On Privilege

Privilege is a word that’s bandied around a lot these days. White privilege. Male privilege. The privilege that comes from being rich. The list is endless. Each of us enjoys a different sort of privilege and some of it depends on one’s perspective as well. For example, some of my friends in India think I’m privileged because I live outside the country and hence enjoy a lifestyle that’s coveted by many. Some other friends wouldn’t dream of being in my position, because their lives in India are perfectly comfortable, and they enjoy the proximity to family and affordable full-time help that’s nonexistent outside of the country.

But what I want to talk about today is teaching kids about privilege. My son is five now and he has a very comfortable existence. The other day, we were having a conversation, and he said: “All the kids can watch what they want on TV Amma because everyone has a TV at home.” I started to explain to him how that’s not true and he just couldn’t fathom it and wouldn’t listen. In his version of the world, every kid has a TV at home. I can’t blame him either, because every home we have been to has one, if not more, televisions and a myriad of other gadgets. And that got me thinking on how to explain privilege to my son.

I didn’t grow up wealthy. My parents were middle-class Indian parents and like any middle-class family, we scrimped and saved for the stuff we wanted. We were expected to finish the food on our plates without complaint. We got new clothes for birthdays and special occasions. We had exactly two pairs of shoes- one for school and one for everything else. Chocolates and toys were an occasional treat. TV time was regulated and we were told we simply had to do well in school. Every single thing we had, we were expected to be thankful for, and we were. Both my parents had their ancestral homes in small villages and every holiday, the sibling and I would be packed off to our grandparents. There, we would see the kids in the neighborhood, their homes, and their struggles and that would reinforce what our parents told us, that we were indeed privileged. Our parents also always made sure that we were cognizant of the world around us, the struggles of everyone around us. They also made sure we shared with those less fortunate.

When my son was born, I wasn’t worried about his upbringing. I was going to raise him the way my parents raised us. What I didn’t factor in then was the fact that while I grew up in India, my son has already lived in four different countries in the short five years of his existence. He barely remembers India. He started his schooling in one of the most developed nations in the world. He went to a preschool were his friends’ parents were already shortlisting private schools and prep schools for their kids. We have two cars. His friends have lavish parties for birthdays. They get multiple presents for Christmas. And to an extent, as a parent, I have had to comply as well. He hasn’t had a lavish party to date. And I always try to limit the number and value of the presents he gets. And for every present he gets, he has to donate a toy he already owns. I try to strike a balance, and often when I feel he is taking things for granted, I sit him down and tell him how privileged he is to have all this.

I don’t know how much of it he understands, but so far, he complies with whatever it is I ask of him. He gives away his toys willingly. When he gets money as a gift, he donates half of it to charity. He tries not to waste food. He does chores around the house to earn money and donates part of that too. But he is only five, and I worry that as he grows older, and becomes more exposed to the place and the culture that surrounds him, he will forget his privilege and start taking things for granted. I know I will be prepared, but I don’t know if it will be enough.

But for now, I’m doing what my parents did- I’m trying to teach by example. And I’m exposing him to stories and issues from different parts of the world, showing him kids who don’t enjoy the same privileges he does. I teach him to be thankful for everything he has. To be thankful for the people who help him- be it the server at the restaurant or the cashier at the supermarket. To be thankful for the things he has every day. And I try to find stories, incidents, and books that we can discuss that talk about privilege. And I’m hoping that for now, this is enough. And that once he’s grown up and we have the more complex discussion about what it means to be privileged, he will understand and choose to use his privilege wisely.

Year Out and Year In

The end of a year demands a mandatory year recap post right? Not that I have been active on this space for any length of time this year. I meant to, but as always, life got in the way. No. That’s an excuse. I just didn’t think this space was a priority for me and I neglected it. I’ve tried to scribble elsewhere like my journals and my notebooks but I haven’t been too successful on that front either. It has been due to a combination of factors. For the first half of the year, I was gainfully employed and finding the time to write was hard. The husband was working almost seven days a week and taking care of the home and the son fell to me. I was also pursuing an ambitious reading goal of 52 books for the year, a book a week, and each by an author from a different country. So whatever time I could spare went to reading.

Halfway through the year, we had to move. I had to quit my job, pack up the house, say goodbye to some amazing friends and colleagues and move to a whole other country. Settling in a new place, finding a school, a bank, grocery stores, doctors, dentists and what not took me months. Then came the adjustment for the son. It wasn’t easy for him. Not that I blame him. In the five years of his existence, this is the fourth country he’s living in. That’s crazy enough for adults leave alone for someone who doesn’t even understand why we have to move!

I had set some goals at the beginning of the year apart from my reading goals (which I accomplished in style). One was to not shop for myself, which I managed to quite an extent. Apart from books, which I had excluded from the list and essential winter clothes, I didn’t get anything for myself. I wanted to write twice a week but that didn’t happen. I’m planning to attempt it again next year. I wanted to save more which I did. I wanted to eat healthier which I managed to an extent as well. I wanted to restart yoga which I did although my practice is still spotty. I wanted to declutter. I had accumulated so much junk and I felt it was getting out of bounds and I managed that as well. I’m planning to make that a yearly thing. I feel I have too many material possessions and most only give me a fleeting sense of joy except for books. So I’ve decided to be careful about the things I acquire.

This year was a tumultuous year for me with yet another move and having to quit my job again. I don’t regret the move though. The husband was under extreme pressure and as a result, we were barely spending time as a family. The son had even begun to not listen to him anymore. I was holding down the fort all by myself and I could feel my patience fraying. It was definitely one of the most trying times in our marriage but we got through it. He’s much better now. He keeps better hours and he’s under less pressure. The son and he finally have time to bond and I feel less like a single mom.

I made some amazing new friends at my work, met some amazing women- both colleagues and clients who have inspired me. Their stories will always stay with me. I’ve worked with a company I never thought I’d work with and in a building that was over 200 years old and felt more like a ballroom than a workplace. I also lost friends, but I have no regrets there either. When someone takes advantage of you and then tries to weasel out of commitments with inane excuses, it is better to let it go. I’m not bitter. Some things have their shelf life and this was due to expire. But my time with them made me a better person. They were also there for me in some terrible times and for that, I will be thankful.

I have also introspected a lot this year. Reviewed and revised my long-term goals and ambitions. I’ve realized what is limiting me and I have decided to take charge and make things happen.

So my resolutions for 2019 are:

1. Be less likable- I’ve always been someone who has been nice to people. But I realized this year that this niceness has come at a cost. I had repressed so much of who I was, to be perceived as nice, that I had begun to lose sight of who I really was. I only found patches of the person I was a few years back and I was shocked. So I’ve decided that in 2019, I am going to be my own self. Speak my mind. Share my thoughts. Call people out. And not worry about the consequences. Because, like my sister says, if someone is meant to be in my life, they will be.
2. Write more- I had set a goal of twice per week for this year but I’m revising it down to once a week for 2019. Hopefully, that will be doable.
3. Explore new things- I realized this year that I had become a little rigid in my nature. I had a comfort zone, and I was finding it extremely hard to break out of it. It took the sibling a few sessions of yelling at me for me to realize that. I was becoming a recluse, and I was shutting myself off from experiencing new things out of some weird fear, and I was becoming a shell of the person I was. I plan to change that in 2019.
4. Expand my social circle- I have a small circle of people whom I call friends. But most of them are so far away that catching up with them is a pain. But I love them and treasure them and the things they’ve brought into my life. But since I’m constantly on the move, I am forced to make new friends. Although I enjoy meeting new people, making friends is hard for me. It could have to do with the fact that I’m very introverted. I scribble better than I speak, to be honest, but I’ve realized the son has started to take after me and not make too many friends as well. I don’t want my nature to affect him so I am going to attempt to broaden my social circle.
5. Prioritize my health- Physical, emotional, spiritual. I’ve been neglecting myself for a while and although I made a start this year, I still have a long way to go.

I have many other smaller goals but these are my big 5. And I intend to make these happen. Have you made your resolutions for 2019? What are they? Did you manage to stick to your resolutions this year?

Raising a boy

Parenting is hard. It is demanding, exhausting and mostly thankless. And as primary caregivers, it is often harder on mothers than fathers. You are responsible for your child’s well being- physical, emotional, mental and in most cases spiritual as well. You are constantly worrying about what your child eats, what he drinks, what he reads, what media he is exposed to, what sport he plays- the list is endless. But then, parenting has always been difficult. “It takes a village”, they say and they’re right. Only in today’s global society, you are the village.

When I was pregnant, I had this quiet conviction that I was going to have a boy. Once D was born, I was at a complete loss on how to raise him. I only had experience around little girls and I was completely flabbergasted on how to go about bringing up a boy. The initial months were easy- you just had to feed him and make sure he wasn’t too warm or too cold. As he grew, so did my disquiet. As a woman, I felt, I was more comfortable connecting with a girl than a boy. After all, all I had to do was teach her from my own personal experiences and those of my friends. I just had to teach her to keep struggling and fighting against the injustices meted out to her, in the same way I had been doing since I was old enough to understand being a girl put me at a disadvantage. I just had to teach her to not conform to society’s expectations from a girl, to fight against patriarchy, to tell her that being a girl did not make her any less of a human being. With a boy, I wasn’t sure where to start.

That was the time the MeToo movement started taking center stage and as I went about reading and doing research and wondering how to start parenting my boy, it hit me. Boys have never had to face any of the disadvantages that girls did. They were never told they weren’t good enough. Ergo, the challenges they faced were different. And they were complementary to the ones girls faced. I realized then that raising a boy wasn’t all that different from raising a girl. It is just that the issues they had to face were different.

The first order of business was trying to raise my son to be as gender neutral as possible. Which meant not conforming to the “blue-pink” madness when he was little to choosing his toys, the books he read and the messages he was exposed to. I’ve always let D pick out his own toys. I’ve never made a conscious effort to direct him to more “masculine” toys like trucks and cars. Granted he loves them but he also loves to cook and play house and I’ve never stopped him from doing those. I’ve never asked my son to “toughen up” and not cry. I’ve taught him in turn that everyone cries and it is yet another way to express emotion. The one time he told me that only girls wear pink, I told him no- colors are a personal choice and it’s not just for girls. He’s dressed up in skirts and tiaras and in superhero costumes. He’s sensitive and frequently needs to be held and cuddled and kissed and I’ve told him that’s a healthy way of expressing affection. He helps out with household chores- cooking, cleaning, folding the laundry, taking out the trash- all traditionally considered to be the forte of girls. I also make sure he sees his dad doing the same things so he understands that household chores aren’t divided based on gender. I’m doing this to make him self-sufficient and also to instill in him this belief that gender doesn’t define what one does or becomes. Hopefully, when he’s older and is bombarded with the kind of sexist messaging and imagery that is so prevalent in today’s world, he will remember these lessons he learned as a child and be strong enough to stand up against them.

This is a world of angry men and angry women. Women’s anger is righteous and stems from centuries of being oppressed, controlled and relegated to the sidelines in all walks of life. Men’s anger stems from a lack of control. It tries to silence the voices of others including women. For ages, men have been taught that they are in control of everything- from their destinies to politics, economics, society, and women. Why else would we still have men making decisions on women’s bodies? Every single mistake they ever made was justified with the nonsensical argument of “Boys will be boys”. They’ve had the world handed to them on a platter and have constantly been told that they could be anyone and have anything they wanted. The whole world was full of successful “men” for them to look up to.

But today, women’s voices are louder than before and it has led to a fundamental shift in the definition of what being a man entails. Today, being a man has come to mean being an ally to women. At least, that’s the way I prefer to think of it. And this means, instead of sticking to the age-old ways of raising boys, we need to raise them more like we raised our girls- to be sensitive, to be compassionate, to be helpful, and most of all to fight against the established world and social order that treats girls differently from boys.

Mind you, I want my son to be tough. I want him to be tough in the sense that he’ll stand up for what is right. I want him to be tough when he stands up against racism, bullying, patriarchy. I want him to be tough in the face of pressure from peers and from a society that will try to fit him into the stereotype of being a man. I want him to be tough when it comes to standing up for his beliefs and convictions. I want him to be tough enough to go against centuries of beliefs that make him the favored sex. I want him to be tough enough to fight eons of deeply entrenched patriarchal systems. I want him to be tough enough to shrug off the venom that will unfailingly be directed at him by a lot of his own gender when he chooses to be an ally for women. But beyond all this, I want my son also to have that innate toughness to choose the kind of person he wants to become- the courage to be his own person not shackled by anyone’s expectations including mine. That’s the toughness that I will welcome and strive to foster in my son.

I am constantly trying to raise my son to not be defined by his gender. And I know there are millions of mother’s like me around the globe trying to raise their son’s to be allies to their daughter and to girls around the globe. Hopefully, these little boys won’t be corrupted by the toxic world environment we see and read about every day and when their time comes, will be, along with the girls,  harbingers of the kind of change the world so desperately needs.

PS: After reading this some of you might feel that a lot of what I’ve written has been generalized. Like the fact that all men have it easy or that all women are angry about their lot in life. Well, there are men who have had tough lives and women who are perfectly happy in patriarchal societies but for the most part, what I’ve mentioned here it true. My writing might also seem very straightforward but as we all know, there are no blacks and whites to anything in life. I’ve just tried to articulate to the best of my ability what I feel and what I’m trying to do. 

Competitive Motherhood

We had a PTA meeting at my son’s school the other day. And by school, I mean preschool. And I don’t know if I should be ashamed to say this, but I had no clue preschools had PTA meetings. Anyway, this being the offspring’s first official meeting and my first “school event” after D’s official entry into the hallowed portals of an educational institution, I was excited about going. I thought I would meet some lovely parents and I would finally have people to maybe go out with for a cup of coffee or crib about our kids.

But, within minutes of arriving at the school and meeting my first parent, I was disabused of that notion. I had conveniently forgotten something I had first experienced while I was pregnant- competition. Well, I was acquainted with competition much before, but the fact that the notion could be attached to something like pregnancy was news to me till I was carrying D. There was competition in everything- from getting the best doctors to putting on the least amount of weight, to having the least or worst morning sickness and to even the sort of childbirth you had. Natural birth with a midwife out of the confines of the hospital scored you most points, while cesareans were the lowest on the rung. (I should clarify here that I am in no way against natural childbirth. In fact, one of my closest friends did just that with both her babies. She found an atmosphere without the beeping of machines and the “hospital smell” perfect for her. I, on the other hand, cannot imagine having a child in a place other than a hospital.)Then came everything from breastfeeding to child-led weaning to hitting all the milestones. While I was shielded from most of that because I was with my parents, and I followed their example in raising my child, I was subject to all kinds of unwanted advice on how to raise my child (which I considered or rejected depending on the person who offered it or based on its merit).

(Image Courtesy: someecards.com)

But I digress. The comparison started when I mentioned whose mother I was. The minute D’s name left my mouth, the lady went, “Oh! The really tall boy”. While I might qualify as a midget, my son seems to have taken after his father and is pretty tall for his age but I’ve never had someone address him as the “really tall boy”. She then went on to tell me how her son was small and didn’t seem to be putting on weight or height no matter what she did. I tried to change the topic saying I was the same way and so was my sister and we both turned out ok and that each kid had his own stage and time and pace of growth but she didn’t seem satisfied. She went on to say how me and my sister were girls and how shortness in boys wasn’t a desirable quality. I didn’t want to tell her how misogynistic that was. Anyway, the said lady’s friend arrived and I was again introduced as the mother of the really tall boy. I resigned myself to the moniker and waited for the meeting to begin so people would finally stop the comparison. The meeting started and the school started talking about their teaching methodology. I was pretty impressed with what they were doing and in any case, my primary aim in enrolling the offspring was to get him to socialize and make friends and get him out of my hair for a while so I could get reacquainted with my brain and sanity.

But evidently, I was wrong in being impressed. When the teachers mentioned that they often had activities and studies for kids where they were grouped together based on interest and not age, some mothers took offense. Their major concern was that while younger children might benefit from interacting with older kids, the grouping was unfair to the older ones. They might not pick up things as fast, and might be late in meeting their milestones of reading, writing etc. The questions and arguments went on for so long, that after a while I zoned out. I’m sure I might have come off as an uncaring parent or a zombie masquerading as a mother, but I was at the point of not caring anymore. I don’t disagree with the school for one. My sister is five years younger than me, and she’s definitely the more accomplished of the two of us and I’m constantly learning new things from her. I also believe interacting with younger kids teach the older ones virtues like patience, sharing, compassion, and adaptability- qualities I believe will serve them well in life. When one of the teachers mentioned a much younger kid who was a whiz at math, I swear I could almost see some mothers turning green with envy.

(Image Courtesy: cartoonstock.com)

Competition is good, I agree, and in today’s world, it is pretty much unavoidable. But my parents always taught me to compete with myself. It was always, “We know you can do better than this. You’re capable of so much more”, and never, “You can do better than him. You have to.” There was never any comparison between me and the sister. We would compare often, but never our parents. We compare even now, but we’ve both come to realize we have our strong suits and are perfectly happy with the way we turned out. And I try to impart the same philosophy to my son. When he talks about a classmate who read them a story I ask who it was, and what story it was, and if he also shared something with the class. I don’t attempt to grab the nearest book and get him also to read. I know my kid is smart. He is curious and sensitive and tells silly stories and likes only happy endings to any story he reads; so much so that we often rework stories with somewhat sad endings to make them happy. He cares for trees and animals and those smaller than him. He is shy but I can see him slowly coming out of his shell since he’s started school and started being with other kids. And for me, those are accomplishments enough. I don’t want my child to have a Mensa-level IQ, or participate in all sorts of extracurricular activities the school offers, or read Wordsworth and Kafka when he’s 6. I just want a happy, well-adjusted child. The rest will come when he feels its time. If I’m branded a bad mother for this, then so be it. I’d rather be a bad mother than have a child who’s scarred for life because his mother was busy training him to be the best at everything that she forgot to let him be a kid.

And I try to impart the same philosophy to my son. When he talks about a classmate who read them a story I ask who it was, and what story it was, and if he also shared something with the class. I don’t attempt to grab the nearest book and get him also to read. I know my kid is smart. He is curious and sensitive and tells silly stories and likes only happy endings to any story he reads; so much so that we often rework stories with somewhat sad endings to make them happy. He cares for trees, and animals, and those smaller than him. He is shy, but I can see him slowly coming out of his shell since he’s started school and started being with other kids. And for me, those are accomplishments enough. I don’t want my child to have a Mensa-level IQ, or participate in all sorts of extracurricular activities the school offers, or read Wordsworth and Kafka when he’s 6. I just want a happy, well-adjusted child. The rest will come in time. If I’m branded a bad mother for this, then so be it. I’d rather be a bad mother, than have a child who’s scarred for life because his mother was busy training him to be the best at everything, that she forgot to let him be a kid.

The Cost of Conflict

When I was asked to draw a picture of my home, and I drew a series of chaotic loops, because chaos was all I had known in my short life, you wept. When I sat among the ruins of a railway station, my mouth open in a silent scream for my mother who’d never come, you wept. When my blazing green eyes bore into you from the cover of a magazine, reflecting the horrors I’d been through, you wept. When I crawled my way to a mouthful of food, naked, emaciated, trying to escape from the jaws of a patiently waiting death, you wept. When someone pointed a camera at me to take my picture and I put my hands up because I’d only seen guns being pointed at people, you wept. When in my quest to escape the horrors you inflicted on my land, my tiny frame washed up on a beach, you wept. And you weep now as you see me, bloodied, motionless and emotionless on an ambulance chair. 

What you see are a few, but there are millions like me. Millions whose voices you do not hear, whose pictures do not get to you, whose lives you do not know. Millions like me who have lost families, homes, limbs and life in our quest to survive. There are also millions who have had weapons thrust in their hands at an age when they should be holding teddy bears and schoolbooks. Millions who are asked to fight, but do not know what they are fighting for, or whom they’re fighting against. But that is another issue altogether.

I am tired of the world and all of you. Every time you see one of me, you weep, you vow to change and in a few days you forget. There are a few of you who fight tirelessly, but the most of you are secure in the knowledge that something like this would never happen to you. You are easily distracted. My problems and me are too much for you to handle. You do not know where, or how to begin. And even though I’m tired, this makes me angry.

I was always told that you people are intelligent and sensible; that you always learn from your mistakes and never repeat them. But you somehow seem to have forgotten to rectify the many mistakes that have made it impossible for me to live in this world. You seem to have forgotten all about the innocent millions like me, whose innocence is being sacrificed at the altar of your greed and your senseless every day. 

  

You make excuses of lofty ideals like “greater good of mankind”, “protecting the freedom of the individual”, “destroying terrorism”, “rooting out extremist elements” and what not. You fight in the name of religion, ideals, resources, beliefs, politics. You exhort people to war with entreaties of patriotism, and service of mankind and the like. You forget that all this makes sense only to you and others like you. 

For me, it means I get to wake up to bombs falling. I get to go to sleep to the sounds of gunfire. I get to see my family massacred in front of my eyes. I get to live a life without fun, without joy, without toys or even a place to call my home. I get to live a life maybe without limbs, or eyes or ears. I get raped and assaulted and killed. I try to escape and I die in the process. I stay and I get killed. If I do manage an escape, its months, years before I get to a place I can call my own. I sleep on forest floors and swim across oceans; I travel in jam-packed containers where I might suffocate to death. 

And sometimes, when I do get to freedom, you tell me you can’t have me in your country. That there are too many of us already, and we would upset the fabric of your country. I don’t understand. You deem it alright to destroy my home or you condone someone else’s destruction of it, and then you won’t have me in your own. You worry about your homes and your children; their right to be happy and run unfettered and unaffected by anything. While there are millions like me who have never known a day without war, not gone to sleep without the noises of destruction ringing in our ears, who have not known what it is like to be free, to not worry about waking up the next day, to not worry about their next meal or if we will lose our parents. 

I don’t understand how you can look at my face and not see your children’s faces there. I don’t understand this war or this conflict. I don’t understand the killing and the bloodshed. I don’t understand the terms you bandy about so casually to justify what you do. All I can do, is implore you to stop. To leave for me, a world where I can sleep in peace. A world where I will never be hurt by anything, in any fashion.  A world where I won’t be relegated to yet another iconic photograph..

(Images, Courtesy: Google Images)

What do I teach my child?

Terror attacks painting the globe red. Police shooting people. People shooting police. People shooting people. Kindergarten kids being taught to stand on toilet seats to escape shooters. Terror outfits kidnapping children and forcing them into sexual slavery. Politicians endorsing racist and extremist rhetoric. 

These are just some of the incidents that I read about in the past couple of months. And I’m exhausted. I’m tired of seeing the names of places attacks happened and people killed. The numbers simply make my heart go numb. These issues were there when I was a child and I hoped that as I grew up, things would get better. That the people in charge of nations all over the world would do the right thing, and make the right decisions. That we’d see an end to war, poverty, climate change, genocide, terrorism. That people across the globe would learn to live in peace. But the exact opposite seems to be happening. 

The world seems to be sprinting towards xenophobia, terrorism and more wars, with the death toll rising steadily. And my initial hopes of things getting better are almost non existent. As a mother, this scares me to no end. Growing up is a painful process. Its hard enough learning new things, making friends, going through love and heartbreak, losing your naiveté about the many things in the world, figuring out what you want to be in life and getting through the journey without losing sight of your inner child completely. Add to this the state the world is in right now, and we have a depressing scenario.

When I went to school, my biggest worries were about teachers asking me something in class that I didn’t know the answer to, or not scoring well on a test, or missing the school bus, or what I’d do if it rained during PE class, or how to avoid getting mud on my white uniform. Now that I’m getting closer to sending my son to school, the list of things I need to worry about seems endless and much more scarier. 

I need to worry about the bus driver. Will he or she hurt my child? Will he be safe with them? I need to worry about the security at school. What if someone gets in with a gun? Or a knife? What if my child is bullied? What if someone passes racist comments? What if someone bigger than him beats him up? What if the teachers don’t notice? What if they hurt him? Should I send him to a posh private school then? But will he be made fun of there as well? What if my child is caught in a shooting at school? Should I teach him how to get out alive in such a situation? Should I send him to self defence class? Will it do any good?

How do I explain all this to him? I recently lost my grandmother. D was close to her. He could recognise her in pictures and he would watch videos of him with her. So when she passed away, and a few days later he mentioned he wanted to see her, I had to tell him she wasn’t there anymore. He was confused and I had to tell him she had gone bye- bye to see God. Its hard enough explaining the concept of life and death to a child. Imagine having to explain why people kill other people, why wars happen, why people of a certain color are considered better than other, why his colour and his culture might make him the butt of jokes, why he might be persecuted for his beliefs or his choices in life or his sexual orientation, why he could be shot dead in his school or his home or any other place where he should be safe, why he shouldn’t trust anyone completely, why he should always be careful, why he shouldn’t be confrontational, why he should just put his head down and walk. Imagine having to teach him what to do if he’s caught in a shooting, or if someone is picking on him, or if someone thinks its ok to make fun of his color, or if someone is using racial slurs against him. Can you imagine the sheer list of things that a child needs to be made aware of at a tender age? And can you imagine how much that would affect their young minds? 

At an age when they should be climbing trees and laughing till they’re out of breath and singing nursery rhymes, we are teaching them to look at everyone and everything around them with fear and suspicion. We are not just fighting against monsters under the bed now, we are fighting against real monsters and real issues. We are bringing up a generation of children who will soon forget what diversity is like, what peace is like, what a happy world is like. We already have a generation like this in many parts of the world; who’ve never known a day without war. We are leaving a legacy of terror and war and prejudice and discrimination for the next generation. Unless we start to make a difference right now, the world is going to be a bleak place to exist for our children and the generations to come. It pains me to think that I’ll be sending my child out into a world like this; where he will have to learn to navigate such choppy waters. It pains me that I’ll have to see him lose his innocence and hope bit by small bit and stand by helplessly. I can only hope that things get better, and teach him to hope for the same as well.

Like Pope said, Hope springs eternal.. 

Image Courtesy: Google Images 

The Hatred for Love?

Mankind has always been afraid of what it couldn’t understand or what didn’t fit the “norm” as prescribed by society. And that fear was very evident this past weekend the we all woke up to the news of the horrific shootings in Orlando. Over fifty people shot and killed. For what? For believing that love needn’t necessarily be between opposite genders? For identifying themselves as something other than the gender they were assigned at birth? For daring to go against the “norm”? 

I might have been thirteen when I first came to know about India’s famous third sex- the hijras. Alternately feared, reviled and worshipped, they are always shunned; and somehow manage to eke out a living partly from begging and conducting religious ceremonies and partly from sex work. Back then, I didn’t know all this. I just knew they were not “normal” and were to be feared. As I grew up and leant more about LGBTQs and their lives and how in spite of them being not the “norm”, they were still human beings, I realised how majority of the people around me didn’t have a clue about the lives of these people; and even if they did, how mistaken they were. 

And the more I read and understood, the more I realised that a lot of this fear had to do with the way we are brought up from childhood. As children, we are taught to act and behave in ways that are acceptable to the gender we are assigned at birth. If a boy expresses interest in dolls, or dancing or dressing up, he’s given a stern talking to and told to not act “girly”; like any hint of feminity in him is to be feared and quashed. Same goes for a girl who expresses an interest in anything even remotely masculine. Boys don’t cry. Girls don’t do fistfights. Boys don’t play with dolls. Girls don’t play with guns. The list is simply endless. And as you grow older, the list just keeps growing. A guy holds another guy’s hand- “Dude! Let go! Thats so gay!”. Two girls are extremely close friends- “Ugh! I bet they are lesbians.” The stereotyping starts and even if the intention is plain affection, people stop doing the things for fear of being labelled so. 

And for someone who actually happens to be gay, the plight is so much worse. The bullying, the ostracism sometimes even from ones’ own parents, the blame games and the trying to “cure” the condition. Friends cutting you off. Sniggers at the workplace. The hushed whispers among relatives and acquaintances. And the anguish that comes from not being able to make others understand that you are as much normal and as much human as they are. 

Why can’t we stop this conditioning and this fear from getting the better of us? Who has taught us that gender needs to be absolute? And if you belong to a certain gender, you simply have to behave in a certain fashion? Why should men be tough always? Why is it that if he isn’t, it is considered a blot on his masculinity? As someone who comes from a religion that has always celebrated gender fluidity and having been brought up by a couple of people who never thought that I should be defined exclusively by my gender, I find this hard to fathom. But then, I’m not surprised. 

The first time I spoke to my mother about LGBTQs, she was confused. She couldn’t understand how it could be so. Having grown up in a conservative household, I didn’t blame her. She had no idea people could be this way. But, she wasn’t judgemental or dismissive. She was honestly curious. And once I explained to her that this wasn’t something that could be cured or something that was an illness, she was understanding. “To each, his own”, she said. “As long as that person is happy, its nobody’s business”, was her thinking. 

Can’t we all think this way? Just because your religion forbids it or because you don’t think the same way, does it mean everyone else would follow you as well? My religion tells me that the cow is sacred and to not eat its meat. I can point out millions of Hindus who enjoy beef. Can we all say with absolute conviction that we follow everything that our religion prescribes? No one can. Religion is only supposed to be a guideline on how to live your life. It isn’t supposed to be something absolute. And then again, isn’t all religion about love. Doesn’t every religion teach us that God is love? Just because someone’s definition of love doesn’t match ours does it mean they are wrong? 

Condemning someone for being gay and telling them only heterosexual love constitutes love is like telling someone from the USA that idli -sambar is the best food in the world and bacon is bad. Do you see how silly this is? You’re a man and you love a woman? Go ahead. Good for you. You’re a man and you love another man? Good for you as well. Why does it have to be so that only one is right? 

And to those people who think that “these gays” are corrupting our children and making them follow their path of blasphemy, and would I like it if my child turned out it be “one of them”; being gay isn’t a lifestyle choice. Its not like deciding to go vegan or deciding to grow your own vegetables. Its just the way a person is. And if at all in the future, my child or anyone I know comes out to tell me he or she doesn’t fit the norm; I don’t care. As long as he or she is happy and at peace, I don’t care two hoots about what anyone else thinks. But I do want them to live in a world that is safe for them, a world where people are accepting of them and they don’t have to hide who they are. I do not want them to live in a world that is hell bent on making them invisible, and trying to portray them as people who are not whole or complete or normal; and trying to cleanse the world of them. 

The world is big enough for all of us. Just live and let live. 

(Image Courtesy: Google Images)

Serious Monkey Business

There has been much furore recently over the killing of a rare silverback gorilla, “Harambe” at the Cincinnati zoo, to save the life of a toddler who had accidentally fallen into the enclosure. People were outraged at the zoo officials’ decision to shoot the gorilla instead of trying to save the boy using other means. And many have been quick to jump on the bandwagon to vilify the mother of the toddler. Although the whole scenario is depressing, there are many issues at play here. 

To start with, as the mother of a toddler myself, I understand the plight of the woman in question. Anyone who has a toddler knows that they are, simply put, inexhaustible bundles of energy and curious to a fault. Again, not all kids are alike; I have seen my share of sedate ones but for the most part they are rambunctious. And even when you watch over them like a hawk and tell them any number of Nos, they’ll still not listen to you. Could the mother have been more careful? Maybe. I for one, am always on high alert,especially when we are at a place like the zoo because I know D loves animals, and given a chance he’d love to get up, close, and personal with one of them.  But even then,  I know that I can do everything right, and in a split second, everything can change. Even the best parents in the world have their off days. And if someone other than the mother had spotted the boy trying to get into the enclosure, how come they didn’t stop him? Anyone who’d seen the boy could have stopped him. 

And more than blaming the zoo’s decision to shoot the animal, my concern is why the enclosure wasn’t safer? If a toddler could fall into it, how safe was it to begin with? Shouldn’t the zoo make sure that no one, especially children can get in and the animals themselves can’t get out? 

There have also been a lot of experts coming out and saying that the behaviour of the gorilla was more protective towards the boy than threatening. It was like he was protecting the boy from the crowds above. But let’s face it, a baby human isn’t the same as a baby gorilla, and even Harambe’s protective tactics could have caused irreparable harm to the toddler. As to many peoples opinion that rather than shooting Harambe, zookeepers should have tranquilized him, for one Harambe might have construed it as a threat to him and reacted aggressively, and as far as my understanding goes, it takes time for a tranquilizer to have any effect on an animal. And honestly if it was my kid in the enclosure, I would want my child saved at any cost and I’m sure any parent out there will think like me. 

We all know that in the wild, all animals fiercely defend their territory. If anyone encroaches into what they consider their home, they will do whatever it takes to keep them and their brood safe. I’m sure it’s the same for all of us as well. If someone comes into your house, and you perceive them to be a threat, you wouldn’t think twice before defending yourself by whatever means at your disposal. Harambe was born and bred in captivity, and his enclosure was all he’d ever known. It was his home and he was defending what he considered his territory. So although this behaviour initially might have been non threatening, there are no guarantees he could have changed. And how much do we really understand the animal to make a decision? 

(Image Courtesy: WWF)

The real issue here, for me, is the fact that we are keeping animals in captivity for our entertainment. We are breeding them, and bringing them up in an environment that’s far far removed from their natural habitat. And because they are bred and live in captivity, they do not get to experience their lives as they would have, had they been born in the wild. A lot of their natural instincts are suppressed. They don’t get the freedom of choice. Harambe for one, couldn’t even decide when he got to wake up or what he got to eat. It was all decided for him. Imagine existing like that. One might argue that his life in the zoo would have been better than one he might have had in the wild, but that’s like locking up someone in their house and telling them the world is unsafe and this is better for them. Given a choice, I’m sure Harambe would have chosen to live in the wild. One might also set forth the argument that zoos are actually educating and conserving these animals. But when you go to a zoo, what do you actually learn? When you see a gorilla in a zoo, do you learn anything about his life, his food habits, his group structure? We talk about keeping them from extinction and conservation and all that, but do we actually do anything in that regard? Do we even know the names of any agencies involved in the conservation of these animals and do we even think of contributing to them? We learn more about these animals and their life and such from documentaries on National Geographic rather than at the zoo. Admit it, for most of us, a visit to the zoo is a way to kill time or for parents, a way to keep the children occupied. 

Wouldn’t it be much better if we got to see these beautiful animals in their natural habitat? To see them run unfettered in the wild, with no enclosures to keep them at bay and no multitudes of people staring at their every move. Granted it will be more expensive for a common man to go see them then, but shouldn’t we be living by the principle of “live and let live”? I believe the term being bandied about a lot these days is “compassionate conservation”- a rapidly growing field based on the principles, “first do no harm”, and “the lives of all individuals matter”. I for one, would love to live in a world where I wouldn’t have to make the choice between my child’s life and the life of a beautiful animal that is being pushed to the brink of extinction because of things my race has been doing over hundreds of years. 

Like the ancient Indian proverb goes, “We don’t inherit the Earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children”; let’s leave them something they’d be proud to call their Home.