Over Chai

What Christie Blatchford Did Not Get About Layton-mania

I think Jack Layton himself could never have anticipated the tsunami of emotion that would wash over this city, indeed this country, with his sudden and untimely death.

What started out as one chalk message by a lone woman at Nathan Phillips Square quoting Jack’s optimistic message in his last public communiqué, grew until every inch of concrete was covered in messages filled with respect and admiration for a most beloved politician.

Crowds across the nation gathered spontaneously to unite in shock and grief.

Media outlets put together touching retrospectives and programs about the man and his mission, and with almost single-minded focus, dedicated much of their airtime to Jack Layton’s final journey to Ottawa and subsequent return to his hometown, Toronto.

The twittersphere was ablaze with minute-by-minute coverage of everything Jack.

Luminaries, dignitaries and, most importantly, the general public assembled by the masses to bid him an emotional farewell.

And on the eve of the official State funeral, the CN Tower and the Niagara Falls were lit up in orange as final salutes.

It was remarkable, a phenomenon, something rare to witness.  The extraordinary impact of one life on so many others. 

But was it all too much?  Was it, in the words of Christie Blatchford “a thoroughly public spectacle”?

In an article published in the National Post the day after Jack Layton’s death, Blatchford was blunt in her criticism of the media’s near-obsession with this story to the exclusion of all other local and international news.  (See: http://fullcomment.nationalpost.com/2011/08/22/christie-blatchford-laytons-death-turns-into-a-thoroughly-public-spectacle/)

Blatchford was equally harsh about the public’s display of grief:  “[T]he public over-the-top nature of such events — by fans for lost celebrities they never met, by television personalities for those they interviewed once for 10 minutes, by the sad and lost for the dead — make it if not impossible then difficult to separate the mourning wheat from the mourning chaff”.

Her critique did not spare even the late Leader of the Opposition.  She called Jack’s letter, his final message to Canadians, vainglorious and said, “Who thinks to leave a 1,000-word missive meant for public consumption … “ and “Who seriously writes of himself, ‘All my life I have worked to make things better’?”

Her cynical and provocative journalistic opinion unleashed a virtual maelstrom.  While a few brave souls ventured to publicly endorse her views, there was an overwhelming backlash from virtually all quarters.

And yet, we live in Canada, a democratic nation with a Charter of Rights and Freedoms that guarantees the freedom of expression.  This right is a cornerstone for a functioning democracy, essential to ensuring free and public debate.   Jack believed in public debate.  Dissenting voices are crucial.  Indeed, Jack was often one of them. 

We cannot muffle voices just because of a difference of opinion.  To do so would be to undermine the very political system we believe in so strongly.

And, so, Christie Blatchford had the right to express her views, both as an individual and as a journalist.

Then why, for so many, did it feel so wrong?

What was it about the life and death of Jack Layton that was so profoundly moving?

Undoubtedly, Jack’s seemingly selfless devotion to various public causes such as homelessness, HIV/AIDS and the environment, which he championed passionately, elevated him in the eyes of virtually everyone.

His lack of guile, his down-to-earth attitude, his ability to reach out and relate to the common person demystified him and made him somebody that people they felt they knew, almost like a family member, even if they had never met him.

His willingness to fight for the underdog, to listen to anyone with a problem, to commit to what he viewed as just and fair, endeared him to the masses.

His commanding ability to communicate effectively in three languages, two official and one musical, increased his popularity across borders, age and interests.

Perhaps it was also the cruel irony that at the very pinnacle of his political career, he was in the battle of his life, and fought so valiantly but, in the end, lost.

And then his smile, oh his smile!, which will be as sorely missed in the House of Commons as it will be in the hearts and minds of Canadians young and old.

Whatever it was, in Jack Layton there was that extraordinary combination of elements that resulted in rare and true greatness.  And that, intuitively, is what people responded to en masse in the un-orchestrated outpouring of sadness over the loss of an important figure in this country.

Ultimately, in my view, Christie Blatchford can express her views, however unpopular.  That is her right. 

But, in the end, it is her loss for not being able to shed her cynicism and allow herself to be touched by a great soul that once walked among us.

 

Growing Up Bollywood

One sunny afternoon a couple of summers ago, my husband and I were strolling along the boardwalk at the Beaches, and paused at a bench to soak in the sights and sounds of summer.  A young woman, the mother of three energetic little kids, paused to catch her breath at the same bench, and it was not long before we struck up a lively conversation.  She was of Greek heritage, we told her we were of Indian heritage.

“Oh,” she exclaimed and began singing, “Aap Jaisa Koi Meri Zindagi Mai Aye….”

The 1980 hit movie Qurbani. 

Nostalgia.  A flood of memories.

As a child growing up in an Indian household, Bollywood films (though we never referred to them as such back then, they were simply ‘Hindi movies’) were a staple source of family entertainment.  We would gather together on weekends when we could spare the three-and-a-half hours, my mom would make hot fried pakoras and chai for our intermission snack and we would watch predictable though delightfully entertaining plots unfold.  We enjoyed those cozy family times filled with the simple joy of togetherness, while invisible threads drew us closer to a culture that we had mostly only known remotely.

Sometimes we would gather at friends’ homes and enjoy the hullaballoo of a Hindi movie playing amidst the laughter and chitter-chatter of all our Aunties (the Uncles were usually absorbed in a serious card game).

And on the rare occasion, when we visited India, we would go to a cinema with relatives and enjoy the authentic experience, complete with an intermission in the middle of the movie when everyone would get freshly fried hot samosas and mingle with friends.

Wonderful meaningful memories, to be sure, but in the end was it all just empty, mindless entertainment?  Sitting on that park bench and hearing about the Saturday night tradition that this Greek family had created for itself during which they would watch Hindi films and eat Indian food caused me a moment’s pause to reflect on the impact that Hindi films had had on my life.

They have given me some of my favourite songs of all time, the kind that speak to the soul from movies like Kabhi Kabhi and Umrao Jaan, the kind that compel me to dance with abandon like Koi Kahe Kehta Rahe, and the kind that make me want to sing at the top of my lungs like Kajrare.

They have dazzled me with the breathtaking array of exquisitely designed outfits and jewels that continue to inspire fashion trends in the global diaspora communities.

They have given me an understanding of the Indian culture, celebrations, rituals, values and traditions that define who we are as a people.

They taught me Hindi in the best classroom of all, the family room of my childhood home.

They inspired the Classical Indian dancer in me.

But it goes even deeper than all that.

They reinforced a profound sense of pride in calling myself an Indian, and emotionally bonded me to India forever.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to fry some pakoras for my kids before intermission is over.

___________

* Originally published on The Agenda with Steve Paikin website: 

 http://www.tvo.org/cfmx/tvoorg/theagenda/index.cfm?page_id=3&action=blog&subaction=viewpost&post_id=16869&blog_id=323

Related videos on The Agenda with Steve Paikin:

1. On being a Canadian-born Indian:  http://bit.ly/kX2vjl

2. Hooray for Bollywood:  http://bit.ly/kg1ign

Where Do We Go From Here?!

 

 

The other day, my daughter asked me one of the two questions that parents most dread.  No, it was not the one where she asked how she came to exist, that delightful conversation has yet to come!  Rather, her query was about the other end of life (no pun intended).

 

Mama, what happens after you die?

 

Now, to know my daughter is to know that a superficial, partial or vague answer just will not do.  If the response does not satisfy her insatiably curious little mind, she will delve, prod and exhaust every angle she can think of. 

 

Once, as she was strapped into her car seat in the back of the car, it suddenly piqued her curiosity to find out how I had this ‘magical’ power to make the car move.  And so she asked.  But how does it move just by pressing a pedal?  How do you make it go fast?  How do you make it go slow?  How does it stop?  What is your other foot doing?  Can I see the pedals?

 

See what I mean?

 

Ok, so, what happens after you die?

 

Laced into the very question is the need, in addition to the factual information, for emotional reassurance.  Most grown-ups struggle to accept the implications of death; it is only normal that it would cause some anxiety in children.  The answers given, even the words chosen, have to be carefully weighed to strike the right balance.

 

And then there is the problem of absolutes.  For kids, things are black or white, yes or no … in other words, definitive.  Just as they need routines, they crave certainty.  But really, who among us can be absolutely sure about what happens after death? 

 

Of course, each faith answers this very question according to its own set of beliefs.  But even reaching into mine for the answer, how could I even begin to explain the notions of the soul, reincarnation, nirvana or eternal bliss to a 5-year old?  Compendiums have been written expounding on each, where to begin??

 

I had about a millisecond to decide how I was going to tackle this, as she stared at me with her trusting big eyes.

 

Thinking this would be a good time acquaint her with the notions that not everything in life is known, that people disagree with one another on important questions and that I don’t have all the answers, I decided to start with a general approach and gradually make my way to the state of nirvana or moksha (which for simplicity’s sake means union with God or eternal bliss).  It seemed like a good plan.

 

I took a deep breath and began.

 

Do you remember when we talked about different religions?  Yes.  Well people from different religions have different ideas about what happens after you die.  For example, Christians believe that people go to heaven.  What’s Heaven?  Christians believe it is a beautiful, perfect place where you are always happy and nothing bad ever happens to you.  But what is there in Heaven?  I’m not sure, but I think everything that you love.  So, in Heaven, you can eat candies and ice cream and it’s not bad for you?  And you can ride your bike all day?  And if you fall and break your arm [a current reality for her], it won’t hurt?

 

Uh-oh, first inkling that this conversation was not heading in the direction I had planned. 

 

So I sped the discussion along and discovered it was a tad tough for a pint-sized person to understand the distinction between the body and the soul, at which point I careened to the exciting and ultimate destination (also of the soul) where, according to our faith, you get to be with God all the time!

 

Nope, it couldn’t compete with Heaven and the candies. 

 

I crashed and burned on this first spiritual talk with my daughter.  Nirvana seemed positively boring compared to Heaven.  Of course, I had deliberately chosen not to describe Heaven’s counterpoint, Hell.

 

Thankfully, I am sure I will get another crack at giving her all the necessary information so that she can make up her own mind about what she believes.  Because if there is one thing we know about kids, it is that they love repetition.

 

And while there may be few certainties in life, of that I am positively sure.

 

The Ethnic Vote 2011: Props to You

I have often been told that I should go into politics.  Maybe it is because I love a good debate, immensely enjoy interacting with people and want to make our world a better place.

 

Nothing like a federal election to remind me of the less savoury side of politics!

 

At the end of the day, the thirst for power is the driver that trumps everything else, and all the platform promises and handshakes, the photo-ops and overtures to special interest groups are about getting that vote.

 

Cynical?  Perhaps.  

 

But consider the so-called ethnic vote. 

 

It is true that ethnic populations are on the rise in Canada and that the sheer numbers can influence the outcome of the vote.

 

It is also true the changing demographic patterns of the country have been duly noted by the political elite, and that their strategies include appealing to these diverse groups. 

 

In and of itself, this makes perfect sense. 

 

So what’s the problem?  In a nutshell, opportunism. 

 

There are a range of problems and challenges that ethnic populations face on an ongoing basis, for instance, settlement and integration, recognition of foreign credentials and delays in reuniting with family abroad.  (I hasten to add that there are also a number of issues that they share with many other Canadians, such as affordable housing and job opportunities.)

 

In the ongoing business of governing this country, these issues are occasionally given some attention, but by and large, these systemic challenges remain unresolved.

 

And then we come to election time.

 

Suddenly, we learn from leaked confidential documents that the political strategy of at least one party includes identifying key “ethnic” and “very ethnic” ridings in which to advertise aggressively to court the vote.  (Good idea, focus on the message rather than the real issues.)

 

People are asked to attend rallies in their “ethnic costumes”.  (Is it Hallowe’en?)

 

Political leaders make every effort to find supporters from ethnic communities to lend credence to their policies and parties.  In some cases, token ethnic candidates are improperly vetted in a rush to get diverse candidates on the ballot.  (Can anyone say tokenism?)

 

And there are the photo-ops with dancing Bollywood stars, appearances at places of worship, at community celebrations …

 

This is the thing:

… [I]f they really want to build sustained support, the government should follow up its rhetoric with long-term policies to help newcomers integrate and experience socio-economic and political mobility. Why not recruit promising candidates from non-white backgrounds? And what of the party’s $53-million cut to immigrant settlement agencies (85 per cent of those cuts in Ontario)? While more immigrants are now settling in Alberta and Saskatchewan, the lion’s share still choose to live in Toronto, Vancouver and Montreal. Immigrants have been harder hit by the recession and have higher unemployment rates than their native-born counterparts – even when they are better educated. This – and not cricket matches [ads] and television ads – is ultimately what immigrants are likely to care about. [Source: www.theglobeandmail.com/news/opinions/editorials/ethnic-targeting-shocking/article1931691/]

 

If our political leaders got this, ethnic communities would cease to be mere props to their political objectives, and instead would be giving “props” to them!

 

Final Word:

 

What can we do?  Inform ourselves about the parties’ policies and VOTE!

 

If you would like to see how your views align with the parties positions on various issues, check out CBC’s Vote Compass at:  www.cbc.ca/news/politics/canadavotes2011/votecompass/

 

The Train - A Civilized Way To Travel?

By Dr. Alok Sood, with Niru Kumar

 

A train!  A train!  A train!  A train!  Could you, would you on a train?

As I read, for the umpteenth time, Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham to my insatiable toddler, my eyes glazed over and my mind began to wander.  Oh, there is something charming, a je ne sais quoi, about travel by train.  Most of my recollections from India, Europe and Canada are happy ones; from meeting different people and having interesting conversations, to watching picturesque landscapes roll by.

 

As a youth on a shoestring budget, I spent a pleasurable few months travelling by train throughout Europe.  I was impressed by the extensive rail network, and even more pleasantly surprised to discover the system’s renowned reliability.

 

Of course, as there must be, there are exceptions to every rule.  One of my fondest memories is of a time I overly relied on that reputation.  I was travelling between Lucerne and London.  I needed to go via Bordeaux to collect some bags I had left there while I backpacked.  In my typical type-A kind of way, I meticulously organized my journeys to take me from Lucerne to Geneva to Bordeaux to Paris to Calais and then on to Dover and London.  This was some undertaking as I had to switch trains four times, but I had timed it perfectly, leaving me an hour or so between each train and travelling overnight so as to avoid another night in a hotel.  Hey, I was a backpacker after all!  I thought I was doubly smart since I had converted all my remaining Swiss and French currency to English sterling since the transaction and conversion fees were far less in Swiss banks.

 

Sure enough, the very first train was over an hour late.  Ugh.  Which meant that I was going to miss every one of my subsequent connections.  But more importantly, I was going to arrive penniless in Bordeaux on a Saturday at midnight in the days before you could walk to any ATM and use your Canadian convenience card.  Serious problem.  My fellow train compartment passengers could see my growing discomfiture as we journeyed from Geneva to Bordeaux.  One of them, an elderly French Nun, engaged me in conversation and, after discovering my dilemma, tried to force enough French francs into my hands to allow me to spend the night in a Bordeaux hotel.  Somehow I didn't feel quite right in taking money from such a kind soul who undoubtedly led a minimalist life herself.  Perhaps I was foolhardy in declining her charity, but I now like to believe that she instead arranged for some divine intervention on my behalf, since, in the end, the friend who was supposed to have left her apartment in Bordeaux for a weekend away decided rather spontaneously to stay and wait for my arrival.  I was saved from a night of homelessness and hunger in the streets of Bordeaux!

On to India, where train travel is an adventure unto itself.  Indian Railways is the single largest employer in the world and the network is incredibly vast, if not exactly rapid.  Having said that, there is a certain joy in unhurried train travel in India.  Indians are by nature social and curious. They are gregarious and generally have less social boundaries than do Westerners.  As such, whether you desire it or not, you end up in conversation with fellow travellers.  They will share their tales and even their food with you.  (Not that you need their food, since delicious warm Indian food is served you on the trains.)

That may sound as though I am romanticizing rail travel in India but I have had my share of challenging experiences as well.  Once, we battled Delhi's notorious traffic to arrive at the station just barely in time to catch it.  Unfortunately, we were at the platform furthest from our train, and that too, with large suitcases in tow.  We hired porters to help us race to our platform.  We jumped on as the train was already pulling out of the station (can’t even conceive of doing that here!), while at the same time negotiating the fee to pay the porters and hauling on our cumbersome luggage.  We ended up getting completely fleeced, but hey, we caught the train!

On another journey between Mathura and Bombay, there happened to be a derailment, so instead of arriving in 16 hours on an direct, relatively comfortable express train, we leisurely meandered through 4 states and 32 hours later arrived safely if not slightly worse for wear.  At the time it was frustrating, but in retropsect, amusing … our annoyance was easily tempered by examining the aplomb with which a fellow traveller (who had struck up a conversation with us in true Indian fashion) was handling the inconvenience.  He had journeyed from Darjeeling to Calcutta to Delhi to Bombay over a period of 5 days only to be arriving 2 days late for a company medical appointment that would need to be rescheduled for a future date!  So, he was going to have to trek back to Darjeeling and make the odyssey all over again.  He good-naturedly smiled throughout the fiasco.

 

For all that it has to offer, I would urge any of you who have yet to discover the pleasure of train travel in India to do so; just make sure to pack your patience along with everything else in your suitcase!

But train travel is slowly changing, and in my opinion, for the worse. 

Over the past few years, I have travelled by train mostly in Canada, a country in which trains have a revered place in history.  When it was completed over a century ago, it was a remarkable engineering feat to have built such an amazing and state of the art (at the time) rail network linking Canada coast to coast.  The train remains an important means of transportation for many Canadians and train travel has always been enjoyable – calm, peaceful and comfortable - if not quite as rapid or reliable as in Europe. 

But it has lost something along the way … the very charm that sets train travel apart: the human touch.  In fact, in my view, this most civilized means of transport has become remarkably un-civilized.  On the past couple of journeys, it struck me as sad that as soon as passengers seated themselves, the ipods and laptops come out and nary a word nor a smile was exchanged between them.  For the entire journey!  Everyone is content to communicate solely through electronic media, with the real human-to-human communication limited to the perfunctory or absolutely necessary.  How isolating.  How sterile.

If I were to experience a similar incident of missing trains and connections here, would anyone come to my rescue?  Would anyone even know if I was in need of help?  Would anyone even care?

 

Some of my fondest memories are of chance encounters with total strangers who have left an indelible impression on me and enhanced my appreciation of humanity.  I like to think it goes full circle and that I share a little something of myself with those whom I encounter.  A meaningful exchange between otherwise complete strangers.

 

So, the next time you board a train and feel the impulse to connect immediately to your electronic device, just think of the lost opportunity to connect with your fellow human being and exchange a moment of our common humanity.  Instead, take a few moments to smile at those around you and exchange a few pleasantries.  You never know how your life may be enriched. 

We Are All Egyptians Now

by Alok Sood MD., with Niru Kumar 

Mahatma Gandhi would be proud; his legacy to the world found new expression this past month throughout the Arab World.

What started with the desperate act of self-immolation by a fruit seller in Tunisia blossomed into a Gandhian non-violent protest and civil disobedience by hundreds of thousands of people in at least eight countries.  A regional domino effect of passions ignited.

There is something exciting that stirs the soul and unites humanity when democratic will is being exerted in such grand fashion.

As a South Asian Canadian, I am proud of Gandhi’s gift to humanity: satyagraha or peaceful, passive resistance.  The people of Egypt and Tunisia achieved their goals of ousting entrenched and corrupt autocratic rulers while never ceding the moral high ground.  It was a civic movement in the truest sense of the word, swelling in numbers from the ground up until the ruling party of the day was stripped of any moral and legal governing authority.

I can only imagine what it would be like to be an Egyptian on the streets of Cairo today.

I have experienced first-hand the delirious euphoria of sudden freedom after decades of repression when I visited the Czech Republic as a backpacker in 1990.  It had been mere months since the collapse of the Berlin wall and the lifting of the iron curtain.  The vibe in the street was electric and the joy of the masses palpable.  Smiles were everywhere and crowds were bountiful.  Street performers entertained on grand promenades and everyone, locals and tourists alike, felt incredibly alive.

As Canadians, we are blessed to have never needed a revolution to be granted our basic civil and political freedoms, including the fundamental right to free expression.  The Constitution Act and the more recent Charter of Rights and Freedoms assure citizens of their fundamental rights in civic society.  Canada exemplifies not only democracy as an ideology, but also the application of democratic principles. 

Since the founding of this great nation, Quebec’s distinct language and culture within mainstream Canada has been the subject of intensely divergent political views, with some arguing for a bilingual and united Canada, while others argue for outright secession.  Passionate supporters of a separate Quebec periodically resurrect the issue and bring the tension to a boiling point.  Anyone who lived in Montreal in 1980 or 1995 bore witness to large-scale political demonstrations.  I, myself, took part in the massive pro-Canada (anti-separation) rallies in 1995.  A hundred thousand people uniting for a single purpose is simply electric.  It is nothing short of democratic expression in all its glory.

 

So, while I have never visited Egypt or Tunisia and should otherwise feel no particular affiliation with their people, I can’t help but feel proud of them and wish, for a brief moment in time, that I were Egyptian so that I could revel in the toppling of a corrupt regime and witness first-hand the emergence of a democracy in a region that has never known it.  Since this is not possible, I will simply wish them well and smile proudly that this was all achieved through Gandhian means.

 

Tiger Mom vs. Mama Bear – Which One Would You Rather Be?

Tiger Mom Amy Chua has rocked the “Western” mom-osphere with her new book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, becoming the latest flashpoint in the parenting world.

 

For an in-depth discussion, check out The Agenda with Steve Paikin, which dedicated a full hour to this issue: http://www.tvo.org/cfmx/tvoorg/theagenda/index.cfm?page_id=7&bpn=779938&ts=2011-01-21%2020:00:00.0

 

Her claim is essentially this:  Chinese kids consistently outperform their Western counterparts because of the strict manner in which they have been raised.  Whereas Western parents may encourage learning, they are overall more lax in how far they push their children to achieve academic or artistic excellence.  The Western motto is “try your best” and to praise outcomes that fall short of that best in order to preserve a child’s self-esteem.  Chinese parents, on the other hand, assume strength and not fragility in a child’s character and believe them capable of achieving the best, so they do whatever is necessary in pursuit of the highest standards.  If that means 3 hours of piano practice every night or endless academic drills, then so be it.  For them, happiness follows success.

 

An interesting argument, to be sure.  And, in a way, who can argue with the logic?  After all, there has to be some explanation for the fact that so many Chinese children do turn out to be math whizzes, musical prodigies or other high achievers.

 

Take Amy Chua herself.  A law professor at Yale and the author of published books, by all objective accounts she is eminently accomplished.  She credits her achievements to her strict upbringing by her immigrant Chinese parents, a parenting style Amy Chua now advocates and practices with her own two daughters.  

 

So, for instance, while her two daughters were growing up, they were never allowed to:

• attend a sleepover

• have a playdate

• be in a school play

• complain about not being in a school play

• watch TV or play computer games

• choose their own extracurricular activities

• get any grade less than an A

• not be the No. 1 student in every subject except gym and drama

• play any instrument other than the piano or violin

• not play the piano or violin.

 

Hmmm. 

 

It strikes me that these measures seem a bit extreme.  

 

As parents we walk a fine line on virtually every issue.  For instance, I am now trying to teach my 5-year old about independence while also teaching her about safety vis-à-vis strangers.  Giving her some room to learn for herself is important to her confidence and decision-making abilities, in other words, her personal growth.  But keeping her out of harm’s way is of paramount importance to us.  So we teach her about safety.  We give her some rules and guidelines, and have discussions.  Now consider this:  we could have achieved this same goal by taking the extreme measure of never allowing her to leave home.  We would achieve one goal but significantly impact another.  While Amy Chua’s daughters may be superstar performers at school and in their pre-selected extra-curricular activities, I cannot imagine the absence of some significant impacts on other areas of their development.

 

So here is the way I see it.  Amy Chua’s approach is flawed for 2 principal reasons. 

 

First, she presupposes that her definition of success is the only kind of success that has any value.  To her, to be the A-student or the artistic maestro or to simply be the best, is the only laudable goal.  But is competitiveness really the only worthwhile value in life?  Does being second best or even average make a person’s worth inferior?  What about teaching your children about the value of other worthwhile goals such as emotional happiness, spiritual growth, or social connectivity?  Studies have shown that these factors are significantly relevant to living a well-balanced, fulfilled and happy life.

 

Which brings me to my second problem with her approach.  Balance. Or rather, lack thereof.  Her approach is so imbalanced, without moderation, off-kilter I would suggest.  If success really is a more complex notion than her simplistic definition, then imparting the necessary skills and values to our children is a more nuanced exercise than simply yelling at our kids until they achieve! perform! succeed!  Amy Chua’s harshness and uncompromising nature, her use of disparaging language (calling her daughters “garbage”) when they failed to measure up, her willingness to have screaming fits until they satisfied her standards shocked me. 

 

Now, I do not doubt Amy Chau’s love for her kids.  Rather, I applaud the single-minded dedication with which she imparted her values to her daughters.

 

But I do challenge those values. 

 

And her methodology.

There are other ways of achieving excellence without being a fierce Tiger Mom.  As a case in point, I think it is fair to say that South Asians are a fairly high achieving group, wouldn’t you agree?  I grew up in one of those families, within a larger Punjabi community.  There were rules, even strict ones, and a definitive focus on high academic achievement.  But rather than the ferocity of the Tiger Mom, we were raised with the more tender and protective nudge of a Mama Bear.  

 

I think the results speak for themselves.  And now, I have got to run. My daughter’s friend is coming for a sleepover tonight.

 

Guessing Game: Who am I?

These days, my daughter and I are playing the following game.  I think of someone, real or fictitious, and give her clues one at a time and allow her to formulate a guess.

Are you ready?  Read one clue at a time and only move on to the next word if you cannot figure it out.  Okay, here goes:

 

Principled

 

Dedicated

 

Egalitarian

 

Humanitarian

 

Non-violent

 

Lawyer

 

Politician

 

Canadian

 

South Asian

 

… Any guesses who I am talking about?

 

Until I mentioned "Canadian" (or perhaps even "politician"), you probably had Mahatma Gandhi in mind. 

 

The answer?  The Honourable Ujjal Dosanjh, Canada's most prominent South Asian politician and egalitarian.  He is one remarkable human being, and the two are not entirely dissimilar in the way in which they have chosen to live their lives.

 

 

To be sure, there are differences between them, particularly when the scale and scope of their respective achievements and personal sacrifices are considered.  Mahatma Gandhi is the rarest of human beings, the kind that generations of civilization could only hope to see again.  He inspired both greatness and great change, the likes of which are nearly impossible for most to contemplate achieving.

And yet, if we focus the lens on character, moral compass, values and whole-hearted dedication, there are some shared similarities.

Both crossed oceans to chart their own destinies, one to South Africa en route back to India to lead the most inspiring of revolutions against colonial rule, the other to Canada as a trailblazer of human rights believing in the equality of all.

Both self-made, and in many ways self-taught men, they shirked convention and took difficult and potentially unpopular positions in pursuit of greater ideals, whether by burning all foreign-made clothing and spinning home-made cloth or by denouncing extremism within the community and suffering the inevitable backlash.

Both made an unwavering commitment to the principle of non-violence suffering tremendous personal risk and, whether by hunger strikes or actual physical attacks, serious harm in order to achieve it.

Both represent all that we value in a democracy, in liberty and in justice, including the right to be who we are with all the attendant rights and freedoms.

Both even have a great sense of humour!  Gandhi is known for once having said, “I believe in equality for everyone, except reporters and photographers.”  One of the hallmarks of a sense of humour is the ability to laugh at oneself, and in North America, high profile politicians who can take it make appearances on programs like This Hour has 22 Minutes or The Daily Show with Jon Stewart for some good-natured ribbing.  Gandhi never had quite this opportunity, but on his official website, Ujjal Dosanjh has posted a hilarious video of an “interview” he granted to Stephen Colbert.  Check it out:

http://vimeo.com/9899241 

http://ujjaldosanjh.liberal.ca/page/2/

Many of these similarities are hardly the result of pure chance or coincidence. 

In 1973, years before he became a cabinet minister, Ujjal Dosanjh put down his legal textbooks during the winter holidays and picked up Gandhi’s autobiography. Though born in India, the young law student had never read the seminal work of his country’s revered pacifist, and those evenings by the fireplace became a turning point in his political thinking.

The rejection of violence as a political tool has been a key feature of Mr. Dosanjh’s career, which included stints as premier of British Columbia and federal health minister, and is a central idea in a new documentary about his life.  [See: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/politics/ujjal-dosanjh-stands-up-to-extremism-in-life-politics-and-on-film/article1697101/]

The documentary about the life of Ujjal Dosanjh, Travelling Light: A Journey with Ujjal Dosanjh, is currently in post-production and will air on OMNI in the near future.

Ujjal Dosanjh’s early formed political views made him a vocal opponent of violence and extremism by Sikhs who advocated for an independent state of Punjab, or Khalistan.  In 1985, he was beaten in the parking lot of his law practice by someone wielding an iron bar and suffered a broken hand and head injuries requiring 80 stitches.  Most people would stop broadcasting their views.  Not Mr. Dosanjh.  In 1999, a burning Molotov cocktail was left burning on a table in his constituency office.  And earlier this year, he received death threats after an interview in which he suggested that extremism is on the rise again in Canada.   He has extended his principles to condemn other groups that espouse violence, including Tamil Tigers and Islamic radicals.  On other fronts, he was the first provincial leader to march in a gay pride parade, he is an ardent champion of the universality of the Canadian health care system, and still adopts causes both here and abroad, now focusing his attention on the stateless plight of the Roma in Europe.  These views and actions speak volumes about the character of a man.

I recently had an opportunity to meet Mr. Dosanjh.  He was the keynote speaker at the South Asian Bar Association Awards (SABA) Gala event.  I shook his hand and spoke of my admiration for him.  But, in the few moments that I had his attention, I could hardly convey what I really wanted to.

So Mr. Dosanjh, if you are reading this, this one’s for you.

 

T’is the Season …

Happy New Year!

I just love the holiday season.  For me, December of every year is magical.  The twinkling string lights casting brightness on the barren winter landscape, the festive air ripe with anticipation of joyous gatherings with friends and family, the elaborate feasts (and excuses to indulge with less guilt!), the sounds of the season with merry carollers, the ritual decorating of trees with eye-catching sparkly ornaments, and even Santa Claus whose mythical presence lights up the eyes and the imaginations of his young believers … I love it all.

One day during this past holiday season, my neighbour from across the street said to me, “I see your nice Hindu Christmas tree twinkling through the window.  Ours is going up tomorrow.”

Hindu Christmas tree!?!

In all my years of “celebrating Christmas”, I have never had to come face-to-face with the obvious contradictions inherent in what I have been doing.  So after chuckling out loud at her wit and matter-of-fact sense of humour, I was surprised to find myself ruminating over the comment.

Do I really celebrate Christmas?

Every year I faithfully put up decorations inside and out, I sing Christmas carols out loud and with gusto, I buy gifts and relish the wrapping of parcels of all shapes and sizes, and I gather with loved ones for all manner of festivities including a traditional feast.  So, yes, I do go through the same motions as other Christmas revellers.  But at the heart of it, what I am really celebrating is love and joy, and sending up prayers of gratitude for all that I have been blessed with and for an end to the suffering of humanity.

By this reckoning, I do what I imagine all faithful Christians do.  Everything, that is, but attend midnight mass.  I am not at all opposed to it, after all, it is in remembrance of the wisdom of a divine historical figure for whom I have the utmost respect.  It is rather that I don’t feel it necessary to attend a church service to live by some of the values he expounded.  In the end, when you distill through all the noise, isn’t the essential message of all religions more or less the same?

I am reminded of something Mahatma Gandhi once said, “I am a Muslim, and a Hindu, and a Christian, and a Jew, and so are all of you.”

And so it is that from as far back as I can remember, our Hindu-observing household has enthusiastically joined in the Christmas celebrations that both Christians and pagans call their own, but that we in our own way, now recognize as our own also.

As I pack my Hindu-Christian-Muslim-Jewish tree away for another year, I hum the melody to my favourite Hindu hymn, the Aarti.

After all, t’is the season to be jolly.

 

Karva Chauth – For as Long as We Both Shall Live

I glanced down at my ornate plate, at the exquisite fabric that concealed the dried fruit and nuts, sweets and rice, and at the flame of the small diya that cast a soft glow on my offerings.   As the rhythmic singing of the legendary tale began again, I lifted my pooja thali and passed it to the unknown woman to the right of me, while she did the same with hers, as did every other woman in unrehearsed coordination who was seated in the large circle on the temple floor.  The sight was magnificent, a flame on every plate, twinkling on the faces of women elaborately decked out in their finest jewels and Indian garments.  It was as if several hundred new brides of every age had descended on the temple all at once.  The thalis were passed around the circle from woman to woman, until at last all the thalis were reunited with their rightful owners.  This was the celebration of Karva Chauth, and for the first time in the 15 years that I had been a wilful participant, I wondered what exactly I was doing.

Karva Chauth is an annual ritual of strict fasting predominantly observed by married Hindu women in or from North India, who sacrifice in order to unite the body and soul towards a single purpose – to pray for the long and healthy lives of their husbands.  It follows the lunar calendar and is usually observed on a day in late October or early November.  The fast begins at sunrise and ends only after offering prayers and worshipping the moon at night, with not even a single drop of water in between.

I remember as a little girl how excited I would be when Karva Chauth came around.  My mother would tuck me into bed with assurances that she would not forget to wake me up at 5:00 in the morning so that we could share a meal together – just her and I.  And when she did, my mom freshly showered and I bleary-eyed, it somehow seemed like precious stolen time.  While the rest of the world was asleep and the dark of the night enveloped us, she and I would enjoy yummy fresh paranthas, yogurt, fruits and some tranquil bonding moments together.  It felt truly special.

And so, as a young woman praying for a good husband, and as a young bride who did manage to find an amazing husband, I never gave it a second thought.  That I would sacrifice a day of food and offer my penance for a long married life with him was the least I could do.  It struck my husband as odd, however, that I should engage in a ritual sacrifice for his long life.  As he explained to me on our first Karva Chauth together, why would he want to live a long life if not with me (see what I mean about amazing)? And so our modern take on an old custom was born.  He fasted for me, and I fasted for him.  It was symbolic and loving and pure.  It was mutual and it was giving.  So, year after year, without question, we fasted on Karva Chauth together, breaking the fast with my mother or his mother and their respective circles of fasting friends.

In the years since the two of us moved to Toronto, we have increasingly felt culturally adrift.  Strange statement, I know, in this city replete with Indians, but true nonetheless.  And it crystallized over the years through celebrations like Karva Chauth and Diwali.  When we were growing up in Montreal, our parents’ social circles were made up mostly of other Indian immigrant families, who clung to one another and became our extended families.  That first generation’s direct and immediate connection to the culture from India meant that our occasions were festively celebrated, our culture was actively transmitted through them.  Me, my husband, and a whole generation of second-generation Indians only know what we know through them.  We are one generation removed from our native culture, and surrounded by a different mainstream culture that pulls us in another direction.  It is a real effort to preserve our “Indian-ness”, like fighting a strong underwater current, with each of us finding our own footing in a unique place as we navigate between the two cultures. 

So, here in Toronto, with no ability to rely regularly on our parents, it was a discouraging realization to feel responsible for our nuclear family’s cultural connection, doubly so when we realized that many of our Indian friends either did not feel the affinity to our culture or could easily rely on their parents, many of whom live in the vicinity.  Of course, we could do the same and go home to Montreal to be with our families on our special occasions, but since they often fall during the work week and are not recognized holidays in the Christian calendar such as Christmas and Easter, it is not always practical.

So, over the past many years in Toronto, while my strict observance of the Karva Chauth fast has been unwavering, my adherence to the rituals, including the pooja, has suffered both in practice and enthusiasm.  I found myself in a situation where I had no one with whom I could regularly do the thali pooja or break my fast.  Some of my friends who do observe the fast have their own families around them, while others opt out altogether for a multitude of legitimate reasons.  Some find the practice chauvinistic or antiquated, others feel that is just doesn’t work for the modern working woman to fast during the work day.   

And so it was that this year I went to the temple.  Instead of just throwing a chunni on my head at home and going through the motions, I put on a bright sari and dressed the kids in their Indian clothes.  I sat amongst countless other women recounting a Karva Chauth tale that defies belief and holds no meaning for me … and I asked myself why I bother.  Exactly why am I compelled to go to all this trouble for a ritual that may not be well suited to these modern times and values?

And it dawned on me that it is a connection to my past, to my childhood, to my mother.  And my connection to something even further back than that, to my ancestral and cultural history.  And it is a way for me to transmit to my children an unspoken sense about their past, their inheritance through us, me and my husband. 

As their faces lit up when we stepped into the temple, and as they embraced all that being Indian had to offer in that moment, I finally knew that I was doing the right thing.

 

The Un-Common Commonwealth Games

No doubt about it.  There was nothing common at all about the much-anticipated Commonwealth Games, or its media coverage, hosted by India over the past couple of weeks.

Images and stories wired around the globe by every possible news source prior to the opening ceremonies: a collapsed footbridge causing serious injury to dozens, poor sanitation standards in some quarters of the athletes’ village, a handful of athletes withdrawing from competition.

The global gasp was almost audible.

The world held its collective breath to see how India’s showpiece to the world would fare amidst allegations of corruption, ballooning costs, mismanagement, maltreatment of the poor, potential large and small scale security threats and shoddy workmanship. The media held everything under a microscope for international judgment and condemnation.  And rightly so.  And it was not just India’s bourgeoning reputation as a global player that was on the line.  People of Indian extraction everywhere suffered a tarnishing of national pride, an embarrassment that the Indian government and Delhi Organizing Committee exposed India’s shortcomings in such a grand and public manner.

It seemed that nothing short of a miracle would be needed for India to pull this off successfully.  By all accounts, this was India’s own Mt. Everest to climb.

And then the nearly unthinkable happened … nothing.  Nothing out of the ordinary, that is.

Oh sure, there were reports of Delhi-belly causing some athletes to suffer, problems with some weighing scales and initial poor attendance at some venues.  But what games haven’t suffered some - what I would call - minor issues to cope with?  Or for that matter, even major ones?  The Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics, for one, suffered a terrific blow at the outset of the Games with the tragic death of an athlete during a practice run on the luge track.  Not from lack of planning, admittedly, but bad things can - and do - happen.  

In India’s case, not only were there systemic challenges such as widespread corruption (hey, take India as you find it; this is a well-documented fact commonly known from well before the Games were awarded to Delhi), but it also faced real plausible security threats from both within and outside its borders from multiple and unrelated violent-leaning factions.  Think Toronto’s G20 security concerns and then multiply them … many times over.  And this was just one of the many challenges of hosting the Games in India.

So when you consider the record-breaking number of athletes in attendance, the spectacular showmanship of the opening and closing ceremonies, the lauded venues hosting the competitions and the tight security that safeguarded India’s guests from around the world, one could – and should - rightly sum up the Delhi Games as a sound success. 

On the eve of Closing Ceremonies of the Games, I settled in to watch my favourite news program, The National on CBC, looking forward to hearing a positive wrap-up of the Games, after all the initial (deserved) negative coverage.  Would you believe … there was absolutely no report on the end of the Games!?!  Nothing.  Unless you count a passing comment made by Peter Mansbridge to Canada’s Most Watched Political Panel.  This despite the fact that the CBC was the official broadcaster of the Games in Canada.

Was the success of the Games not newsworthy?  Is it not the responsibility of the media to ensure that a fair and balanced representation of facts is presented to the viewing public?  This is not to say that in basking in the glory of success, India should not learn some valuable and indeed crucial lessons.  One would hope that the glare of the international spotlight would encourage India to focus on some of the deficiencies that nearly decimated the very gains it hoped to achieve by hosting the Games.  But it does sometimes seem that the story becomes what the media decides it is, and objective reporting is lost.  From the outset, India’s failures were the subject of a feeding frenzy … the prospect of spectacular failure is sexy news after all.  The National dispatched international correspondent Adrienne Arsenault to Delhi to provide detailed coverage, and her reports never quite lost their tone of criticism or censure.  Much how the media coverage ensured that what is predominantly remembered about the Athens and Montreal Olympics are the problematic facilities and cost overruns, instead of the inspiring success of the respective Games or the first perfect 10 scored by Nadia Comaneci.

In the end and despite all dire predictions, Delhi delivered the Games to the world.  

And to me, that is (equally deserved) good news indeed.