diabetes” ( Medical Anthropology Quarterly (25(3):377-394, 2011), by the focus on Turks—I grew up in Turkey—but I soon found myself enmeshed in her writing, which I found inspiring in a way.  It focused on the proactive, problem-solving nature of this diabetic community’s collegiality and collective action, rather than on the structural constraints and other mechanisms of marginalization so commonly emphasized in academic and journalistic writings about people of Turkish descent in Europe.  I liked the (balanced) emphasis on people’s creativity, cooperativeness, joint action; and I liked the implicit recognition that people of Turkish descent in Germany could also be doctors and pharmaceutical representatives, and others of middle class stature; they were not only unskilled labourers taking away German jobs, victims of discrimination, or financial drains on the broader German collective.  I liked the inclusion of illiterate older women, described using modern technology with equanimity, understanding the medical regimes required of diabetics.  All these aspects gave an air of hopefulness to the article; people are creative and adaptive—something I truly believe.

I wondered at first what biosocialities were (I’ve not read the literature the author cites):  She defines these as “…social groups forming around biological identities marked by ill health or illness susceptibility” (p. 378).  In the article this concept was linked with social marginality in general, and in this case with the well-established marginality of Turks in Germany.

Yet, the concept seemed to apply to myself and many of my equally aging, mostly financially comfortable, friends and relatives—few of whom would be considered marginalized in the conventional sense.  The common concerns among my age group, though, with both our own health, which is in some senses failing, and the health and care of our aging and vulnerable parents, dominate our discussions.  These topics serve as linking or bonding mechanisms with new acquaintances and additional social glue with old friends and family, near and far, rich and poor.  We come together in person, by email, via Facebook, on the phone; we are linked more passively through organizations like AARP, the Democratic Party, life insurance groups; or actively in yoga groups or as volunteers for Meals on Wheels.  We frequent similar medical professionals, through routine physical exams, submitting to mammograms, prostate checks, colonoscopies and all the other invasive indignities to which we (and our parents) are subjected in the shared effort to maintain or prolong our health.  These are all contexts for shared experience, knowledge, and conversation, despite our generally middle class, or even elite statuses. 

Is this a form of ‘biosociality’?  I wonder, is the association of biosocialities with marginality overly constraining?; am I failing to acknowledge the degree to which older Americans, regardless of their socio-economic status, are indeed marginalized?; do I seriously misunderstand the concept? 

I am also reminded of the centrality of the health care debate right now in the US, prompted surely partly by these recurrent, ubiquitous concerns of an aging population—perhaps rendered more politically ‘central’ by the non-marginalized status of many of today’s elderly.  Guell’s article reminds me of our own capacities to act, to deal directly with our own and our families’ health, but also, by extension, to act politically to rectify the broken US health care system, in which: 

  • The costs of today’s care serve to marginalize those already marginalized and to render marginalized those who have been in the mainstream;
  • the lack of attention to prevention exacerbates the growing problems of today’s elderly, and ignores the general health status of the population (with adverse, long-term implications as today’s youth age); and
  • the fragmentation of health care, with different doctors addressing different parts of the same body, reduces efficiency and efficacy in dealing with human beings, whose parts come together within one mind/body.

Looking at the use we make of our national resources, it is hard to avoid the conclusion that our priorities are seriously confused.  Why can’t we, one of the richest countries on earth, create a workable system that addresses these issues directly, providing adequate health care for all? In fact I believe we can. We just need to do it. 

Guell’s article—on sick and marginalized people of Turkish descent living in Germany—reminded me of my own belief in our ability and responsibility to do this, to act in pursuit of better health care for all (in our own country and beyond).

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On the Passing of Summer

Posted on 18 September 2011 by Carol

The last couple of mornings the temperatures have been in the low 40s (F), and I began to realize that the warmth of summer was nearly over.  The reality of seasonality struck me again—after my many years in the tropics.  I thought of all the preparations that need to be made.  The tomatoes and cucumbers we’ve been harvesting daily from the garden are almost gone; we’ll soon be diving into the potatoes and onions drying in the garage.  Our diet will change, with fewer fresh vegetables, more foods designed to warm rather than to cool.  My flowers—dahlias, tithonia, cosmos, tea roses, zinnias—are still blooming, but soon that too will be finished for the year.   I’ll have to bank the irises with bark dust and perhaps learn about digging up dahlias before the temperatures reach freezing.  No more weeding for months to come.

I’ll have to put away my bright summer batik dresses, my lightweight tops, slacks, shorts, and replace them all in my closet with woolens, sweaters.  Today I put a turtleneck under my jumper, to keep me warm.  Shoes will change as well—boots will replace sandals for a time.  My husband ordered what we hope will be the year’s supply of firewood, and has spent the last few days stacking it in the shed, for use in the fireplace. The coziness of nightly fires awaits me, as does the chill of early morning, the need to wear slippers and a warm bathrobe.  The furnace has switched on, the last few nights…waking me with its no longer expected sounds.  I’ve already begun selecting warmer nighties. 

We’ve switched bed coverings as well.  I put away my pink and white, summer quilt and replaced it with a heavy winter comforter in a maroon duvet.  My paternal grandmother from rural Oklahoma made the summer quilt, with all the birds and flowers of each US State embroidered on it.  It had been packed away in storage for decades while we lived in Indonesia. I delighted all summer in finally getting to use it and the white pillowcases she’s also made for me.  Each was adorned with an embroidered girl, wearing a tatted, frilly green skirt (made for the ‘hope chest’ my grandmother had prepared for me, a custom no longer followed, I’m sure—in her time, girls ‘hoped’ to get married).  With the comforter, we use instead a smoother, cream-colored sheet with an 800 thread count and a duvet (both, customs newer to me, with a comparative air of elitism about them)—definitely more elegant, less nostalgic.  I thought of my loving and long dead grandmother whenever I got into bed, all summer long; but the duvet is easy to clean, the bed easier to make.

What else will we need to do to prepare?  Do the cars need antifreeze?  I remember doing that, from an earlier life; I’m not sure if it still applies.  We have all-weather tires on our cars, so that’s covered.

Now I await the turning of the leaves, the spectacular colors of fall in upstate New York, the hills afire with reds, oranges and yellow, the crispness of the air.  I’m hoping that my mother’s visit in early October coincides with the peak of autumnal beauty.  The fullest bounty is unpredictable, so we won’t know until she arrives…

But I do mourn the loss of summer’s heat.  I’m a warm weather being, despite my enjoyment of aspects of the other seasons.  I love to walk barefoot on the grass, feel the dirt between my toes, twirl my light summer dresses around my body and feast my eyes on the brilliance of summer colors.  I feel a freedom in lightweight clothing, breezes on bare skin, hot sunny days, blue skies full of puffy white clouds.  The fall brings beauty and delights as well, but I’ll miss the summertime—consoling myself with the thought that it will come again…

These are not the thoughts that came to me in September in Indonesia, where the sun shines and the rains fall every day, the flowers always bloom, and one cannot even escape the warmth.  Indonesia has a different set of delights and pains, a more even seasonality, with the main seasonal differences that affected my own life being the intensity of the rainfall and the particular tropical fruits available.  I love the tropics, but these seasonal changes bring an odd mixture of nostalgic memories from childhood and an exoticism related to their long absence from my life.  Life is full.

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