India Travels

India and Pakistan

This post is old, it’s been in my head since early March, but today I’m thinking politics and it just won’t wait any longer.

In early March there are two announcements: India will meet Pakistan on the cricket fields of Lahore, and the political leadership of the two countries will open peace talks to resolve, among other things, the dispute over the territory of Kashmir.

This is my travelling month, and from the South to the North, people talk with me about the match, and the talks. They have high hopes for both, and, as I absorb their energy, I have high hopes, too. In McLeod Ganj there are many merchants from Kashmir, away from their families and homes. They tell me about the violence that drove the tourists away – and drove them to more moneyed places. What they earn they send home to their families. They would love a peaceful Kashmir with a strong commercial base to support their jewelry, coats, scarves, carvings and other handicrafts.

Leaving McLeod Ganj, I travel to Rewalser, a small town near a famous Buddhist cave. I visit a monastery and as I exit, I see tea shop. I ask for a coffee and my eyes slide over the Hindi newspaper, catching the pictures. This is how it feels to be unable to read, I think. My eyes stop at a picture of Colin Powell, standing beside a brown man in a white outfit. Definitely a South Asian politician, I think to myself. I ask the owner of the café to give me the story line. He glances with little interest, and says it is about the cricket match. ‘Colin Powell is here for the cricket match?’ I smile my surprise. The man smiles back, brings me my coffee and goes across the street to the travel bureau, returning with an English newspaper. I read.

My worst fears were not worse enough. Colin Powell is meeting in Islamabad with Prime Minister Musharrah of Pakistan, to grant that country Major Non-NATO Ally status. I read and react with disbelief that borders on horror. Turns out the man who owns the tea stall shares my sentiments, but ducked my original question because he thought I was from the U.S. There is such anti-American sentiment in India. No one is fooled by the global goodies – they are too busy lamenting the suicides of farmers, the migration of agricultural and other workers to the slums of major cities, the pillage of the water and land resources by huge U.S. companies. People laugh openly at the U.S.’ purported stance on human rights.

I talk with the owner of the tea stall. What will be the outcome of this move by the U.S.? And why now, just as peace talks are underway? In the days to come, I read many editorials wondering the same things. There is a delicate balance between India and Pakistan. I wonder to myself, does the U.S. profit from the hostilities between the two countries? Why else would they elevate one country over the other, right now?

In Delhi, the next week, Powell casually and carelessly offers the same Non-NATO Ally status to India. His offer is rejected, of course, and angrily hashed over in a few national news editorials.

Meantime, the election news keeps the focus on the peace talks with Pakistan. Prime Minister Vajpayee says the talks are one of the most important parts of the agenda for his next term, and that the climate is right for the talks. We all can but hope.

My Electoral Errors

Setting the record straight:

As I read today’s paper I see that I made too many mistakes in yesterday’s post, and resolve to correct them before day’s end.

What was I thinking? The Electronic Voting Machines don’t require electricity - they are battery operated. Scratch all those heavy generators. On the other hand, there is a fabulous pic in the paper of two elephants, their drivers sitting proudly atop, moving through the jungle. The caption reads: ‘Jumbo carriers . . . Security personnel escort election officials transporting EVMs on elephants to polling stations in Assam on the eve of elections.’

The paper also reports that some potential voters in Assam are less concerned with politics than with the early arrival of the monsoon. There is a river near Dhubri called the Bramaputra, which annually renders thousands of people homeless. Sweeping across the agricultural lands, flooding causes a huge loss of crops as it buries cultivated land under tons of water. Problems of poverty and unemployment just get worse. Health and educational facilities are the exception; Dhubri ranks last on Assam’s Human Development Index. Voting is not a priority.

The BJP is NOT the party in power; in fact it is the NDA. The National Democratic Alliance is a coalition government of 22 Federal parties. Imagine. The BJP has the majority of the seats, but in order to break the Congress dynasty or monopoly on power, it was necessary for all these parties to cooperate in coalition. And indeed they have, with good success. The BJP is, of course, hoping for more seats this time, so the coalition will be a bit smaller!

Yesterday was NOT the only Election Day in India, another round is planned for April 26. There simply are not enough EVMs for all constituencies to vote at once. This round, 17.5 crore were eligible to vote. That is 175,000,000 people. Voter turnout averaged 55% in the 16 states and union territories where voting took place. Officials worried about voter turnout due to the unseasonable heat. Summer came early to India this year, and voters know they will wait in long queues for their turn to cast their ballot, or press a button to be precise. As well, there are areas where people must walk for some kilometers in the heat to cast their vote.

I was right about the dearth of female candidates, but I did not know the depth of the problem. A total of 1,103 people contested the 140 Lok Sabha [parliamentary] seats yesterday – 81 of those were women. A Reservation Bill has been in front of the Parliament for some time, which would see a 33% quota for women in Lok Sabha. It has yet to be passed. In an interview today, Prime Minister Vajpayee mused that men really are more electable, so the Reservation Bill must be made law. “Maybe for 33% women, maybe for 25% . . . ” Maybe.

A Reservation Bill is the equivalent of Canadian equity legislation, and certainly there have been delays in implementing our equity laws. So it is in India, where another Reservation Bill, also yet to be passed, would see 33% hiring of women into the Public Service. There is vocal opposition to this Bill, as you may well imagine.

Much effort goes in to ensuring an honest election process. For instance, when people register to vote, one finger on their right hand is painted with indelible ink. This is to dissuade people from voting twice. Many people did not have a chance to vote even once. There were a vast number of reports from people who, because their names were missing on the voter’s list, were unable to vote - even though they produced voter’s cards and other ID. Many protested they had voted in the same place for years, yet could not vote yesterday. Often these protests turned violent, and there are reports of EVMs and whole polling stations being destroyed, even in Bangalore, as well as other places in India.

Much effort goes into ensuring a peaceful election process. In Bangalore alone, there were 5,000 police officers deployed yesterday. In Bihar, a state known for its outlaws, lawlessness and violence, shoot on sight orders were issued against anyone attempting to disrupt the polling process.

In other states, reports of ‘left-wing extremists’ in the more impoverished areas filled last night’s news. When I asked my family who these people were, they said “anti-rich people”. I expect the UCC School of Social Work might refer to some of these left-wing extremists as ‘protesters’.

As far as violent behavior goes, there are different reviews of the day’s events. The local newscast and newspaper reports 20 killed in election violence; the national paper reports 30 killed. Both report untold numbers of people injured. I sit here thinking: 175 million people voted, in a country where many areas are racked by poverty, others by communalism and unspeakable human rights abuses, others by political grudges that span decades, others by problems I know I cannot imagine. Elections give some people a moment of optimism, of hope that the problems that plague them may somehow get better. Of course I am saddened that 30 people died; perhaps even more. I’m also amazed it was not many, many more. But then, India is just an amazing country.

Election Day India

India votes today. 700 million people are eligible, and there is a concerted effort to get the vote out across India. Last night India’s President, a mostly titular position, gave an impassioned speech on radio and television, asking people to exercise their sacred duty to vote in this, the world’s largest democracy.

Imagine the complexity of establishing voting stations in India. Since the last election, when people placed a thumbprint beside the party of their choice, India has introduced electronic balloting. Yesterday I saw more busses than I could quickly count, lining the side of a Bangalore road. They were all ready to be loaded with machines and polling clerks this morning, and bussed to the polling stations.

Some of these electronic machines will be hauled up steep mountain roads, in trucks equipped with generators for those villages without electricity. And even though there are few places without power in India, back-up generators will be needed in all those little villages where the power may go out - and the power goes out a lot. Other machines will be set up in agricultural areas where the population is widely dispersed. And I wonder if any machines will reach all those nomadic people in the deserts of Rajasthan? A complex business, voting in India.

Voters who get to the polling stations will press a button beside the party name, and/or logo, of their choice. The party name will be written in English and one local language – Kanada in Karnataka, Tamil in Tamil Nadu, Malyalum in Kerala, Telegu in Andhra Pradesh, and Hindi in the northern states. As you can see, the southern states made a concerted effort to retain their own languages. For those who can’t read, there is the party logo.

And, because so many people cannot read, logo identification is a huge part of the election process in India. I don’t know how many adults are illiterate, but I can tell you that in this country of over 1 billion people, 40% are children and 25% of those, or 100 million children, are not in school. As with all statistics, this one is layered – some of those children are pre-school. Still, imagine how many adults in India function in their world every day, although they don’t read. Those who vote will use the party logo.

Logos are everywhere. Painted on walls and houses, plastered on poles and storefronts, waving in the air. Small plastic flags, attached to strings, criss-cross the streets and climb from the metal fences surrounding the traffic circles up to the top of the center posts. Three logos predominate in Bangalore: The lotus is the symbol of the BJP, the party of business currently in power and likely to win again; an open hand, thumb tucked in, identifies the Congress, the center-left party of Nehru and the Gandhi dynasty; and a woman carrying a sheaf on her head represents the Janata Dal’s focus on agriculture. The BJP and Congress colours are orange, green and white, the colour of India’s flag; the Janata Dal is green and blue. There are other parties, of course, and a large Independent contingent.

Many women, refused the right to contest the nomination in their party of choice, will run in this election on an Independent ticket. The newspapers report a sharp decline in the number of women nominees in all the major parties, compared to the last assembly elections. Party backroom people, questioned and quoted in the papers, say that men are more winnable than women candidates. So women have no choice but to run as Independents. And before I say ‘ain’t it awful’, I stop to consider - how different is it in Canada?

There are differences, of course, and this campaign has highlighted some of them. I don’t know enough about Hindutva to comment at length, but I’m told the movement represents the militant religious wing of the BJP. Its job, I think, is to protect the Hindu faith and way of life in India. Currently, 85% of India is Hindu, yet I hear some Hindu people discuss their fears of being overrun by Muslims. There’s an interesting human rights twist to this discussion, as by law Muslims are allowed to marry four wives, Hindus only one. I’ve heard that this right must be denied to Muslims. Like the electoral process, marriage is a complex institution in India. There are marriage and divorce laws written for Hindus, Christians, Muslims, Parsi’s, and even secular laws for foreigners - all are different. Miscellaneous laws include the Dowry Prohibition Act of 1961 and the Child Marriage Restraint Act, 1929. I mention all this because it gives a bit of a window into the diversity of opinion one might expect to find in India.

One of the outcomes of this diversity is communalism. Communalism, as near as I can figure, is the coming together of people from one religious group to take action against those from another religious group. Recent newspapers have been filled with streetcorner skirmishes and clashes between Hindus and Muslims, between BJP and Congress party members, and between separate wings of the BJP, who represent candidates with divergent views. In all cases, men are fighting one another, and in some of these cases, a death occurs. I’ve seen no fights of any kind, although I have skirted around some raised voices during an evening walk.

The infighting in the paper is rampant, and I understand almost none of it. However, I follow the trail of Sonja Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi’s widow. Rajiv, you may remember, was the assassinated son of Indira Gandhi, blown up by two Tamil Tigers from Sri Lanka. Before that, his mother was assassinated by her guards, after she sent Hindu troops into the Sikh Golden Temple at Amritser. Rajiv was married to Sonja, an Italian woman, and when he died she took over his place at the head of the Congress party. Well, there’s been a hue and cry that a foreigner ought not to be the Prime Minister of India, and Sonja is a foreigner. There’s been talk by the BJP that they will actually pass a law forbidding foreign leadership, after the election. The Congress Party answers this with allegations of BJP Hindutva, and examples of other foreign heads of state. Congress candidates say that their secular party will provide better leadership than the religion-based BJP party.

It’s a massive country with layers of meaning. If I stayed for a decade how much would I understand? I’ll never know. But the tiny bit I’ve learned is incredible, and I appreciate the chance to share my confusion with you on this Election Day. BTW, my heart is with the Congress, but my money is on the BJP. India is happy, by and large, and much of that happiness comes from prosperity – all those outsourced jobs, employment by transnational companies, foreign investment to build new airports and dams, and, of course, jobs created in India by Indians. The BJP gets the credit for all this, and I expect they will get the vote. All the usual suspects will make it to the polling station, and the people displaced by those dams and airports? Or working in forced labour to produce for those TNC's? Well, the displaced migrated to Mumbai, where they now live in Asia's largest slum, so they won't have a voter's card. And the families working in forced labour are prisoners, not allowed to leave their place of employment. But there are a lot of people doing very well in India, and I'm going home now to see how they vote.

The Concert Experience

And it is an experience. Govindama and I arrive early and I promptly join the first queue I see – the wrong queue. Thirty or so minutes later, when a youngster catches sight of our ticket colour, we hurry across the fairgrounds to the Rs. 900 line-up. Govindama takes in the situation and, grabbing my hand, strides briskly past the people waiting in this shorter queue, until we are about four rows back from the gate. Her reasoning is we’ve been here for a long time. It works for her, and no one is shouting at us, so . . .

The gate opens and people are checked by security guards, one at a time. Need more guards, I think, people are pushing. I finally reach the entrance. The guard strips me of my cold drink, popcorn and water bottle. I complain about the water bottle, but who’s listening? We hasten past the food and water booths to … an open field with a metal concert stage, holding many drums and hung with lights. Hung with men, too, still at work, high in the air. I register that there are no seats. This is a stand-up concert, just as I feared. Govindama and I dash to the metal-fenced square about a hundred feet from the stage. Turns out to be the protection for the sound booth, and we get a great leaning place, with a three inch top rail. We’re on the side of the fence that faces the stage, standing on a three-inch riser. Best seat in the house, just as I hoped.

The warm-up band features five young men from Goa, and this is just a great chance for their 6-year-old band. I’m thrilled for them, even as I endure their 70’s heavy metal set, mostly Van Halen. I flash to an old memory, telling my boys to turn that music off! Blocking the sound, I smile at the three police officers in saris, standing inside the enclosure. I watch as porters bring in 15 white slipcovered chairs. I tell Govindama if they are for political people I’m not going to vote on April 20th. She chuckles, and later points as a Minister’s daughter, from the state government party, arrives with her retinue. More political types come, and then, I think, three cricket players.

Eventually the boys from Goa finish, and we wait. And wait. When Enrique finally hits the stage, 25 minutes later, my first thought is that a bad hair night caused his lateness. His head is fully covered by a brownish skullcap. From a distance, the cap looks crocheted. Won’t he be hot, I wonder? He greets the crowd and bangs into some really loud, heavy-bass tunes with great singing and good back-up vocals. It gets the crowd going. I enjoy most of this, and then – wonder of wonders – he swings into an acoustic set. Maybe he saw me, and the other 18 people my age? I lean on the fence, swaying to ‘Stand by Me’, ‘Knock, Knock, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Gate’ and all those other old and wonderful memory tunes. Someone sets a red leather couch on the stage, the back-up singers lean against it, the guitar players sit on or behind it. Reminds me of that Burton Cummings set in Kamloops, July 2000. Enrique’s mannerisms remind me of my youngest son, Shawn. The kids are waving their arms, a few lighters burn aloft, and altogether I’m having a great time. Oh, except for the people behind me who are leaning on and over me, striving for a better view. Kind of feels like the train from Mumbai, all that leaning.

The set ends and the heavy bass returns. Govindama and I look at each other; we’re out of here. On the way home she confides that was her first English music experience, and offers to take me to a Hindi concert. I tell her I can't wait. The auto drives her home first, through bumpy, narrow streets with lots of young kids still wandering about just after 10 PM. I remind myself it is now school holidays, and hope most of them are in school. Dogs lay across the narrow roads, deeply asleep. The auto stops to wake them, then moves forward. The houses look small, but sturdy. Govindama invites me in, and we agree on next time. Fun night.

Human rights or animal rights?

Here is a letter to the editor of the Bangalore Deccan Herald. Its genesis is described in the post below this, titled Bangalore: The Garden City.

Animal rights flourished at Nineteen Twelve: The Living Room, on Friday, April 9, while human rights took a flogging.

This “retro bar and restaurant on St. Mark’s Road” was featured in Thursday’s Deccan Herald, Metro Life section. The article described the evening as a benefit concert to support a wildlife project in Nagarhole. It offered “retro fusion music by Firefly . . . for all music lovers.” But not for my friend and colleague, who was stopped dead at the door.

We arrived early and smiled at the khaki-clad security guard as we mounted the steps. He smiled back into my white face and said, “You cannot take your servant into the club, madam.” I replied that the lady with me was my friend and work colleague. He disappeared into Nineteen Twelve to confer with others. We followed.

A young man and a younger woman, with faces slightly less brown than my friend’s, searched for our reservation. Then, together, they disappeared through a door behind the reservation desk, and up a flight of stairs.

They returned to inform me that the evening was “a private party.” I reminded them of the Herald’s five column spread, complete with coloured photo of Firefly and invitation to call for reservations.

They fell back on my lost reservation. The club was full, with 75 reservations. I observed that seating existed for more than 75 persons. But there was no getting past the colour of my friend’s skin. Or was it her caste? Is there some way people can tell, without even asking, just by looking?

As a Canadian, I cannot answer that question. But as a human rights law professor I have no difficulty recognizing a human rights violation when it slaps me in the face. My friend was the victim of racial discrimination, based on colour or caste. She was denied a service customarily available to the public - the right to buy a ticket and hear a concert.

In Canada, people from India and Canadians of Indian origin are routinely denied their human rights in the areas of services, housing and employment. Such blatant racism is both shameful and painful. So it was on Friday night, when I saw three Indian people discriminate against a sister.

As a foreigner, I cannot file a human rights complaint in India. However, I hope the good people of Bangalore will think twice before they patronize businesses and bars that discriminate against some Indian people, but not others.

Bangalore: The Garden City

Saying goodbye to Chennai is not easy. I return to my dear family filled with stories of Rajasthan and the Dalai Lama, with only a few days before I set off again. So many wonderful people, so many goodbyes – I’m sighing as I write. In my absence the weather gets hot, taking over the lives of people in Chennai. Everyone hates the heat, and all talk about survival tactics to last to the end of June. Each night when I return home I wish someone could just pick me up and wring me out, like laundry.

One of my stellar goodbyes is to faculty and students at the Madras Christian College School of Social Work. This fabulous School is located on the edge of Chennai, in a delightfully rural setting. Faculty and students speak excellent English. Not only is all instruction in English, but conversations among peers are also in English. I enjoy this time because I sit in many conversations with English speakers where the language used is Kanada, or Hindi or Tamil. I offer this as an observation, not a complaint – but sometimes I feel a bit odd, knowing I am the topic of a conversation I don’t understand.

MCC SSW is the School that sponsors the International Human Rights Conference in October each year. The students are the ones I met on the train to the WSF – the ones whose singing led me to their car. I’m so impressed with these students, their faculty and the radical curriculum of the School.

We meet on the 2nd of April, and talk about social work in India and in Canada. As usual, I learn more than I teach. And at the end of our time together – a birthday cake with a lighted candle and, written in icing, Happy Birthday Jane Birkbeck! And I am happy – students and faculty all took time to write a note on my birthday card. Pretty special.

My sleepy family members are all up to say good-bye to me at 4:00 AM on April 3rd, as I prepare to leave for the train. I am sad, and deal with my feelings by not saying goodbye, just ‘I’ll be back’. These four wonderful people mean so much to me; how would I have landed in India without their care and support?

I arrive in Bangalore five hours later. What a treat it is to step off the train at 11:00 AM and feel a cool, dry breeze wash over me. After four days in Chennai, with temperatures of 38 and humidity at 77%, it’s almost chilly.

This is the Garden City, so named because people have gardens on their property. It is also the city of green and lush parks, and trees that canopy over the thoroughfares. It is a cosmopolitan city, with outdoor cafes and jazz fusion. Sometimes it feels a bit Vancouver-ish. At a favorite coffee shop, close to my new home, the young barista starts a long Americano, two sugar and a little milk, as I choose an outdoor table. This is not a menu item – he created it for my Canadian tastes. I sit and watch the many young people out for coffee. Young women make up at least 25% of the crowd, something I’ve not seen elsewhere in India.

Bangalore seems like a very middle class town, and although I know there are many areas yet to explore, I think I’m right. I live in a middle to upper class Brahmin home, with a young woman and her widowed mother. I work in a middle class agency that provides counseling and legal assistance to women, as well as a free drop-in gym and a physician’s service each Friday. The mandate is to provide support and help to women who are, or will become, achievers – hence the name, the Guild of Woman Achievers. So far I have edited an English book for pregnant mothers, and written a proposal to fund a female candidate in the elections.

The auto drivers all have meters, and only one ran me around with his meter off before I caught the drift. I must confess it is really nice not to have to bargain for my ride each time. Everyone still honks their horns, but the noise is not nearly so intrusive as in other towns. The roadways are incredibly clean. I find garbage cans on the street, and have yet to see or smell a pile of garbage. Today I see lorry collecting garbage from the street cans. I see two small slums, houses constructed of blue tarps, on my way to GOWA each day. I wonder where the real slum is, and know I will surely find it, eventually.

People on the street, and in the shops, are unfailingly polite and generous. This part of India is just the same. The rest seems different, somehow, and part of me is missing the frenzy, the chaos, the dirt, the incredible noise. Silly, eh?

It’s not all sweetness here. My next post is about racism and human rights, and my lovely friend Govindama. Govindama works at GOWA. She cleans, makes dosa batter for sale to members, and opens and closes the gym. She is smart, savvy, and underpaid.

This is the story: Last Thursday, at coffee, I ask all the GOWA women if anyone will come with me on Friday night, to a jazz fusion gig at a club called 1912. Silence, 'til Govindama speaks up, “I’ll come, madam!” [We’re working on the madam, Govindama and me.] Anyway, this 42-year-old gutsy lady came to 1912, and, when she was refused admission, handled herself with profound grace and dignity. For me it was a disaster; Govindama rose above, and only later complained of a bit of a headache. My next post gives all the details. Titled Animal Rights or Human Rights, it is my letter to the editor of the Deccan Herald, Bangalore’s middle class neighbourhood paper. What are the chances of publication, do you suppose? It is now Tuesday and I’ve not seen it, so I guess it hit file 19.

But, there are two happy outcomes. At a housing workshop near Chennai I met Latha, who lives in Bangalore. I’m invited for dinner almost as soon as I’m unpacked in Bangalore. At dinner I meet Latha’s husband, Paul, who is the Indian representative for the Norwegian Human Rights Foundation in Bangalore. A very knowledgeable man, and a terrific conversationalist – I make another friend. So, faced with 1912’s racism, who do I call? And Paul responds.

Last night we meet at 1912, have a coffee, plan our strategy, and head into the club. It takes a long time, and runs the gamut from the racism the club manager experienced traveling in the UK to whether or not Govindama’s sari was suitable for the dress code. The security guard is called in, and obediently lies. Eventually education enters the fray. I’ve been quiet so far, but now it’s time to make my pitch. I talk about human rights education in Canada, the racism that Indian people experience in my country, and the response of human rights advocates. I put out a suggestion of human rights education for 1912 staff. The manager may be in agreement; at least he nods. I note that as the manager, he is likely in a position to influence policy at the club. He looks vaguely interested, and nods again. We leave it at that; it’s been a long, tense hour. I walk out of the club, wondering, what was the point? And then one of three young valets runs after us, to say they are all sorry. The security guard is also sorry. One small step.

The other happy side is that tonight Govindama and I are off to the Palace Grounds where, with two front-row tickets in hand, we will enter and we will hear Enrique Iglesias Live. Imagine, she agreed to try again! Such grace and courage. I have much to learn.