tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25949432142583924712024-03-19T07:18:07.970+00:00Adrian YekkesTravel adventures, life in London, books, music and art...Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.comBlogger485125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-78076727440824850892024-02-15T14:47:00.001+00:002024-02-15T14:47:29.303+00:00Come just as you are - a postcard from Ada in Margate<p style="text-align: justify;">In 1939, Margate could boast 240 hotels, 1300 boarding houses and 5000 other properties taking in paying guests. Visitors could also take advantage of the Winter Gardens, opened in 1911, the Lido (1927), two small tidal pools (1937) and the magnificent art deco Dreamland leisure complex, completed in 1920. This together with numerous cinemas, restaurants and other places of entertainment, led to the town being referred to as "Merry Margate". </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Day-trippers and holiday makers flocked to the seaside resort and many of them would have sent postcards to friends and family, reporting on their holiday activities, the weather and their lodgings. These postcards occasionally turn up online, in vintage stores or in charity shops, and give a glimpse of life at the time they were sent. Some cards were designed to promote a specific resort, usually featuring images from the town, carefully selected to tempt more people to come. Others took a more humorous approach, such as the slightly saucy cards (although very tame by today's standards) produced by <a href="https://saucyseasidepostcards.com">Donald McGill</a> and others. The card I purchased on a recent Margate trip falls some way between the two, depicting a woman in her nightclothes reading a note, inviting her to "come just as you are" with "To Margate" emblazoned across the image.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YJyoYUQL9xHqRoogcE3fY2iu1n8QnuqWpVQurZY3OwjBXdoUKKVUhjg_8o-EExpVj79L8qROOEd0OaPeotYUNy_IXJRJtxgXLngCyLS2HnrLrrspn1o_09pdSlcCFB9V4WeMgfKhiJxBzEDcmZeAyTz0uPGKBtd1CMf8XfTNhDUoElwOQ9DmxrucZng/s388/D32E86DB-DCA5-4695-98C0-B9A2E711E317_4_5005_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="242" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YJyoYUQL9xHqRoogcE3fY2iu1n8QnuqWpVQurZY3OwjBXdoUKKVUhjg_8o-EExpVj79L8qROOEd0OaPeotYUNy_IXJRJtxgXLngCyLS2HnrLrrspn1o_09pdSlcCFB9V4WeMgfKhiJxBzEDcmZeAyTz0uPGKBtd1CMf8XfTNhDUoElwOQ9DmxrucZng/w399-h640/D32E86DB-DCA5-4695-98C0-B9A2E711E317_4_5005_c.jpeg" width="399" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The rear of the card bears a short message: <span style="text-align: left;">"Have not seen Mr and Mrs S. since we arrived, they are far too busy, hotel packed, they sat down yesterday (220) people so we were lucky to get fixed up here at all, lovely weather. </span><span style="text-align: left;">With love from Ada." Ada does not tell us where she was staying, but it must have been a large hotel to be able to seat so many people. She also omitted to date the card and the postmark on the rear is illegible. The halfpenny stamp on the back bears the image of King George V, who reigned from 1910-1936, which means it was sent during Margate's merriest period. There are no clues about the identity of the card's designer.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Ada's message is addressed to a Mr. Brown at </span>Anderton's Hotel in Fleet Street, London. Anderton's no longer exists, having been demolished in 1939, but the hotel and its site had a long and interesting history. The Horn Tavern stood there in the fifteenth century and over time is said to have been popular with both the legal profession and Cornish tin miners. A new six floor hotel was built in 1880, with a red brick facade and retail properties on the ground floor. A <a href="https://historicengland.org.uk/images-books/photos/item/BL31625">1931 photograph</a> on the Historic England website, shows it to have been a handsome building, flanked by the Methodist Recorder newspaper on one side and large commercial premises on the other. Prolific architects Herbert Ford and Robert Hesketh were responsible for the building's design. They are thought to have worked on approximately 400 buildings during their working lives including residential and commercial properties.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Anderton's was more than just a hotel and many groups and societies would meet on its premises, including the Professional Photographer's Association, which had its first meeting there on 28th March 1901. In 2001, a commemorative plaque was mounted on the site of Anderton's, to mark the centenary of that meeting. The hotel also had a <a href="https://historicengland.org.uk/images-books/photos/item/BL26426">Masonic Hall</a>, a 1922 photograph of which appears on the Historic England website. In 1920, the hotel hosted a gathering of twelve trade unions, who two years later would amalgamate as the Transport and General Workers' Union (TGWU). </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The hotel closed its doors in January 1939, ahead of its demolition. On January 29th, the New York Times was moved to write: "Fleet Street landmark goes: Anderton's a link to Shakespeare's Day, to be replaced by office building...a gloomy structure, some things not certain." Things don't change very much do they?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Most of Margate's hotels and boarding houses closed during the Second World War and for many years the town deteriorated, its glory days seemingly in the past. More recently, there has been a revival with a handful of boutique hotels, new high quality restaurants, the <a href="https://www.themargatebookshop.com">Margate Bookshop</a> and <a href="https://turnercontemporary.org">Turner Contemporary</a>, the David Chipperfield designed gallery overlooking the sea. The many independent shops include <a href="https://www.ramsayandwilliams.co.uk" style="text-align: left;">Ramsay and Williams ice-cream bar and gallery</a><span style="text-align: left;"> where vintage posters, books and other collectibles are sold alongside interesting ice-cream flavours including ginger and marmalade. It's one of my first stops on any visit to Margate and it's where I found Ada's card to Mr. Brown.</span></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-72714333318525662192024-01-28T21:23:00.001+00:002024-01-29T12:22:08.164+00:00Sleepless in Churu - Maharaja Ganga Singh<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Seven years ago, I spent two nights in a room where every surface was covered with brightly coloured murals. Rather than sleeping, I lay in bed staring at them for much of the night. The works of art covered the walls and ceiling of Maharaja Ganga Singh's windowless room in Malji Ka Kamra, in Churu, Rajasthan, a once neglected haveli, lovingly restored as a hotel. The haveli was built in 1920 by Malji Kothari, a Jain merchant, and used by the Maharaja whenever he visited the town. It was also the setting for many important gatherings involving royalty, prominent merchants and British officers.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p>I didn't think much more about the Maharaja until recently, when doing research for another writing project, I discovered that Sir William Orpen's 1919 painting of him is exhibited in the National </o:p>Portrait Gallery in London. The gallery caption referred to his distinguished military career, but Ganga Singh was also an accomplished linguist, reformer and politician. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxMOslaHpey9MNaWpk7RpXEBfWTPuKLv5Ng-ynR0CC-iluV6-2l-FunGWzodB7JHutAC1deeS3RXFc_W8bqT8YlK-44-YA27d7ZHnb_sfShaEI4MC7L3O0Vg0OeU5QT8uWUr_YZNQFc-MArOzdVxpzYJPoVr0VXS9bVjX9pr1pTp3WahAe89pIYfzHIQ/s4032/IMG_5865.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxMOslaHpey9MNaWpk7RpXEBfWTPuKLv5Ng-ynR0CC-iluV6-2l-FunGWzodB7JHutAC1deeS3RXFc_W8bqT8YlK-44-YA27d7ZHnb_sfShaEI4MC7L3O0Vg0OeU5QT8uWUr_YZNQFc-MArOzdVxpzYJPoVr0VXS9bVjX9pr1pTp3WahAe89pIYfzHIQ/w480-h640/IMG_5865.HEIC" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maharaja Ganga Singh of Bikaner, by Sir William Orpen, 1919.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Ganga Singh ruled the former princely state of Bikaner from 1888-1943. He became Maharaja at eight years of age, when his brother died without leaving a male heir. The young royal studied at Mayo College in Ajmer - sometimes referred to as the Eton of India - where he received a western education. He was a talented student, excelling in English, speaking the language flawlessly and always winning first prize in this subject. In later life he liked to tell jokes and anecdotes while speaking in a Cockney accent. At fourteen, he left the college to study under a tutor who helped him develop riding and shooting skills and an understanding of the British system of government. In his free time, he enjoyed sports including cricket and roller skating.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The Maharaja replaced a British appointed regent in 1898, assuming full duties at the age of eighteen. Almost immediately he was met with a crisis as famine, cholera and smallpox struck his subjects. Thousands died and many others fled to the more verdant Punjab. Ganga Singh's response was to modernise his state, borrowing money to finance nine irrigation projects, two railway lines and three roads, as well as medical relief centres and the provision of interest free loans to farmers. These projects also provided much needed employment for his subjects. In 1927 his public works programme culminated in the opening of the Ganga Canal. This involved the conversion of one thousand kilometres of desert into green fields, enabling five hundred new villages to be established on previously uninhabitable land. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">His reputation as a reformer was further enhanced by his establishing a representative assembly in 1913, a High Court system in 1922 and a series of financial benefits for his employees including life insurance. He also set up a savings bank for ordinary citizens, outlawed child marriage, introduced prison reforms and established several institutions including educational facilities for women. His commitment to education was recognised in 2003 when the University of Bikaner changed its name to Maharaja Ganga Singh University. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The Maharaja also had a distinguished military career. He founded the Bikaner Camel Corps, a force of five hundred men, that became known as the Ganga Risala. After he offered their service to the British, the Corps saw action in China during the <a href="https://www.history.com/topics/asian-history/boxer-rebellion">Boxer Rebellion </a>of 1900 and in Somaliland in 1902-1904. They also served in the First World War, and in 1915, routed Turkish forces at Suez in Egypt. Ganga Singh was much admired by the British and became a member of the Imperial War Cabinet. In 1919 he was a signatory of the <a href="https://www.britannica.com/event/Treaty-of-Versailles-1919/German-reparations-and-military-limitations">Treaty of Versailles </a>and from 1924 he represented India at the League of Nations. During this period, the movement for Indian independence gained momentum. The Maharaja, although on good terms with the colonial authorities, also desired greater autonomy, but feared the end of the <a href="https://www.worldhistory.org/Indian_Princely_States/">Princely State </a>system in an independent India ruled by the <a href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Indian-National-Congress">Congress Party</a>. He preferred a federal approach, combining independence with the retention of his princely powers. He failed to gain support for this approach and after Independence, Bikaner and the other states were absorbed into a unified India.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The Maharaja’s military status and contribution was immortalised by Sir James Guthrie in another painting held by the National Portrait Gallery - <i><a href="https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw00301/Statesmen-of-World-War-I">Statesmen of World War One</a>. </i>In an imagined scene, Ganga Singh appears with the Prime Ministers of Australia, Canada, New Zealand, Newfoundland and South Africa. The then British Prime Minister, Lloyd George is also present, as are others who at one time or another fulfilled that role - Arthur Balfour, Winston Churchill, Andrew Bonar Law and Herbert Asquith. Back in Churu, his image appears on the exterior walls of the Parekh haveli, built in 1925. The murals show him using various forms of transport including a Rolls Royce and a horse drawn carriage. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The Maharajas were famed for their lavish lifestyle and for entertaining. Ganga Singh was no exception, always well turned out, he took particular care with his facial hair. One courtier is quoted as saying: "Every day after a bath, for at least ten minutes, he set his moustache with a very fine elastic netting." Furthermore, after getting dressed, he would, "...go to the room where his shoes were all in a row, and he would pick up a long pointer like you have in school. He would just touch one of the shoes with it and that pair would be polished and brushed." Despite his love of stylish clothes and liberal approach to social matters, he held conservative attitudes about family. His wives never appeared in public without wearing full purdah and no photographs of them exist.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Ganga Singh also served opulent dinners. In his controversial book, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Passion-India-Moro-Javier/dp/8176211788/ref=sr_1_9?crid=1NSVMKXI0XK24&keywords=passion+india&qid=1706369654&sprefix=passion+india%2Caps%2C238&sr=8-9"><i>Passion India: The Story of the Spanish Princess of Kapurthala</i>, </a>Javer Moro claims that when asked for the recipe of a particular dish, the Maharaja said: “Prepare a whole camel, skinned and cleaned, put a goat inside it, and inside the goat a turkey and inside the turkey a chicken. Stuff the chicken with a grouse and inside that put a quail and finally inside that a sparrow. Then season it well, place the camel in a hole in the ground, and roast it.” Clearly, camels played a significant part in the Maharaja’s life, both on the battlefield and on the dining table. Moro's book is a fictionalised version of the diaries of Anita Delgado. The Maharaja of Kapurthala fell in love with her when he saw her dancing in a Madrid café. She travelled back to India with him, changed her name to Prem Kaur and became his fifth wife. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Ganga Singh did not live to see Independence. In his role as a full General of the British Army, he offered to go to the front in 1939 at the outbreak of the Second World War. He was rejected due to his age, but did see active service in the Middle East in 1941. Within a year, he had returned home, diagnosed with a terminal cancer to which he succumbed on the second of February, 1943. He is still remembered for his reforms and achievements, not only in Bikaner, but also in London's National Portrait Gallery.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-31945335711334814132023-11-06T10:58:00.002+00:002023-11-06T12:39:57.391+00:00"This peacock tattoo will take me to heaven" - The Gadia Lohar of Rajasthan<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My first encounter with the Gadia Lohar was short and unexpected. On the road from Delhi to Churu in Rajasthan, camera in hand, I got out of the car, to stretch my legs. A man working at the side of the road </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">jumped up and ran towards me, shrieking, whooping and shaking his ample belly from side to side. My driver, Naresh, horrified, told me to get back into the car. It was my first time in India, so I did as I was told and we drove off.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What was that about,” I asked him. He replied, “He has some problem sir,” and left it at that. He later explained that the man was a Gadia Lohar, a nomadic blacksmith. <i>Lohar</i> is the Hindi word for blacksmith, and<i> gadia</i> means cart - their means of travel, and their home while on the road.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADTx0jMY3PLSi_qamjygnoWJUsfL6R_1nhWm-E_RcMnkqTDj9DhUMyVbhApThwfSMxSVIa7WExqdbGC4mn6_Y9cHKAyZtmgBfhtXl1orxZI4bhq3ixv9KzymZQGQHTgCrWUL6SQaxJPNW3G0FZVL0KmyRXk1XtJO_I_R1aX6AdxGZh90NRcPnJLGxx7Q/s4592/3B31E5E6-A7E4-4F20-8986-367632131E98_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADTx0jMY3PLSi_qamjygnoWJUsfL6R_1nhWm-E_RcMnkqTDj9DhUMyVbhApThwfSMxSVIa7WExqdbGC4mn6_Y9cHKAyZtmgBfhtXl1orxZI4bhq3ixv9KzymZQGQHTgCrWUL6SQaxJPNW3G0FZVL0KmyRXk1XtJO_I_R1aX6AdxGZh90NRcPnJLGxx7Q/w400-h300/3B31E5E6-A7E4-4F20-8986-367632131E98_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gadia Lohar woman winding the bellows, Pachewar</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><b>The five vows of the Gadia Lohar</b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Until 1568, the Gadia Lohar were a settled people, producing weapons for the Maharana of Mewar's army. In that year, Maharana Pratap Singh was defeated by the invading Mughals at the Battle of Chittorgarh and was forced to flee. In a show of loyalty, the Gadia Lohar also left, vowing not to return until Chittorgarh was retaken. They also vowed not to live in a house, sleep in a bed or draw water from a well and began to live the life of itinerant workers. Pratap Singh never did retake the city and they remained nomadic, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">traveling from place to place on their bullock carts in search of work.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">In 1955, Pandit Nehru visited Chittorgarh and in a filmed ceremony, released them from their vows.</span><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"> Despite this, many Gadia Lohar are still not settled and live in makeshift camps, at risk of being moved on with little or no notice.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">Rajasthan has many diversions and I forgot about the man at the side of the road, until during one of the covid lockdowns, I discovered the Netflix documentary<a href="https://www.netflix.com/watch/81471167?trackId=255824129&tctx=0%2C0%2C2327784c-5ef9-4788-8188-c0ce55a6a08c-60523560%2C2327784c-5ef9-4788-8188-c0ce55a6a08c-60523560%7C2%2Cunknown%2C%2C%2CtitlesResults%2C81471167%2CVideo%3A81471167%2CminiDpPlayButton"> </a><i><a href="https://www.netflix.com/watch/81471167?trackId=255824129&tctx=0%2C0%2C2327784c-5ef9-4788-8188-c0ce55a6a08c-60523560%2C2327784c-5ef9-4788-8188-c0ce55a6a08c-60523560%7C2%2Cunknown%2C%2C%2CtitlesResults%2C81471167%2CVideo%3A81471167%2CminiDpPlayButton">India's Forgotten People</a>. </i>Deana Uppal, a reality TV contestant turned actress and filmmaker, curious about the </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Gadia Lohar, befriended a group camped near Jaipur. Her film shows their problems, traditions and way of life. It also exemplifies the widespread discrimination they face. In Jaipur, when she asks about meeting them, she is warned that the Gadia Lohar are dangerous criminals and should be avoided. She later discusses their plight with officials, who although polite, fail to address any of the issues she raises with them. </span><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"> </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif" style="font-size: medium;"><b>"It is hard to make a living from this work"</b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">More recently, I met Gadia Lohar communities in Rajasthan, in Deboli and near Pachewar. The Deboli group were camped on rough ground in the centre of the city. A couple were working at the entrance to the camp, the woman winding the bellows while her husband did the hot work, heating the metal. They then worked together, wielding hammers to mould the red-hot items into shape. They toiled without protective gear, in thirty-five degrees of heat, inhaling the thick smoke from their small furnace. They make tools, knives and other kitchen implements for sale in the street, but cannot compete with the cheap, mass produced items available in the markets. An elderly man, one half of a married couple who came to speak to me said, "We are skilled but these days it is hard to make a living from this work. Our ancestors produced weapons but today people don't want the things we make." </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJDZ04G2ELIbAflP9LYoF3SX5tOfVe0llyHmqDZFbEGEtuVr2zrKs_svHA64drA1lOoziJl0koo2IHQ5zM8fKiVQ2L78UIpGHtvFoz-Zqk-gX467IkYdUOtLWOLuABmJO98KXwPsj8szVNhznT7LAQQ2ikCI2XyXcloxgNjwdD8VWWmpnOj7h5wx0aIk/s4592/F3DE2011-13C2-406A-BB19-2D7E000F322A.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJDZ04G2ELIbAflP9LYoF3SX5tOfVe0llyHmqDZFbEGEtuVr2zrKs_svHA64drA1lOoziJl0koo2IHQ5zM8fKiVQ2L78UIpGHtvFoz-Zqk-gX467IkYdUOtLWOLuABmJO98KXwPsj8szVNhznT7LAQQ2ikCI2XyXcloxgNjwdD8VWWmpnOj7h5wx0aIk/w400-h300/F3DE2011-13C2-406A-BB19-2D7E000F322A.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He put on his best turban for a photograph, Deboli</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">The Deboli group had an additional problem. They claim to have lived in this location for many years but admitted that it is an unofficial settlement. The authorities want to develop the site and have told them to leave. He also said, "Some people have already gone to the new place, but it is not big enough for all of us and there is not enough money to build houses for everyone." <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Those that remained were living in tents, some large enough to accommodate an extended family and their cart. One resident proudly showed me his family's gadia, “It is fifty years old,” he said as he pointed out the brightly coloured, hand-painted decorative patterns on its sides. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Before I left, I photographed the elderly man and his wife, but not before, at his insistence, he put on his best turban, replacing the </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">gamcha (</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">workers' scarf</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">)</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> he had been wearing when I arrived. His wife pulled her <i>dupatta</i> (scarf used to cover head and shoulders) further forward on her forehead and pointed out her <i>bhanvaria</i> (nose ring) and tattooed earlobes to me. Once ready they stood side by side, very formal, him extremely tall and her, petite. I also took individual portraits of them.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimHFGZ1cu_T6Gwo93uV0KpEJC3UCXQuAKvUu99u8r6YT91Me_F8yX4RIsVkBLy-9PoBpN_Wog3L4MjnWqucpG01IzravG3M4eSVLzGkjpSD9L5qr-1kRxDzcPtgMyuvuNNgmXNMFlM6ljXprg-kdWDtqpPMSUdJkUjbCG59cU60hy6n7JGItKlZ6pIEHY/s4592/A3EE22F9-0A81-47D1-97A8-FAF58F9F2356_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimHFGZ1cu_T6Gwo93uV0KpEJC3UCXQuAKvUu99u8r6YT91Me_F8yX4RIsVkBLy-9PoBpN_Wog3L4MjnWqucpG01IzravG3M4eSVLzGkjpSD9L5qr-1kRxDzcPtgMyuvuNNgmXNMFlM6ljXprg-kdWDtqpPMSUdJkUjbCG59cU60hy6n7JGItKlZ6pIEHY/w480-h640/A3EE22F9-0A81-47D1-97A8-FAF58F9F2356_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gadia Lohar woman in Deboli, wearing the bhanvaria (nose ring) and traditional jewellery</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;"><b>"This peacock tattoo will take me to heaven"</b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I met Shankar Gadhia Lohar at a tea stall in Pachewar, a village of about nine thousand people, one hundred kilometres from Jaipur. He invited me to his settlement where he lives with his extended family, just a few kilometres away. Shankar makes kitchen utensils and small ornamental items which he then sells at the side of the road. I bought a colander from him for 50 rupees (about 50 pence), which came in useful when I visited a <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/01/what-have-you-brought-me-encounter-with.html">Bhand community</a> on the opposite side of the road. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Shankar is not the only craftsman in the family. His older brother, Hanuman, is an accomplished metalworker whose work has attracted awards and media attention. He has a workshop on Pachewar's main street where visitors are offered tea and snacks, but where there was no pressure to buy. His wife and daughter-in-law work with him and at the time of my visit, his children were quietly doing their homework after school. Hanuman concentrates on producing art works and I came away with two small pieces - a camel and a snake. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">One of the older women in the settlement had facial tattoos. I asked if they had a meaning. "No, no, they are just for fashion," said one of the younger men. On hearing this, the woman, who until that point had been silent, became very animated and contradicted him. "They protect us against misfortune," she said, "and this peacock tattoo will take me to heaven." She also explained that the jewellery Gadhia Lohar women wear, acts as a deterrent to the evil eye. When she finished speaking, Shankar introduced her to me as his mother.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xkk2NnNL_laLCivi_yXNFo-RgezLuhWkRL98t34usWOOa8SRq91ZnfvkjrG1BnQA7JLzGODoJlmaHRIg3J_3Rr4f1Gw5Sw6Uod01kXNNjq2kugLaHPslYCz0UARZhyphenhyphenHw4JWPErx_M2neNMohIXIRANkUydZ-Ql4_WEJoRZukbicUosNU9JZtlWcAS7s/s4592/D65D2AFD-C29E-4FBB-AE33-D4B33B8262D5_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xkk2NnNL_laLCivi_yXNFo-RgezLuhWkRL98t34usWOOa8SRq91ZnfvkjrG1BnQA7JLzGODoJlmaHRIg3J_3Rr4f1Gw5Sw6Uod01kXNNjq2kugLaHPslYCz0UARZhyphenhyphenHw4JWPErx_M2neNMohIXIRANkUydZ-Ql4_WEJoRZukbicUosNU9JZtlWcAS7s/w480-h640/D65D2AFD-C29E-4FBB-AE33-D4B33B8262D5_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanuman, Gadia Lohar artisan, Pachewar</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif" style="font-size: medium;"><b>"I used to work as a day labourer to pay for my schooling"</b></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;">While Shankar's mother was speaking, Sangram Singh Gadia Lohar arrived. We drank tea together and he spoke about his efforts to secure educational opportunities for his community. He said, “I used to work as a day labourer to pay for my schooling. I completed higher secondary education and then worked for an organisation that trains people in community development. I started an open-air school for our children, but it is difficult to get regular attendance as most of the parents are uneducated and do not understand why school is important.” He also spoke about the difficulties of finding somewhere to settle, and said, “I have worked very hard to persuade the authorities to give small parcels of land so that we can build our own houses. The problem is that although we are told we can build on the land, we do not receive documentation. This means we can be moved on at short notice.” </p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">Sangram said, “Our traditional way of life is no longer sustainable. The young people need to be educated, to develop new skills, or to adapt our traditional craft in the way Hanuman and Shankar have.” While he was speaking a small boy came out of one of the tents. After playing with a tyre for a few minutes, he opened his father’s toolbox, took out a hammer and began hitting a<i> charpoy</i> (day bed), imitating the adults working nearby. I asked his father if the boy will go to school. He smiled and said, “I don’t know.”</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUM4hVSwPfe2pN6qQjz2gIOfuuPwdow-t3PqWaS3AW1g4HkIZPDahZ0hBlZeEKED8qcOg5J6cbfv-9Gw-rGSKKVWTHeAV7gIhSl3piHTzHdO_urTKiUrkcqDvVG-UPPs4W-OWKE37MdPe-9EdBsctIakDf04As692b0UEqjnWxc-f00zt-MnZU-8C68M/s4592/82D0389C-19B0-4752-A184-933F2FF02FB1_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUM4hVSwPfe2pN6qQjz2gIOfuuPwdow-t3PqWaS3AW1g4HkIZPDahZ0hBlZeEKED8qcOg5J6cbfv-9Gw-rGSKKVWTHeAV7gIhSl3piHTzHdO_urTKiUrkcqDvVG-UPPs4W-OWKE37MdPe-9EdBsctIakDf04As692b0UEqjnWxc-f00zt-MnZU-8C68M/w480-h640/82D0389C-19B0-4752-A184-933F2FF02FB1_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Will he go to school?" I asked.</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;">You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/01/what-have-you-brought-me-encounter-with.html">"What have you brought me?" - an encounter with the Band in Rajasthan</a></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-17811102726493495472023-09-30T11:17:00.000+01:002023-09-30T11:17:50.906+01:00The last of the sworn virgins - Stories from Albania<p style="text-align: justify;">Gjyustina Grishaj was taking the washing in when I saw her. It had not been possible to contact her in advance and so, together with my guide and interpreter, Saimir, I'd taken the risk of just turning up. This involved balancing on narrow logs to cross streams, climbing boundary fences and taking at least one wrong turn before we reached her home, amongst the Albanian Alps in remote Lepushe. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">She wasn't expecting us and there was no guarantee that she'd be willing to talk. I needn't have worried as she welcomed us with smiles and waves, invited us onto the porch and offered water, blueberry juice and raki. It was a little odd meeting Gjyustina in person as I'd seen her a few months earlier in a short BBC documentary, <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAPfugbPjPs">The sworn virgins of Albania</a>.</i> The programme, made by Gjyustina's film-maker niece focused on the almost extinct practice in northern Albania, of women taking a vow of chastity and living as men. Only a handful of Burrnesha (the Albanian name for this phenomenon) are still alive.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0-XBpNSZx6KZ_cnYOdJ5_eiEQjkckfuePwdQqRL0cuDaMa2EFWfkhO5msPpWDZh2gwXb22kCgxFhmDeVCmwr2VTnyr6VkGwHSEzHiIcBiAhu1fT-bk1ML_WMocums35Fzrs9g1PmCaypTs8ljjPGvgvk2WBQ1V9dOCM3hJn7CUQWgKys_jeioETRJzE/s4592/DCD64B5E-9EC6-4ADD-A892-E0B6C6158EDE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0-XBpNSZx6KZ_cnYOdJ5_eiEQjkckfuePwdQqRL0cuDaMa2EFWfkhO5msPpWDZh2gwXb22kCgxFhmDeVCmwr2VTnyr6VkGwHSEzHiIcBiAhu1fT-bk1ML_WMocums35Fzrs9g1PmCaypTs8ljjPGvgvk2WBQ1V9dOCM3hJn7CUQWgKys_jeioETRJzE/w480-h640/DCD64B5E-9EC6-4ADD-A892-E0B6C6158EDE.jpeg" width="480" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The tradition originates from the <i><a href="https://albanianstudies.weebly.com/kanuni.html">Kanun</a></i>, a set of social codes and laws developed during the Ottoman period and used mostly in northern Albania and Kosovo well into the 20th century. It dictates the strict patriarchal nature of society, with all wealth inherited by men and asserts that women are part of a family's property. It also placed many other restrictions on women including being forbidden to smoke or wear a watch, vote, buy land, socialise with men or do certain jobs. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">These rules did not apply to the Burrnesha once they'd taken an irrevocable oath of celibacy in front of village or tribal elders. They were considered male, with the same privileges as men and could take the role of head of a household. Most would wear men's clothes and some would take a male name. They would also be required to do hard physical labour normally undertaken by men. Breaking the vow was punishable by death. However, there were some circumstances that allowed a change of heart if the reasons for taking the vow no longer existed.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Motivations for becoming Burrnesha varied. In families without a surviving male child, it would allow a woman to inherit the family's wealth. It was also a way to avoid an arranged marriage without dishonouring the groom's family, or for a women to avoid marriage more generally should she wish to remain single. In extreme circumstances, a daughter may be required to become Burrnesha in order to continue a <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2011/jul/05/albania-kanun-blood-fueds-smolar">blood feud </a>with another family if all the male members had already been killed. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"I decided to become the man of the family"</span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Gjyustina explained how she came to the decision to become a Burrnesha. She said, "I was the third of six children, two boys and four girls. When my father died of a heart attack, the oldest boy and the oldest girl had already married and left. Someone needed to step up and take responsibility. I decided to become the man of the family, to make sure that my siblings would be well educated and to support my mother." She knew about the tradition of the sworn virgin from books in her father's personal library. She said, "My father was a teacher. I liked reading and he had a lot of books, including the Kanun." </div><p style="text-align: justify;">I wondered how her family, friends and the other villagers had reacted to this decision. She said, "I made my vow in front of my family rather than the villagers, but they knew and they respected me for it. My mother and my older, married brother tried to dissuade me. Mother was particularly opposed to my decision and said 'No, you cannot do this, you must marry, otherwise you will be alone.' They also tried to get my younger brother to make me re-think my decision. The older one told him to make my life as hard as possible so that I would give in, but I'd decided what to do and to accept whatever my destiny would be." </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I asked her about the consequences of taking the vow, other than from being forbidden marriage and children. She said, "Our family was very poor. I did agricultural work, chopping wood, anything. I devoted my life to hard work for the good of the family." She added, "I earned very little and we had to stand in long queues to get food and other things. There was never enough." For most people, queueing for basic items, sometimes for hours, was a significant part of life during the communist period. In her book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Free-Coming-Age-End-History/dp/0141995106/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3KS0F3AHLBGC5&keywords=free+lea+ypi&qid=1695984086&sprefix=free+lea+ypi%2Caps%2C486&sr=8-1">Free</a></i>, Lea Ypi writes about the practice of leaving a stone to mark one's place if another queue was forming for some other item. A whole etiquette of queueing was developed to manage such occurrences.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"Once I'd taken the decision I knew there was no way to turn back"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">It has been suggested that becoming a sworn virgin was a way of women obtaining greater freedom and escaping restrictions, especially in remote rural communities. Gjyustina dismissed this saying, "I knew another Burrnesha who said that we have to work much harder than the men to be accepted. Yes, we are considered to be like men, but everyone knows we are women." The Albanian writer, Ismail Kadare was even more direct in his introduction to Elvira Dones novel <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sworn-Virgin-Elvira-13-May-2014-Paperback/dp/B012HVF15I/ref=sr_1_5?crid=1ONUO6MXX7L58&keywords=sworn+virgin&qid=1695995569&sprefix=sworn+virgin%2Caps%2C235&sr=8-5">Sworn Virgin</a>, </i>where he wrote, "This...custom...presents a loss as a privilege, and offers subjection in the guise of freedom." Dones' book tells the story of a young woman trying to revert to her previous life after taking the oath. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Gjyustina, was quiet for a moment and seemed to be considering whether or not to speak, and then said, "Despite the hardships, I've never regretted my decision. I am happy." She continued, "There are many unmarried people but being Burrnesha is different. It's a gift from God. Once I'd taken the decision I knew there was no way to turn back." She added, "But sometimes I get lonely. It's very quiet here when I don't see other people. Without the chance to talk it's like being in prison." </p><p style="text-align: justify;">She still has relatives living nearby. She said, "They come to see me and are happy to help but I never require anything from them in return for what I did." Like many Albanians, she also has relatives living abroad. "I have a sister in Italy," she said, "I spend a few weeks with her every year. I can speak Italian. I also have a brother in America. He sometimes comes to see me. I wanted to visit him in New York but my visa application was refused." </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCWnDv737hfeJ5cw2gUbMHczSFH5pzBXzBXArWVwihUASyfRetCrJfo1qKbulRqIDmD3-HD1jc-7e7yTdF69DpoGKd95ggUkJI9TmYLSDQw20mvmDUa8IKt2um4Zw4hoKxQw8S1dKB9fO4xO2z8ONCOU-Yfx2AhMVFFsL6yy-1zSI3KptXL4W18M1xbQ/s4032/4760EADC-BD08-427B-A0D6-F9F991F8385C.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCWnDv737hfeJ5cw2gUbMHczSFH5pzBXzBXArWVwihUASyfRetCrJfo1qKbulRqIDmD3-HD1jc-7e7yTdF69DpoGKd95ggUkJI9TmYLSDQw20mvmDUa8IKt2um4Zw4hoKxQw8S1dKB9fO4xO2z8ONCOU-Yfx2AhMVFFsL6yy-1zSI3KptXL4W18M1xbQ/w480-h640/4760EADC-BD08-427B-A0D6-F9F991F8385C.heic" width="480" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"No-one else will do this, I will be the last one"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">In the BBC documentary, she spoke to her niece about plants with medicinal properties, gathered from the surrounding area. I asked about this and she led us to a large shed at the side of her property. She explained that she'd used it as a small shop when running a guest house from her home. Unfortunately the guest house and the shop are now closed as since covid the number of visitors has decreased. Inside the shed she had several kinds of wild flower for making tea, as well as medicinal plants and mushrooms, all gathered locally. There were also maps showing hiking routes and bottles of different-flavoured homemade raki. "My father knew a lot about plants, flowers, herbs and mushrooms," she said, "When I was small I would go into the mountains with him to collect them and he would explain their uses. He had books about these things too. Of course, I was little and I wouldn't remember what he'd said, and once I lost the plants he'd asked me to look after when he went further up the mountain. We had to go and look for them again." </p><p style="text-align: justify;">A wooden crucifix hung over the shop doorway and another one on one of the walls. There were also a few family photographs, one of which particularly caught my attention. It showed a woman wearing traditional clothing, including the loose white headscarf still worn by many older Albanian women. She is surrounded by two men and a small boy. Gjyustina noticed my interest and said "That's my mother and father and my two brothers."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Gjyustina Grishaj is 58, the youngest and possibly the last sworn virgin of Albania. She knows of two others, older than her and who prefer to live privately. I asked her if she thought that in the future other women would take the vow. Her response was clear. She said, "No-one else will do this, I will be the last one. Many Burrnesha did this to keep their families from poverty but things are easier here now. Also, people's attitudes about helping others and about family responsibility have changed. I felt I had to do it. Today people feel differently." We left her waving at the front of her house. I looked back several times and she was still there, waving each time I turned.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcPeo1WCQK-eculFyFKx6jqhhrmGwHlO6pImeXqtmE9LrobJ7Rp0_2EaQQIxCvrSZx6S0mQMBpLviOFSiDLVTGzOrc-kujHrxK5rkGBxSwG9aLVQPgBEWPSKHJxAa8eDGhxqnuewrkHPz3lhwMzRAsSNNvqABgVgfUn_MYNCpRPTDeyE5Mt30_REh-Ls/s4592/7CCC6BCC-6847-419B-9E04-7C08965CF1C0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcPeo1WCQK-eculFyFKx6jqhhrmGwHlO6pImeXqtmE9LrobJ7Rp0_2EaQQIxCvrSZx6S0mQMBpLviOFSiDLVTGzOrc-kujHrxK5rkGBxSwG9aLVQPgBEWPSKHJxAa8eDGhxqnuewrkHPz3lhwMzRAsSNNvqABgVgfUn_MYNCpRPTDeyE5Mt30_REh-Ls/w400-h300/7CCC6BCC-6847-419B-9E04-7C08965CF1C0.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/09/you-had-to-be-careful-about-everything.html">You had to be careful about everything</a> or <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/04/the-hijras-of-shyampur.html">The Hijras of Shyampur</a></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-65647894744297286732023-09-19T08:50:00.000+01:002023-09-19T08:50:05.897+01:00"You had to be careful about everything" - Stories from Albania<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifn3GpTEnBWSoLxH4oEbHAJnivpxI0Sy_fFhq2knnKQkv3r-z69NVOjkySt8jX4plVAC5JuOeThl7DZnNEvu-GCGe8XTDI2GBgUVxRpgEzBt8tIh_LQLIyTSnXGIjNiFRMe4EcDGyxR-KwXPfQphUj-ifHBpgNuR_aWw9A7khQ5YWKDViShuWwrxSL5H4/s4032/IMG_4946.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifn3GpTEnBWSoLxH4oEbHAJnivpxI0Sy_fFhq2knnKQkv3r-z69NVOjkySt8jX4plVAC5JuOeThl7DZnNEvu-GCGe8XTDI2GBgUVxRpgEzBt8tIh_LQLIyTSnXGIjNiFRMe4EcDGyxR-KwXPfQphUj-ifHBpgNuR_aWw9A7khQ5YWKDViShuWwrxSL5H4/w480-h640/IMG_4946.jpg" width="480" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">There are many empty homes in Valbone, northern Albania. Some are occupied for a short period each year when the owners return from working overseas, while others, seemingly abandoned, have begun to crumble. While photographing what I thought to be an abandoned house, two women emerged and came towards my guide, Saimir and I. The younger of the two greeted us and indicating the slightly stooped woman at her side, said, "Zoja would like to invite you into her house." Zoja, a tiny woman who wore the loosely tied white headscarf, typical of many older Albanian women, smiled generously and gestured for us to follow her. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The austere-looking house was set back from the road, overlooking an almost dry river bed and under the shadow of the mountains. Saimir and I, removed our shoes and went inside. The younger woman gave her name as Zarya and explained that the house had been built for military personnel during Albania's 45 years long communist period. When the regime collapsed in 1991 the place was left empty. Inside I immediately noticed and commented on how cool and comfortable the temperature was compared to the rising mid-morning heat. "The walls are very thick" said Zarya, "they keep the house cool in the summer and warm in the winter. But they are sometimes damp because of the condensation." </p><p style="text-align: justify;">We were shown into a simple, but charming living room, furnished with a heavy 1970's style suite and coffee table and a few small kilims (traditional rugs). The dark brown and orange furniture contrasted sharply with the clean, whitewashed walls. A piece of hand-made lace lay on a small set of drawers, and herbs and berries collected from the mountains, had been placed on top of it. A larger piece of lace that my grandmother would have called an antimacassar lay over the back of one of the chairs. "My friend made some of these pieces," said Zoja as she led us into the kitchen where two other women were sitting and who greeted us with smiles and "hello" in English. The room was filled with the buttery aroma of<a href="https://www.myalbanianfood.com/category/albanian-byrek/"> byrekas </a>being prepared on the stove. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbA6c3sGyc-EaEoKmXgyeE3S8yfFgkJe2ps1lelBuukPmgz1kUKNwsy-VW-2BsE4ABUq2o7C1_iBTVBISDU35Wj9S6mCO2L4wJkr1icvYkO4o1xKTjvkQRB46xhzQ1QHOQyarXvFFNwRFQUYHyskz8efWmlJ78BKpqv4lJ4ATBzkdGWOKiC6VBtS_tjWU/s1024/974A256E-29E1-42D2-9035-9420DB109C71_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbA6c3sGyc-EaEoKmXgyeE3S8yfFgkJe2ps1lelBuukPmgz1kUKNwsy-VW-2BsE4ABUq2o7C1_iBTVBISDU35Wj9S6mCO2L4wJkr1icvYkO4o1xKTjvkQRB46xhzQ1QHOQyarXvFFNwRFQUYHyskz8efWmlJ78BKpqv4lJ4ATBzkdGWOKiC6VBtS_tjWU/w480-h640/974A256E-29E1-42D2-9035-9420DB109C71_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWeYCjWKCGtO2c4hRj-jvohg7IL82nYXylGXCwyCJiJJhWQNQD9IFX7eslRXrJUyDbng-0daLZSZSHwiOKmFl0O9NNvNqExlg8fduvl7Qb6i4VYQQfaqw47zbomWGR31XAd5S3xH0j8d8TiADsN2qymfvm6w1ogD5buF7nxnEL7SPe_-sh4A9WuVDllGU/s1024/CD3FAC4A-029F-4A1B-B127-768F53CC3D18_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWeYCjWKCGtO2c4hRj-jvohg7IL82nYXylGXCwyCJiJJhWQNQD9IFX7eslRXrJUyDbng-0daLZSZSHwiOKmFl0O9NNvNqExlg8fduvl7Qb6i4VYQQfaqw47zbomWGR31XAd5S3xH0j8d8TiADsN2qymfvm6w1ogD5buF7nxnEL7SPe_-sh4A9WuVDllGU/w480-h640/CD3FAC4A-029F-4A1B-B127-768F53CC3D18_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFnOf8xS07FCheQfC4Gz9gPoTfqjRqZ064AjdO2abIIyw-ZSqXEB5TbQ5fdZ0UW3wlDe88EwZqcUQybFev57kn2y7JeWnb9qRn-keGuuTNwdMIQHsUg8N8bBvLe-4JX0oI9w_8hPDxizH-a1St894S-BPPa5g8XAqJkotknfdBjOTJX5chEzfS8mHkhc/s1024/7194F533-07CE-4662-B081-0EAFC43C4277_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFnOf8xS07FCheQfC4Gz9gPoTfqjRqZ064AjdO2abIIyw-ZSqXEB5TbQ5fdZ0UW3wlDe88EwZqcUQybFev57kn2y7JeWnb9qRn-keGuuTNwdMIQHsUg8N8bBvLe-4JX0oI9w_8hPDxizH-a1St894S-BPPa5g8XAqJkotknfdBjOTJX5chEzfS8mHkhc/w480-h640/7194F533-07CE-4662-B081-0EAFC43C4277_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"My family owned the land but it was confiscated by the communists"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I asked Zoja how long she'd lived there. She said "I've been here for the last twenty years. My family owned the land but it was confiscated by the communists who built soldiers' houses on it. After they left, I came back and moved in. I am 80 now and a widow. I have six children. Two live abroad. Another son disappeared somewhere in Greece. He might be dead. I don't know what happened to him." Zarya added "Her other children live close by and see her regularly."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Zoja continued, "My husband died eleven years ago. He spent time in prison during the communist period. He was sent to <a href="https://www.bradtguides.com/spac-prison-albania/">Spaç</a>, where he was tortured and lost an eye. I had to do hard agricultural work to feed the family." The telling of the story was clearly affecting her and she paused, trying to compose herself. Spaç, in a remote part of the Mirdita region, was the most notorious of the network of isolated prisons and forced labour camps established under the old regime. Prisoners were subject to hard physical labour and torture, including mock executions, sleep and food deprivation, being fed very salty food and then denied water as well as being beaten and then having salt poured into the wounds afterwards. Sentences of ten or even twenty years were not unusual and people were often re-arrested immediately after their release.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps to divert Zoja a little, Zarya asked if we had other questions. All of the women present were wearing different levels of Islamic clothing. I asked how people had managed to maintain religious practise under the old regime, as in 1967, communist leader,<a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/Enver-Hoxha"> Enver Hoxha</a>, declared Albania an atheist state. Most mosques and churches were demolished and anyone discovered or reported to be practising religion was imprisoned. "It was very difficult" she said. "It wasn't possible to dress like this then. Everything had to be hidden. We even changed the way we spoke. After someone died instead of expressing hope that the dead person would go to heaven, people spoke about the health of their relatives. It was a very dangerous time."</p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"You had to be careful about everything"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I asked Zoja if there had been anything good about the old regime. She said "Everyone had a job and agriculture and industry operated well. But behind it all, there was something very bad. You had to be careful about everything. There were many spies who would listen to and report conversations. Sometimes people who had a quarrel with their neighbour would take revenge by making up stories about them and reporting them to the police." </p><p style="text-align: justify;">As well as people who voluntarily reported their friends, neighbours and even family members, the regime had a huge network of spies. Even very small infringements could get you sent to prison and your family ostracised. Ways of dealing with this included being creative with language. In her autobiography <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Free-Coming-Age-End-History-ebook/dp/B08X6JFHZD/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2YSN76J2E852T&keywords=free+lea+ypi&qid=1694966772&sprefix=free+lea+%2Caps%2C172&sr=8-1">"Free: Coming of Age at the End of History,"</a> Albanian professor of Political Theory, Lea Ypi, remembers her parents talking about an uncle taking 20 years to graduate from university and eventually realising that "university" meant prison and the 20 years of study was his period of incarceration. This level of fear and suspicion must have a lasting impact on society and despite the seeming openness of most Albanians, there are still hints of the old fears. I asked a local why so many Albanian cafes and restaurants play deafeningly loud music. "It is to prevent us hearing the conversations of others," he said.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In Albanian culture guests are treated with high regard and are considered to be under the protection of the house. Despite our entreaties for her to sit, Zoja remained standing for the duration of our visit. "I must stand to give respect to my guests," she said. Before leaving, I asked if she would let me photograph her. She agreed and I took a number of shots, both inside and outside the house. As we left, she asked us to return, blessed our families and stood waving from the step.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0jkBrZYetCPUmt-0IQNmxPRygFebc0K6z7JT25oSHqTIOOnqWmMW3cXlVRDUe76gnJjxw_ZCY1MTGVA0rbXzqpn5C2_ZaAL-yRv35HAuy50mwlbdRGPkkgP7IjU7bQvMeIrJjczdySGo7hXDqRD-RT7dODUijiikEZ_IMPJcuJKu0ec_XljU94Yqc0w/s4032/176FE8AD-38C9-4CF3-A004-8DB805B2A150_1_201_a.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0jkBrZYetCPUmt-0IQNmxPRygFebc0K6z7JT25oSHqTIOOnqWmMW3cXlVRDUe76gnJjxw_ZCY1MTGVA0rbXzqpn5C2_ZaAL-yRv35HAuy50mwlbdRGPkkgP7IjU7bQvMeIrJjczdySGo7hXDqRD-RT7dODUijiikEZ_IMPJcuJKu0ec_XljU94Yqc0w/w400-h300/176FE8AD-38C9-4CF3-A004-8DB805B2A150_1_201_a.heic" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyib_2-YRiIgfe3hh72u0fG9BqmNkw7digMWwA6elK2mDyJHjZCi1KDbxjQgw8EV_6EUuXOYOJhkKxMidthKK8mkB_zKwybi0iqqT1pl9S9CUGLLCd7E0UaCXs5yFIoMQOyAXyydbgKCZXDBl0kNwnbroYJj2p3k_iQr-sNrUbX2jBPUpsXypx9DeX5V0/s4032/IMG_4921.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyib_2-YRiIgfe3hh72u0fG9BqmNkw7digMWwA6elK2mDyJHjZCi1KDbxjQgw8EV_6EUuXOYOJhkKxMidthKK8mkB_zKwybi0iqqT1pl9S9CUGLLCd7E0UaCXs5yFIoMQOyAXyydbgKCZXDBl0kNwnbroYJj2p3k_iQr-sNrUbX2jBPUpsXypx9DeX5V0/w400-h300/IMG_4921.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Photographs of Zoja and external scenery by the author, internal details by<a href="https://www.studiosb.co.uk"> Studio SB</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/06/i-felt-burning-sensation-on-my-forehead.html">"I felt a burning sensation on my forehead and realised I'd been hit"</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-12628509643186211412023-08-21T17:37:00.000+01:002023-08-21T17:37:15.100+01:00"I was so happy I couldn't sleep" - Stories from Cambodia<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0vBc-0hpqeQbGpZMbLIx5h_JHXLw2lT-d9YzjvVz_H6BGqgFEzPWh5tFl9SyEimPTNtyWmG__5sz64mbCzEcSCoSdteN3YWQzrJMcSZpellCBdet8B_2L1R4ICtZ_Nmasu1kkRp-fGnm-WZIiRLowquKfO891dU4rLWXXyZyCCtOSM8o9Kxf2q7bXec/s6016/DSC_4633.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0vBc-0hpqeQbGpZMbLIx5h_JHXLw2lT-d9YzjvVz_H6BGqgFEzPWh5tFl9SyEimPTNtyWmG__5sz64mbCzEcSCoSdteN3YWQzrJMcSZpellCBdet8B_2L1R4ICtZ_Nmasu1kkRp-fGnm-WZIiRLowquKfO891dU4rLWXXyZyCCtOSM8o9Kxf2q7bXec/w400-h268/DSC_4633.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">"I was born at the end of the Khmer Rouge period, so I have no memory of it" said Kimleng Sang, acclaimed Cambodian photographer and popular tour guide. He continued, "My parents spoke later on about having to work very hard and not getting enough to eat. We were not allowed to eat fish, chicken or meat, only boiled rice. People would sometimes take papaya or banana roots and make a soup, but it was not permitted to eat the fruit." </p><p style="text-align: justify;">So strictly were these rules enforced by Pol Pot's communist Khmer Rouge regime, that when Kimleng's father secretly caught a chicken in the forest, his older brother didn't know what it was. "My father told him it was a special kind of rat," he said, "because eating a chicken was enough to get you killed if anyone found out." A favourite trick of the Khmer Rouge was to question children who were less likely to realise the implications of their answers and could inadvertently cause whole families to be summarily executed. The family were farmers, and better equipped than many to survive the forced labour, but they lost at least three relatives - a cousin, an uncle and one of Kimleng's grandfathers, all of whom disappeared and have never been found.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"The worst job I ever did"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The Khmer Rouge were driven out in 1979, having managed to kill or cause the deaths of up to two million people in the preceding four years. Over time some semblance of normal life returned, but the family still struggled. Kimleng explained, "Although we owned some paddy fields and grew rice it was not enough for us to live on. When I was 14 I left home for Phnom Penh and took a job as a security guard and gardener for a rich family. They had been living in France, but returned in 1993, when the first elections were held after the departure of the Khmer Rouge." This was one of several jobs he would take, including unblocking toilets, driving and later on, working in a garment factory. He describes the latter as "the worst job I ever did. I worked from six at night until seven in the morning making clothes. I was tired all the time." For these long shifts he received $45 per month, $15 of which was his contribution to a shared rent, leaving very little for food, clothes and other expenses. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">He realised that his lack of education was holding him back. "I saw that city life could be good and that if you were educated you didn't have to work as hard as the people in the village," he said. "I left school when I was 13, and only completed grade five. I couldn't read or write even in Khmer but I had a friend who was a teacher who helped me become literate in my own language and also taught me English."</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"I fell in love with photography"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">In 1999, Kimleng returned to his village and told the family he didn't want to work as a farmer. Instead, he bought a tuk-tuk, drove local customers and began to meet foreign tourists. One tourist would help change his life. "I met many foreigners, including several who came for photography. I worked as their driver and helped to carry their equipment. In 2005 or 2006, I drove Canadian photographer David Bibbing during his stay in Cambodia. By this stage I was paying close attention to how the photographers worked and David noticed my keen interest. A year later he came back and surprised me with the gift of a simple digital camera. He helped me to use it and I fell in love with photography. When he gave me the camera I was so happy I couldn't sleep."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Kimleng went on to meet more photographers and received advice on lighting, technique and composition. He began combining his love for photography with his transport business and promoted himself as "the tuk-tuk photographer." By 2015, he had become successful enough to employ a driver which meant he could spend more time talking directly to his clients, explaining cultural matters and helping them get the pictures they wanted. "This made my service better and also provided a job for someone else," he said. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I asked what it is that makes photography so attractive to him. He said "I especially like photographing people and love interacting with them, but I also enjoying taking pictures of nature." I recently spent three days with him, photographing life in villages close to Siem Reap, where he now lives. His affection for the people was obvious. He knew many of the villagers and took time to ask about their lives and families, listening intently to their stories. He also has a lively sense of humour and enjoyed making them laugh. His connection to the people and landscape can clearly be seen in his work which deserves an even wider audience.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Due to his own early experience, Kimleng strongly believes in the importance of education. During the covid lockdown, he started a school for village children to learn English. Unlike other schools in Cambodia, it does not require fees, but to fund resources, the pupils collect plastic items which are then sold for recycling. He explained, "this helps us to buy learning materials and also contributes to a cleaner environment, clearing the village of discarded items". The teachers are volunteers from overseas and teach the class online. "We are very grateful to our overseas friends who help us. We would like to develop the school further, perhaps with a resident volunteer teacher who would come and stay with us." Anyone interested in helping with the school can contact Kimleng directly through his social media links, listed below. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTvtzT52X-RQPyMeQfaNdX7rjkx0xnZGHrjZbDveta-enfafgp6elZAi6mXgwps6t2kDIfyNvLgH3H41MvStqKQG8S9fAgvRb49V2Nd2Ip2ESTlQgPGLBAydtnUUP1LKqTzSJntvBdFrYHoFaKWCWXGNcv8YC1bV0hY5NO5WTDMOkuh5z2YwsDs35X28/s6016/DSC_4627.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTvtzT52X-RQPyMeQfaNdX7rjkx0xnZGHrjZbDveta-enfafgp6elZAi6mXgwps6t2kDIfyNvLgH3H41MvStqKQG8S9fAgvRb49V2Nd2Ip2ESTlQgPGLBAydtnUUP1LKqTzSJntvBdFrYHoFaKWCWXGNcv8YC1bV0hY5NO5WTDMOkuh5z2YwsDs35X28/s320/DSC_4627.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>You can follow Kimleng on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/kimlengsangphotography/">Instagram</a> and find more details about his photography tours on his <a href="https://www.kimlengsang.com">website</a>.<p>For more stories from Cambodia see <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/06/i-used-to-steal-small-amounts-of-rice.html">I used to steal small amounts of food just to survive</a> and <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/06/i-felt-burning-sensation-on-my-forehead.html">I felt a burning sensation on my forehead and realised I'd been hit</a></p><p>The photographs featured in this post were provided by, and are used with the permission of Kimleng Sang</p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-6462062164540051502023-07-20T08:52:00.004+01:002023-07-20T10:12:28.215+01:00Beside the Buriganga<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6stBCRgPdYwNbpokpAif3TpoYnZx0b1d7I290ulnLwhcGy0KIcbrBhIASjHG8PFLCDp-QsuXYcQf9FtStqe0NN6-JzNLaXL2mRy6Ues1TkFRx2Hc1VqVLW8g1Cr-_h21IvJyDsYetH1j8-g_L1mIaZYWe69dCDZhl4kU2n0-5CQm4XqJwQJ_ltNKpNj0/s2098/C2ABB8AE-6871-49F6-8EA2-F7E4AA16586A_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1575" data-original-width="2098" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6stBCRgPdYwNbpokpAif3TpoYnZx0b1d7I290ulnLwhcGy0KIcbrBhIASjHG8PFLCDp-QsuXYcQf9FtStqe0NN6-JzNLaXL2mRy6Ues1TkFRx2Hc1VqVLW8g1Cr-_h21IvJyDsYetH1j8-g_L1mIaZYWe69dCDZhl4kU2n0-5CQm4XqJwQJ_ltNKpNj0/w400-h300/C2ABB8AE-6871-49F6-8EA2-F7E4AA16586A_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">"Look over there on the other side of the river," said Mukal. "I grew up in a small house behind that tall blue building and my school was near the other, smaller yellow building you can see just a short distance away. After school and at weekends we would play in a small park nearby and sometimes swim in the river. The park is gone now. It's become a rubbish dump. The water wasn't filthy then and it didn't smell. People still drank from it. In the watermelon season we would swim out to the boats bringing fruit from Barisal. The workers would sometimes give us a watermelon which we'd take ashore and eat immediately". </p><p style="text-align: justify;">"How long ago was this?" I asked. "About twenty years" he replied. "The streets were not filled with rubbish, and I don't remember this amount of dust. It was a good place to live but it's all lost now."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As we walked along the riverbank, we waded through discarded household items, rotting vegetables from the market and other detritus. We passed a small boy, perhaps eight years old, maybe less. He was collecting plastic items from the garbage to take for recycling in return for a few taka*. He was alone.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Mukul had a persistent cough and regularly cleared his throat by spitting out phlegm in the street. "It's the dust," he said. As we turned to go back, he bought a bottle of water to combat the dryness. In the car, he took the water in three gulps and cleared his throat again. He opened the window, spat and threw the empty bottle out. As we pulled away, I noticed the small boy again. He'd seen the bottle hit the ground and was coming to collect it.</p><p>You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-rag-pickers-of-sylhet.html">The rag-pickers of Sylhet</a></p><p>* taka = Bangladeshi currency. 100 taka = approximately £1. In Sylhet, collectors reported receiving 5 taka for one kilo of plastic. </p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-64041526241485441892023-06-30T09:17:00.000+01:002023-06-30T09:17:20.031+01:00"I felt a burning sensation on my forehead and realised I'd been hit" - Stories from Cambodia<p style="text-align: justify;">"I've heard of England but I don't know where it is" said Chai. This 63 years old Buddhist monk had asked me one of the standard questions asked of travellers, "where are you from?" We were sitting in the compound of a monastery in the Cambodian countryside, about an hour's drive from Siem Reap. It was late afternoon and the gentle breeze both lowered the temperature a little and warned of the forthcoming evening rain. Other monks sat smoking in the shade. One of the younger ones crossed the compound to where we were sitting and climbed into a hammock to listen to our conversation.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTfsvwiwJ9aGGgxq9IlR5DpnUOSu7RgmXVy8jNcZ9YpUXpMwdKCHrQsHzru0AX0Ve2-yjS26WDpmg-HMvplIwCJyFmGLc0cPlZxFBsCVzbf_9O0xlov8Ucq5zTllfIdSXiQIbhCghG6gZroKvxbKtpZyYwEKwHNrux20dOnILtMw3hF7lFjjeBvTjz/s4961/a3%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4961" data-original-width="3508" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTfsvwiwJ9aGGgxq9IlR5DpnUOSu7RgmXVy8jNcZ9YpUXpMwdKCHrQsHzru0AX0Ve2-yjS26WDpmg-HMvplIwCJyFmGLc0cPlZxFBsCVzbf_9O0xlov8Ucq5zTllfIdSXiQIbhCghG6gZroKvxbKtpZyYwEKwHNrux20dOnILtMw3hF7lFjjeBvTjz/w452-h640/a3%201.jpg" width="452" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">When we arrived, Chai was cleaning his teeth with a stick. He was extremely slim, gaunt even, his ribs clearly visible under his exposed right shoulder. His shaved head emphasised his lack of weight. His chest, throat and chin were tattooed. I asked him if the dots on his chin had a meaning. "It's for protection" he said. Many Cambodians believe that tattoos can ward off evil spirits or bad luck. We would return to this theme of protection and belief a little later.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I encouraged him to tell me about his life. He said "<span style="text-align: left;">I was born in Battambang province. My family worked on the land. I never went to school. I cannot read or write. When the other monks read scriptures, I just follow them and join in the prayers. I got married when I was 22 and I have three children. I became a monk when I was 58, after my wife died. I couldn't live with my children and so I came here".</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span>We were briefly interrupted by the arrival of an elderly man chewing zucchini seeds. He squatted down beside us, smiled and followed our conversation with curiosity, looking directly at whoever happened to be speaking. He was barefoot, wore only an old pair of trousers and had draped a </span><i>krama</i><span>, the traditional checked Cambodian scarf, over his shoulder. His teeth were stained red, the tell-tale sign of excessive consumption of paan - an Areca nut slaked with lime and wrapped in a betel leaf. It acts as a mild stimulant and is popular across south and south-east Asia. When chewed it releases a bright red liquid that permanently stains the teeth and lips. If mixed with tobacco it can cause cancer of the mouth. Our visitor shared his zucchini seeds with us, then after a few minutes, took a cigarette from Chai and went on his way.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNZZBPA9JuLOEQI_S9gzJPuDzNIGx5cWaN2cGoJycUuepAoWlB7xYkgp5VBAVGDfTsuJPXjElqgu3Tzl5PrgH0CHhdPL-Ndr8zYioY3h6wgqMWF6xRKBa250eU9Q_x3vJknFHEDYO4W912PxNKJib1jrbdU8OnpyxTMoyupMSco_rTF-9eAMjdOofy3cY/s4592/196810B0-A902-431E-81D7-BFA557E370C4_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNZZBPA9JuLOEQI_S9gzJPuDzNIGx5cWaN2cGoJycUuepAoWlB7xYkgp5VBAVGDfTsuJPXjElqgu3Tzl5PrgH0CHhdPL-Ndr8zYioY3h6wgqMWF6xRKBa250eU9Q_x3vJknFHEDYO4W912PxNKJib1jrbdU8OnpyxTMoyupMSco_rTF-9eAMjdOofy3cY/w480-h640/196810B0-A902-431E-81D7-BFA557E370C4_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;">The monk returned to his story. "I joined the army when I was 17 or 18. I wanted to support<a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/Norodom-Sihanouk"> Sihanouk</a> against Lon Nol. I didn't like <a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/Lon-Nol">Lon Nol </a>and I was against the coup. Later on Sihanouk joined forces with the Khmer Rouge and so I ended up fighting alongside their soldiers." I was intrigued by Chai having been drawn into the Khmer Rouge forces, not by choice, but because Sihanouk formed an, admittedly shaky, alliance with the communist group. I asked him to talk about that experience, but he seemed reluctant and I let it go.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">His few sentences about the war hide the complexity of Cambodian history during the 20th century. Sihanouk ruled as Monarch from 1941 until 1955 when he abdicated in order to participate in politics more directly. In the same year, his party won a general election and he became Prime Minister. He then ruled the country under various titles until 1970, when he was deposed by the National Assembly led by Lon Nol. Sihanouk spent the next five years in exile in China and North Korea during which time he began to back the communist insurgent Khmer Rouge, led by Pol Pot. The Khmer Rouge eventually defeated the government forces in 1975 and took control over the country. Then began four years of extreme brutality and repression, causing the deaths of up to two million people. In 1979, the Vietnamese army invaded Cambodia. Pol Pot and his regime were forced out, but his troops continued to fight in remote parts of the country for the next several years.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I asked Chai about the mark between his eyebrows. He said "In 1982 I was involved in the fighting against the Vietnamese, somewhere near the border with Thailand. I felt a burning sensation on my forehead and realised I'd been hit. I was unconscious for almost two days but I didn't die thanks to the blessed scarf I wore and which protected me. I woke up in a Thai hospital where I was looked after by French doctors". He sat in silence for a few minutes and then asked if I wanted to photograph him. I did, and he kindly stood for a series of pictures.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXF6s4g7u7GA32oqYW4SYtPzPhw54bTh4ud2NDZpY9RxRVw2q2-o5cP2Mq6pzkbDWBFl-qHBKVGnkqo3PicJ-elIut0lMqTOEyry_2OaU6-lLdgNeUfnFpyJE8AOZeiNoUUpEw8LxOoBR9GZD6oXK_CUHAr5A9XdFS55yA2oX8XXpKUN3CqGgiuAp0NA/s4592/F4E92042-D5EA-4A82-8BB4-3A9BAEB4DCAB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXF6s4g7u7GA32oqYW4SYtPzPhw54bTh4ud2NDZpY9RxRVw2q2-o5cP2Mq6pzkbDWBFl-qHBKVGnkqo3PicJ-elIut0lMqTOEyry_2OaU6-lLdgNeUfnFpyJE8AOZeiNoUUpEw8LxOoBR9GZD6oXK_CUHAr5A9XdFS55yA2oX8XXpKUN3CqGgiuAp0NA/w480-h640/F4E92042-D5EA-4A82-8BB4-3A9BAEB4DCAB.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;">You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/06/i-used-to-steal-small-amounts-of-rice.html">"I used to steal small amounts of rice just to survive"</a></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Follow me on instagram </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/adrianyekkes/" style="text-align: left;">https://www.instagram.com/adrianyekkes/</a></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-14133695048058028332023-06-05T18:45:00.000+01:002023-06-05T18:45:29.385+01:00"I used to steal small amounts of rice just to survive" - Stories from Cambodia<p style="text-align: justify;">Phnom Penh in May is not hot. It's <i>very</i> hot, and very humid. Residents and visitors alike seek respite from the soupy atmosphere by spending time on the riverside walk, just a few blocks away from some of the city's main streets and the old market known locally as <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnQrBrtJKts">Phsar Chas</a>. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The riverside area has been cleaned up in recent years and now hosts good quality restaurants, bars and hotels. There are also many informal stalls close to the river. I stopped to buy cold water from one of the vendors, a smiling, silver haired woman wearing a brightly patterned blouse. As she handed me the bottle, I asked how she came to be doing this work. Song Yeun said she had been selling goods in the street for many years. I asked her if she lived with her family, and unprompted, she began to tell her story. "I am 68 now but I became a widow at 21" she said. "My husband was an educated man and was killed very soon after the <a href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Khmer-Rouge">Khmer Rouge</a> took over. My own family were farmers. I grew up in a village and managed to convince them that I could work in the fields. So I was spared". </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs2xfSaEAPiYZG-BVhBOYzpbHnO9R9egwZcbopHqAHG2l6NVBka5wRfO6SWP-CthkblISrpOE9KbIW4ouSAT3eOOjczbEi6_BnbubD03icCUMKjSqBj99hpIqLQzV1-96ssBoyG7i8e2K6_O0A0qePajB0EzEvUFEouvsAeqGAcBFVsRYTDwwpyx9r/s4592/1EC95C14-4F0C-4D57-BA86-F6355FF347E0_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs2xfSaEAPiYZG-BVhBOYzpbHnO9R9egwZcbopHqAHG2l6NVBka5wRfO6SWP-CthkblISrpOE9KbIW4ouSAT3eOOjczbEi6_BnbubD03icCUMKjSqBj99hpIqLQzV1-96ssBoyG7i8e2K6_O0A0qePajB0EzEvUFEouvsAeqGAcBFVsRYTDwwpyx9r/w480-h640/1EC95C14-4F0C-4D57-BA86-F6355FF347E0_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">She referred to the Khmer Rouge as "<i>the Angkar</i>" a Khmer language word meaning "organisation" and the term that the <a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/Pol-Pot">Pol Pot</a> led communists used to describe themselves. The regime held power between 1975 and 1979, dismantling civil society and brutalising the population with forced labour and summary executions. Estimates vary but the Khmer Rouge caused the deaths of up to two million people through starvation, exhaustion or outright killing. Educated people were seen as particular enemies and many teachers, professors, doctors, writers and artists were murdered. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Song Yeun's experience of agricultural work was no guarantee of being spared or surviving, but it gave her a better chance than many of those forcibly evacuated from Phnom Penh a few days after the Khmer Rouge entered the city. She continued "There were famous people in the work camps. The singer Pan Ron was there. I tried to help her but they killed her too". Pan Ron (also known as Pen Ran) was a prominent singer and songwriter who had great success in the 1960's and early 1970's. Her music was influenced by western rock and soul styles and some of her lyrics were deemed risqué for their time. As all things western were deemed unacceptable, this made her. particular target. She is remembered in a series of murals outside the <a href="https://space-four-zero.business.site">Space Four Zero</a> gallery in Palace Lane, Phnom Penh. Several of her recordings have been uploaded onto <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhihadHpFIc&list=RDEMz7pc_KVtCZA6jj5VgBn85w&start_radio=1">YouTube.</a> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Song Yeun went on to describe some small acts of resistance. <span style="text-align: left;">"At night they would put spies under our huts to listen to our conversations. You could be executed for any criticism of the regime. We knew they were there and we used to pee through a whole in the floor above where they would be laying. They couldn't say anything or move as they'd give themselves away". She laughed at the memory, but then grew serious and said "We were starving and I used to steal small amounts of rice just to survive. If they'd caught me I wouldn't be alive now." </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The Khmer Rouge regime was ousted in 1979 when Cambodia was invaded by Vietnam, although fighting between various factions continued into the 1990's. After being released from the work camp, Song Yeun somehow made her way back to Phnom Penh, discovered that she had lost most of her family and had to find a way of supporting herself. "Some men asked me to be a prostitute" she said, "But I refused. I knew I could work. These days I have trouble with my legs and people say 'you are old, stop doing this job and just beg' but I won't do that. I want to keep working". </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I bought an extra bottle from her and continued along the promenade. A group of overweight western men in shorts and vests sat drinking outside a bar. On the opposite side of the river, close to the shore, I could see the makeshift homes of the Muslim fishing families. I looked back at Song Yeun. She sat waiting for customers and smiling at passers-by.</p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-49658002666713334992023-04-10T10:40:00.001+01:002023-04-10T11:51:11.708+01:00The Rose Garden Palace<p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-wKg94ekjQgzWF56P80S9mhPFpTP0ehpLlAnXDl8H19IH1ieDlu2ov2W8evDhka7TYBDqBljZU4wYTrnBA2imdpNHk9gkVghju7sL3SqDtC3uNa1lVrbEux1N52axQ8o5x6Y80HMfcwstFR9R9xECZet4X-aWBIU0hYGmX-Uud2gqaPsZhHOeNv4/s4032/7B5ACFAD-5AB0-43A4-B6E2-B412A2F02BA3.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-wKg94ekjQgzWF56P80S9mhPFpTP0ehpLlAnXDl8H19IH1ieDlu2ov2W8evDhka7TYBDqBljZU4wYTrnBA2imdpNHk9gkVghju7sL3SqDtC3uNa1lVrbEux1N52axQ8o5x6Y80HMfcwstFR9R9xECZet4X-aWBIU0hYGmX-Uud2gqaPsZhHOeNv4/w400-h300/7B5ACFAD-5AB0-43A4-B6E2-B412A2F02BA3.heic" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The sign on the gate said, “Closed for renovation”. It gave no date for when the works might be completed. We got out of the car and Dev spoke to a bored looking uniformed security guard for a few minutes while I hung about unable to follow the conversation. The guard then disappeared through a small door set within the gate, emerging five minutes later to say he said he’d spoken to his boss and that we could go in.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The building under renovation was one of Dhaka’s most elegant - the Rose Garden Palace. It is said to be the result of an insult at a<i> jalsa, </i>a grand party, held in the Baldha Garden (today’s Botanical Gardens) in the 1830’s. <b> </b>Narendra Narayan Chaudhury, owner of the garden mocked<b> </b>Hrishikesh Das, another rich Hindu <i>zamindar </i>(landowner) because of his low-caste status. Das was a banker who also dealt in brick and tile manufacturing and traded coal, lime and timber. He was so enraged that he vowed to build a bigger, better palace than Chaudhury’s and his Rose Garden became known for special musical performances attended by the city’s most prominent people. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was unsure in what condition I would find Das’ palace, but once inside the gate I could see that it had been better cared for than many other heritage buildings in Dhaka. The structure is intact and the decorative features on the façade in good condition. Gaining entry to the building was a step too far for the security guard’s boss and so I was unable to view the thirteen apartments spread over two floors. There are (or were) two ballrooms, one at each level. The upper ballroom has what has been described as an “ostentatious dome”. Other internal features include decorative mosaics and coloured skylights, part of a design that combines western and local influences. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"That's not a problem sir. It won't be allowed".</span></b></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The rose garden that gave the palace its original name disappeared long ago, but the original marble statues have survived and there was evidence that some re-planting had taken place. The pond at the end of the garden had been drained, revealing large amounts of rubbish thrown from the high-rise flats on the other side of the wall. The guard said that there were plans to re-instate the pond. I asked him how they would prevent the neighbours from using it as a rubbish dump. “That’s not a problem sir. It won’t be allowed” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Das’ extravagant lifestyle eventually brought him to bankruptcy and the palace was sold. Despite this he is not lost to history. A street in Old Dhaka still bears his name – Hrishikesh Das Road in the Sutrapur neighbourhood. In 1937 the palace passed to Khan Bahadur Kazi Abdur Rashid. Under Das’ ownership the building had primarily been used for entertaining, but Rashid chose to live there. He renamed his new home Rashid Manzil, and these words still appear on the façade. He was a successful businessman with several interests including ownership of a publishing house. He was also involved in politics, eventually becoming a Member of the Pakistani Parliament following Independence and Partition. Rashid campaigned for the political rights of East Pakistanis (today’s Bangladeshis) and many liberals and social democrats spent time at the house discussing this issue. This culminated in June 1949 in the formation of the<a href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Awami-League"> Awami League</a>, a political party opposed to the governing <a href="https://www.britannica.com/place/Pakistan/The-Muslim-League-and-Mohammed-Ali-Jinnah">Muslim League</a> which many Bengalis believed no longer represented their needs.</span><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8l9IfWZ3SK-mEVb8ygW9C9fqOZy9_uJNyairOPpmbEm518rjzyOdUUeHrR1Zj3a8nawJiqfmASjXpX3uFSpaInk8B9rxBTr6iDQRS805D-32Z7d8305inJ8UDxQ8lY_5Zj-_FX9H7tx752rKmph3Not3BeYz8g8cnKW8LhV5MW6YhS7enuXkx0G8i/s4032/F831C44F-66D4-4887-851E-44C5C10CA8B9.heic" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8l9IfWZ3SK-mEVb8ygW9C9fqOZy9_uJNyairOPpmbEm518rjzyOdUUeHrR1Zj3a8nawJiqfmASjXpX3uFSpaInk8B9rxBTr6iDQRS805D-32Z7d8305inJ8UDxQ8lY_5Zj-_FX9H7tx752rKmph3Not3BeYz8g8cnKW8LhV5MW6YhS7enuXkx0G8i/w400-h300/F831C44F-66D4-4887-851E-44C5C10CA8B9.heic" width="400" /></a></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In the 1960’s the palace was leased to the Bengal Motion Picture Studio Ltd. Several historical dramas were filmed there, the first of which was <i>Harano Din</i> (Lost Days), a 1961 film starring Shabnam and <a href="https://en.banglapedia.org/index.php/Mustafa,_Golam">Ghulam Mustafa</a> in the lead roles. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shabnam">Shabnam</a> played the part of Mala, a snake charmer ‘s daughter who receives the unwanted attention of a rich landlord before finally managing to evade him. In 1989 the building was declared a national heritage monument and in 2018 was purchased by the Government. Plans were announced for the palace to become a museum, but the programme was disrupted by Covid, and it is not clear when the work will be complete.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">After half an hour of admiring the exterior of the palace and trying, unsuccessfully to peek through the ground floor windows, the guard started to become uncomfortable. Not wishing to outstay our welcome we left the quiet of the garden to re-enter the noisy Dhaka streets, but not before thanking him in the usual way.</span><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-38197337036494734652023-04-02T20:28:00.001+01:002023-04-09T12:17:49.112+01:00The Hijras of Shyampur<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif; text-align: justify;">It took a little time to find Miss Bobby’s home. It was behind one of Shyampur's main streets, down a narrow, litter strewn alley on a raised platform with several other houses. All of them consisted of a single room constructed from corrugated metal. I later learned that the platform is to protect the homes from the sewage that sometimes comes to the surface during the monsoon.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">Miss Bobby was not feeling well. She sat on her bed, arms folded. Her hennaed hair was swept back and tied into an austere bun. She is the guru or leader of a group of Hijra (third gender) living in Dhaka’s Shyampur neighbourhood. She is also the founder of </span><i style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">Susto Jibon </i><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">– an NGO that focuses on health and human rights for third gender people. She greeted us with an almost imperceptible nod and said “hello” in English. Like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/search/label/Hijra">Munaji </a>in Delhi, she was at first a little cold and understandably suspicious but began to warm when I asked her about the NGO. She said, “I started it in 2000. I could see that the community needed somewhere to go for help and information. We began by offering advice on safe sex and giving out free condoms, lubricant and medicines. Our work has developed over the years and now we also do blood tests, run community workshops and teach craft skills”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN9SNq1w2QhxQYBvD8aqUlD1v4DHF8ZMI2lBAccm9XU5FP5zexgQY7zGLRzsXYnmbg89RERnQxFTsWTlpcBzLaMQaYWPesm-_NN2ptdtQPPd3xlpKocqGpAuxKI4me3t-BGd38uxDEzJqvEheJ6_2um9SjMuHpzaWhhtpkCT6DWLibOgvJqyJFs9a5/s4592/FBC9022E-3299-4CCA-AE9F-807DBAB9720C_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN9SNq1w2QhxQYBvD8aqUlD1v4DHF8ZMI2lBAccm9XU5FP5zexgQY7zGLRzsXYnmbg89RERnQxFTsWTlpcBzLaMQaYWPesm-_NN2ptdtQPPd3xlpKocqGpAuxKI4me3t-BGd38uxDEzJqvEheJ6_2um9SjMuHpzaWhhtpkCT6DWLibOgvJqyJFs9a5/w400-h300/FBC9022E-3299-4CCA-AE9F-807DBAB9720C_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sanjeeda and Meryl (holding her pet dog)</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">I asked her about her own story. She said “I am 60 years old. I joined the community about 40 years ago and have been leading it for the last 15-20 years. I realised I was not like other boys when I was seven or eight. I didn’t need to tell my family as they could see it for themselves. They were not pleased. My father, who was a government worker would become very angry and beat me”. She paused briefly and then continued “I felt very sad and lonely but then I saw a group of Hijra performing in the street, singing and dancing. I wanted to join them. Now I am the leader of that community”.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"> While we were speaking two of her followers came into the room and listened to our conversation which was conducted in a mixture of English, Hindi and Bangla and with the help of a translator. Meryl and Sanjeeda are two of the 3-400 Hijras living in this area. I asked Miss Bobby if the neighbours are accepting of them. She said “We have been here for ten years now, and our neighbours do not trouble us. It wasn’t like this in the past, but today we are accepted and sometimes we are called upon to make peace between couples who are fighting or quarrelling”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">Meryl and Sanjeeda also shared their stories. Sanjeeda is 36 and was born in Shyampur. Like Miss Bobby, she understood that she was different at an early age and although her parents were accepting of her, the neighbours were not. She said, “they would come to our house and say to my father ‘we don’t want your son to play with our children, keep him away’”. She continued, “my father is dead now. My mother lives with me”. She eventually found her way to the Susto Jibon office, and received help and advice.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">I asked about her experiences at school, but she said “I only completed class one. I cannot read or write”. Like the other community members, Sanjeeda collects donations from shops and people in the street and performs and gives blessings at weddings and on the birth of a new baby. I wondered how people respond to their requests for alms. “Some people are kind and give money, but others shout at us and tell us to get work. We sometimes get attention from religious people. They say very bad things to us”. She added “I usually collect as part of a group, so I am not afraid”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRImrLYI177J262wYWQvtPhspIdRIH-MW0THdjdMzZUjLdSFaLs2ZY5xSG81x9DOz776qagMtTxSoGdkTTHcPwm1O-MSVRsmY4t5ZCFOh6aAtwTcEMfRMUqKweVuEIsETBIfOIsbSFcdz_FpvSvAs46WGqBQ2O3dkCXAF5BT_HVDZItlKmORe_L6p/s4592/0F15F3C2-1FF7-4EB4-A191-29D13816DFB3_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRImrLYI177J262wYWQvtPhspIdRIH-MW0THdjdMzZUjLdSFaLs2ZY5xSG81x9DOz776qagMtTxSoGdkTTHcPwm1O-MSVRsmY4t5ZCFOh6aAtwTcEMfRMUqKweVuEIsETBIfOIsbSFcdz_FpvSvAs46WGqBQ2O3dkCXAF5BT_HVDZItlKmORe_L6p/w480-h640/0F15F3C2-1FF7-4EB4-A191-29D13816DFB3_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meryl plays up for the camera</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">Meryl is 42. She is of striking appearance. Her hair was pulled back, emphasising her high cheekbones and she wore a large bindi between her eyebrows. She was born in Old Dhaka, one of ten children in a family where the father had two wives. “My family were very kind to me and wanted me to stay with them, but I realised I had to leave and live with people like me” she said. We stepped outside onto the platform to take some photographs and she immediately began playing up for the camera, spinning around, covering her face with a dupatta and picking up her pet dog and cat saying, “they are my babies”. Sanjeeda looked on, amused, clearly the more reserved of the two.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">Meryl is known for her singing and dancing, and she wanted to perform for us. She prepared by brushing out her long hair and applying fresh make-up, all the time feigning shyness and laughing. She then stepped down from the platform into the narrow alley, picked up the neighbour’s baby and began to sing and dance in time to Sanjeeda’s tabla playing. The neighbour was unperturbed, and the baby seemed to enjoy the attention. At the end of the song, Meryl joined Sanjeeda on the platform and Miss Bobby re-appeared. I left a “tip” with her, and we made our way to another Hijra household.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">Paakhi Islam and her friends were waiting in a room at the top of an unfinished apartment building. The room is accessed through a shared courtyard and a series of staircases lacking bannisters. Chickens roamed freely in the yard below and a woman was cooking on the walkway of one of the upper levels. Paakhi is 33 and has been a member of this group for 12 years. Her story is like that of Meryl and Sanjeeda. She said, “When I was ten, I thought ‘I am a boy, but I behave like a girl’. My parents couldn’t understand me. I know my mother loved me, but my father would beat me. The neighbours were also a problem and would say ‘you are half woman, don’t come around here’”. She eventually found her way to Miss Bobby’s NGO, made friends and received help. Her mother is dead now and her father lives in Spain, but she has no contact with him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">Paakhi is better educated than most of the other group members. She studied until she was 16 and completed class eight. She has also worked in the fashion industry. Her height and looks have attracted attention and she has appeared as a model in a professional fashion show. Bangladesh is one of the world’s major garment producers, but modelling opportunities are limited, and she still collects donations from shopkeepers once a week. She also gives blessings and dances to supplement her income. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVqPGXKFSFQhS0UJwhzrOmlL7XspfARI4lXBpBI9uzPfaLya2YogZ3G6sR-B84WNwHry-4VPOvXogOIwWrVLE4SL4zeYq35HtfS9ABxul0FoaJfV1dsYssCbsAMGZDXPoiu9-UDLLJRhvo3iajITOrnD9AnY4ybjV6xlR5Hio5-uNTfQzWgUJsZvUE/s4592/C889972B-0731-4E07-A34C-76469D33DB9B_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVqPGXKFSFQhS0UJwhzrOmlL7XspfARI4lXBpBI9uzPfaLya2YogZ3G6sR-B84WNwHry-4VPOvXogOIwWrVLE4SL4zeYq35HtfS9ABxul0FoaJfV1dsYssCbsAMGZDXPoiu9-UDLLJRhvo3iajITOrnD9AnY4ybjV6xlR5Hio5-uNTfQzWgUJsZvUE/w480-h640/C889972B-0731-4E07-A34C-76469D33DB9B_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paakhi Islam, model</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">While Paakhi sat on her bed talking to me, several members of her group, cross-legged on the floor, chatted and joked with each other. They were very different from Miss Bobby, Sanjeeda and Meryl. Two of them, perhaps in their twenties, wore male clothing, had short hair and had not shaved for a couple of days. When I asked about this, they explained that they only wear saris when they go collecting. One of the group, Imran (not his real name), had a full beard and a white topi or skullcap, as worn by some religious Muslim men. When I entered the room, he - (I use the word “he” because Imran describes himself as “a man”. If I were able to write this in Bangla, this would not be an issue as the same word is used for “he” and “she” just as it is in Hindi)- gave a nervous laugh and covered the topi with a scarf in the way that some women wear hijab. Palash said “I began feeling different between the ages of eight and ten. My family understood what this meant and that it was not good. There were serious quarrels and I understood I needed to live somewhere else”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">I asked about his religious appearance and if he faces extra difficultires because of his faith. He said “Yes, I am religious. I like to read the Koran. But I know I am different. I used to collect money and dance at weddings with my friends, but I didn’t enjoy it and so instead, I opened a small pharmacy to support myself. I hope God loves me and will help me with my business”. He continued “I opened a second branch of my business in my village, but the religious people give me problems. When I’m in the village I try to behave like a man but sometimes I cannot control it”. He told me that there is a <a href="https://archive.dhakatribune.com/bangladesh/2020/11/06/bangladesh-opens-first-madrasa-for-third-gender-community">madrassa (religious school) in Dhaka that caters for third gender people </a>and takes students of all ages and said, “I haven’t had any trouble from extremists, but there are groups that threaten our community and some people have been killed”.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">Imran has bravely tried to overcome a major problem for the Hijra community – that of earning a living outside of collecting alms, dancing and giving blessings, or working in prostitution. I told the group about a scheme in Karachi, Pakistan where<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/jun/08/pakistan-hijra-transgender-tax-collectors"> Hijras are successfully employed to recover the tax arrears</a> of small businesses. In India there have also been programmes to employ Hijras (and lesbian, gay and transgender people) in the Delhi Metro system. They listened with great interest but then cast doubt on such schemes ever being implemented in Bangladesh.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">I was curious to know if there were any links between Hijras and gay and lesbian people. Homosexuality is illegal in Bangladesh. Although the laws are generally not enforced there is strong social disapproval of same-sex relationships and in recent years, high-profile gay rights campaigners have been<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/apr/25/editor-bangladesh-first-lgbt-magazine-killed-reports-say-roopbaan"> murdered</a>. When I asked about this, the mood changed and all denied any link, explaining that “to be Hijra is legal, but these things are not. It is very dangerous for those people. We are not the same. We don’t know them”.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;">As I left, Paakhi and her friends asked me to visit again. In the courtyard one of her group asked me if I would spend a few minutes talking to a girl who lived on the ground floor of the building. She had not met a foreigner before and was curious about me. I spent a few minutes talking to her and was impressed by her English – she was just twelve but spoke confidently and with good pronunciation before shyness overcame her and she went back into her home.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIxL2oBuuJ2PxZFxCN2Svo_jw6LdJNfKiw-DuzVkZ6yH3AqIW_zA1aIRWG-P41n-Wg2coufuxv0q1uKQNeBTbZZfk4aB7HPDUUw4J0GmnYTPD7yjkx-4jT3t-1iKbLni_2wTS9222m9WVBE8P1b1weVpzW19jFmgwIw5tyD8ChjvstMf4WexYLdxa/s4592/DBBB52C2-F19E-4EA2-91A0-4AD8D15222C8_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIxL2oBuuJ2PxZFxCN2Svo_jw6LdJNfKiw-DuzVkZ6yH3AqIW_zA1aIRWG-P41n-Wg2coufuxv0q1uKQNeBTbZZfk4aB7HPDUUw4J0GmnYTPD7yjkx-4jT3t-1iKbLni_2wTS9222m9WVBE8P1b1weVpzW19jFmgwIw5tyD8ChjvstMf4WexYLdxa/w400-h300/DBBB52C2-F19E-4EA2-91A0-4AD8D15222C8_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Bobby in yellow with Sanjeeda and Meryl</td></tr></tbody></table></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-8329794301146562582023-03-24T09:10:00.001+00:002023-03-24T09:10:05.208+00:00"Even if you are educated it is hard for Biharis to get work" - the Geneva refugee camp in Dhaka<p style="text-align: justify;">"There's no space here. The children have nowhere to play or study and I have to cook in a small space under the stairs"said Shahana. We were in her tiny home in in the Geneva refugee camp in Dhaka. More than 40,000 people live here in the dark, narrow alleys, in homes lacking basic services. Shahana was sitting on the steps that lead from a tiny ground floor room to two others of the same size. None of them have natural light. Fourteen people live in this house, including seven children. Her mother-in-law and her 97 year-old grandmother, Jamila, sat on the bed that fills most of the room, and her husband crouched down, talking to me through the narrow entrance to the floor above.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_rqzZNQdY06Lq1Whl6GrbsRYpyQ-lr5VO0LvhFmOeCawwg6ZnooYMB_yZElZU8_D9Mo7zedUUaO02mJBq0MyHdGFYU6X6DIGsnhjb20iYxuBtOluwiMv1IWkw-oTmvQG-kJJtV1064OC6-RsbCkz18weCW2BmLLpI066b9Bu17MVKo5jpUImLkZfF/s4592/22BC1DDF-C685-48CD-86C1-96B44329522F_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_rqzZNQdY06Lq1Whl6GrbsRYpyQ-lr5VO0LvhFmOeCawwg6ZnooYMB_yZElZU8_D9Mo7zedUUaO02mJBq0MyHdGFYU6X6DIGsnhjb20iYxuBtOluwiMv1IWkw-oTmvQG-kJJtV1064OC6-RsbCkz18weCW2BmLLpI066b9Bu17MVKo5jpUImLkZfF/w480-h640/22BC1DDF-C685-48CD-86C1-96B44329522F_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning in Geneva refugee colony</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">Life in Bangladesh is often lived very publicly. It is not unusual to see people bathing in rivers or brushing their teeth in the street. In Geneva there is no choice and even the most basic human functions are carried out with little or no privacy. There are shared washing facilities and toilet blocks and water has to be queued for twice a day. Most of the residents arrived at the camp in 1971 after the War of Liberation when after a bloody conflict, what is now Bangladesh became independent from Pakistan. Many Bihari Muslims had left India in 1947 during Partition, opting for what was then East Pakistan. Their mother tongue is Urdu and during the war, most of them supported the Pakistani army against the majority Bangla (Bengali) speaking majority. Some took part in atrocities but others were also victims of violence. Figures for the number of casualties on each side vary wildly and are the subject of much dispute. After the war, and into the 1990's, many Biharis managed to leave for Pakistan. This process has now ceased, due in part to sometimes violent opposition from other Pakistani communities.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"The teachers are not friendly. We have to pay them bribes to get the children admitted"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Even in the middle of the day the camp streets are not light and are so narrow that it can be difficult to pass through them. Nazma was playing with her small grandson in one such alley. She was born in the camp and looked older than her 50 years. Before the War of Liberation, her father had a good job working for the railways. Her husband runs a small shop and her son has a car repair business. I asked her about problems with the outside community. She said "We had trouble in the past, but we don't really have those problems anymore". Then she added "But it can be difficult to get the children into outside schools. When they realise we are Bihari, they don't want them". Mohammed Ashore, a barber aged 36, expanded on this. "The teachers are not friendly. We have to pay them bribes to get the children admitted". He lives in a one room home with his wife and two children. They pay 4000 taka a month in rent. According to the <a href="https://worldsalaries.com/average-barber-salary-in-bangladesh/">World Salaries</a> website a barber in Bangladesh can earn between 5,000 and 12,000 a month.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAey4UGDCN88_bRsl21F5AvEwCb-y4d_UUG1_syFPaiL6e-i0MT7GGHJc8R7c4g8iGh4MqMYhSA66F0Jv2345REObHw4cFflC-kp0oZjekqUrxPtLTioZsqy98DRWNXUZeiwNybKNtpnNj7KdEV7YHS6cow2GF4xa-HR9CV0wVcNCaQfJxIu8QXj3a/s4592/F4977B11-BB33-4458-9B60-2C5A9A422E88_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAey4UGDCN88_bRsl21F5AvEwCb-y4d_UUG1_syFPaiL6e-i0MT7GGHJc8R7c4g8iGh4MqMYhSA66F0Jv2345REObHw4cFflC-kp0oZjekqUrxPtLTioZsqy98DRWNXUZeiwNybKNtpnNj7KdEV7YHS6cow2GF4xa-HR9CV0wVcNCaQfJxIu8QXj3a/w480-h640/F4977B11-BB33-4458-9B60-2C5A9A422E88_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nazma and her grandson</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">Nazma understood the importance of education as a way of breaking out of the camp. "I want my grandson to be an engineer" she said "but even if you are educated it is hard for Biharis to get work". Shahana said that her 11 year old daughter wants to be a doctor but that "my 14 year old son is not interested and doesn't want to study". For many years it was difficult for Bihari children to attend state schools. The community did not have citizenship and therefore lacked ID cards and other official documents necessary to secure employment and to access services. This changed in 2008 when the Government acknowledged their right to citizenship, perhaps recognising that the majority of people in the camp were not even born in 1971. Despite this positive step, long-standing suspicion and prejudice is harder to overcome. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The camp has a small bazar running through one of the wider streets. Residents go there to buy fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, rice, paan and other consumables. They also go to visit the barber, get electrical items repaired and to seek advice at the office of the local community organisation. On the day of my visit a man selling rabbits from a wheeled cage was also trying to do business. I told my friend that rabbit was once a poor man's dish in the UK but is now served in expensive restaurants. He assured me that they were being sold as pets and not for consumption. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvt6ZhYoCKI0ZTz0CNrhMQt3M9UtQv978o9CCDbhY0nzCLJQt2-1Srj1Cy4z8p029BEfKk1tEFJc2vzUokYzZepMPe-eN3PugWEm2LYLsOBb8NtjEMg0DIMka6Sa6y5PHaOCY7gqOMKrD3Ku4-IaSpT7jR92ahqmPuKo8ztsaoulwhaCVdpgpjFkA/s4592/1F1C1D8E-021D-4406-8A93-8B1AC88F2FC4_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvt6ZhYoCKI0ZTz0CNrhMQt3M9UtQv978o9CCDbhY0nzCLJQt2-1Srj1Cy4z8p029BEfKk1tEFJc2vzUokYzZepMPe-eN3PugWEm2LYLsOBb8NtjEMg0DIMka6Sa6y5PHaOCY7gqOMKrD3Ku4-IaSpT7jR92ahqmPuKo8ztsaoulwhaCVdpgpjFkA/w400-h300/1F1C1D8E-021D-4406-8A93-8B1AC88F2FC4_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shahana, her mother-in-law and grandmother<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"Yes, I am the malik"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Shabanah is 45 and was born in the colony. She was doing brisk business at her tea shop. I asked her if she was the<i> malik</i> (boss/ owner) and what she did before opening the shop. "Yes, I am the malik" she told me, then added "my husband works here with me" as she turned to look at, and indicate the man preparing snacks on a raised platform behind her. "I used to work in textiles, but I set this shop up three months ago" she added. The shop occupies a narrow hole in the wall with a stall set up on the pathway in front. The monthly rental is 2,500 taka (about £25). I ordered a tea and as I spoke to her in my limited Hindi, a small crowd gathered, curious to know what we were talking about and in some cases, anxious to join in the conversation. She told me "My grandfather's name was Mohammed Miah. He came from Bihar but I don't know exactly where". She agreed with Nazma, Shahana and Mohammed Ashore that the main problems of living in the camp were access to good water, space and facilities for children and the generally poor living conditions. She has two children and I asked about her ambitions for them. "I want them to be able to recite the Koran in full" she said. She agreed to a photograph and covered her head in preparation. When I got up to move on, she refused to accept any payment for the tea, saying I was her guest. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolPifNcMQM-hXPY_uWgo8NeK1075TjCSzy3zjoDSGxSbEAe-Sk_o-K998m_lXsJZ6LHLRhF_5D3acH6I3Jph3ZISTjv671uSq42WctE2ZLVE9SS7xcgM2N9CLH58cDbZjN7kn8XtE6nNaEO-YshLwv4pG8MKbYaykFSFQCVL0S9ilH0l3LT8nlrEl/s4592/3B24CFA5-E200-4B6A-A8C7-DBFED1FBAF05_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolPifNcMQM-hXPY_uWgo8NeK1075TjCSzy3zjoDSGxSbEAe-Sk_o-K998m_lXsJZ6LHLRhF_5D3acH6I3Jph3ZISTjv671uSq42WctE2ZLVE9SS7xcgM2N9CLH58cDbZjN7kn8XtE6nNaEO-YshLwv4pG8MKbYaykFSFQCVL0S9ilH0l3LT8nlrEl/w400-h300/3B24CFA5-E200-4B6A-A8C7-DBFED1FBAF05_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shabanah "I am the malik"</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">Despite Nazma's assertions that relations with the majority community are now better, one exchange I had in the bazar showed that there is still resentment about the events of 1971. A middle-aged man approached me and asked where I am from. When I told him I am British he became very enthusiastic, praising the UK and asking me if I had been following the cricket series between England and Bangladesh. I told him cricket isn't really my sport, but I knew that Bangladesh had done very well and had seen people celebrating their victory over England. His manner changed instantly and raising his voice, he said that he was not happy, didn't want Bangladesh to win, hated the camp and that I should go to the community association to hear the truth about 1971. Then he stopped mid-sentence, shook my hand and left.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Many residents of the Geneva camp have spent their whole lives there. Others have lived there for more than 50 years, under what they hoped and expected to be a temporary arrangement. The ongoing problems with lack of space, poor access to water and other services can only cause more resentment and frustration. In the past, there have been occasional clashes with the majority community, including at another camp in <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2014/6/14/clashes-at-bangladesh-refugee-camp-kill-nine">Mirpur</a>, where in 2014 at least nine people were burned to death in their homes during disturbances. Despite this, the angry man I met in the bazar was not typical of the people I spoke to in the camp, all of whom were ambitious for their children and grandchildren and recognised the importance of education in securing a better future for their community. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_ttRlYsYun83-7HMgnW8LZ2HeSe3oLcA5bPSgKz7o63215ClIu26KO9uH6VvoGojBlaNJY3VQp1DUHtVidTxJl0IvpTys4oQ_06HlqxlGOUmqA-yccLwqtCahJznKkLYwBqe3rpUiVXdTevAJDRzurKeNcwFuXm9KaqWKtIycotClcjIq7KtutlT/s4592/2C331173-E313-4A60-9362-262ACC85AB7B_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_ttRlYsYun83-7HMgnW8LZ2HeSe3oLcA5bPSgKz7o63215ClIu26KO9uH6VvoGojBlaNJY3VQp1DUHtVidTxJl0IvpTys4oQ_06HlqxlGOUmqA-yccLwqtCahJznKkLYwBqe3rpUiVXdTevAJDRzurKeNcwFuXm9KaqWKtIycotClcjIq7KtutlT/w400-h300/2C331173-E313-4A60-9362-262ACC85AB7B_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children going to school inside the camp</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2022/12/the-landowner-refused-to-pay-uswe-had.html">"The landowner refused to pay us...we had barely enough to live on" - Delhi's Sri Ram refugee colony</a></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-79671588786052305862023-03-17T10:41:00.002+00:002023-03-17T10:41:47.711+00:00The rag-pickers of Sylhet<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSl9jyYVRGS7IfZtDLL_52uePebM6G5idqdvy_joXsF23uoomJXvAJTn_L7xgYeJyhsYnsmjhDsPhigVF5SMb2GA3JXoGRA-zUbvCD3DmA_RQgFu4Z5a1sTpipDubk2LT3xuHCuYQ7AG_me8GSm1r4M9sMQXTaglumVv7uwVd3PXaGwAEpkFt8SQB/s4592/B4CB16C3-BFF8-462A-ACBB-02B74A38FDB2_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSl9jyYVRGS7IfZtDLL_52uePebM6G5idqdvy_joXsF23uoomJXvAJTn_L7xgYeJyhsYnsmjhDsPhigVF5SMb2GA3JXoGRA-zUbvCD3DmA_RQgFu4Z5a1sTpipDubk2LT3xuHCuYQ7AG_me8GSm1r4M9sMQXTaglumVv7uwVd3PXaGwAEpkFt8SQB/w400-h300/B4CB16C3-BFF8-462A-ACBB-02B74A38FDB2_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">It's the birds that you notice first. They are everywhere, perched on the diggers, sitting amongst the rubbish and circling above the forty or so, mostly women, workers picking through the waste. Several women are at the summit of the dump, looking for plastic and other recyclables. It takes a moment or two to realise that there are other workers further down, surrounded by the rubbish, almost devoured by it. And all the time the birds watch.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">This scene takes place near Sylhet, capital of the Bangladeshi province of the same name. The city has many modern shops, restaurants and hotels but to the rag-pickers, (the generic term applied to those doing this work) it is merely the pace they go to sell items they salvage from the dump. I spoke to Rubi aged 56. She is originally from Moulvibazar, just south of Sylhet and has been here for ten years. I asked her what she did before she began this work. "We were not a rich family" she said. "I had no father and my mother had to do farm work. Then I got married and I was a housewife, but we needed more income to cover the cost of food and accommodation so I came to work here with my husband". Her daughter Fahima also works here. "She's 12 years old" said Rubi, "I'd like to send her to school but who will pay for her books and how will we cover the money she earns that helps to buy food and clothes?" They sell the plastic items they collect to a recycling company in the city. For one kilo of plastic they receive just 5 taka, about five pence. This is substantially less than the amount the rag-pickers I met in <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-rag-pickers-of-jhalawar.html">Rajasthan</a> receive for the same weight. Rubi says that on a good day the family can make 200 taka (£2). One kilo of lower quality rice in Sylhet ranges from 55 to 70 taka. Basmati is definitely off the menu at around 350 per kilo.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimHJCwlZJ6bpiUJ1OHBXRGa7-GXWvNDfSQS_KSgMfQBaj4PTRZ5xFkLu61J4xfS_-7vNqbg4QboDnF5-_5s7hjaBAMKTw_8tlbFNgsmMyV-dctk6oYvrKpXn2C-9WdcOSXSJJ9ZTiQHhfukD9EE9Q59mZ0jfJ0wV7dntiriEWkrBsyQkAY8TDBQtFF/s4592/4CA4A659-06FB-4C90-9E7B-F758AD1842D2_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimHJCwlZJ6bpiUJ1OHBXRGa7-GXWvNDfSQS_KSgMfQBaj4PTRZ5xFkLu61J4xfS_-7vNqbg4QboDnF5-_5s7hjaBAMKTw_8tlbFNgsmMyV-dctk6oYvrKpXn2C-9WdcOSXSJJ9ZTiQHhfukD9EE9Q59mZ0jfJ0wV7dntiriEWkrBsyQkAY8TDBQtFF/w400-h300/4CA4A659-06FB-4C90-9E7B-F758AD1842D2_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnFvUHVbYOUiiEKcujsdzr_UA4Ii2ZfPzwRj4v_zeczVu3ECVP2FHLQJnD5IGowvSJUHdmeqDwxf80A9d75DH2MvIvNxp1TYLk-5etnNP3Q3PXxjsWeQicwpTTl8uE2VYvIvz_jF27YSHoFGVXQSO2mo2Z6oUalcFtAS6jQ6SvIsdjxqAUrdz4tCt/s4592/8F8ED9D9-85B4-4CF7-84DF-CF575E2D138B_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnFvUHVbYOUiiEKcujsdzr_UA4Ii2ZfPzwRj4v_zeczVu3ECVP2FHLQJnD5IGowvSJUHdmeqDwxf80A9d75DH2MvIvNxp1TYLk-5etnNP3Q3PXxjsWeQicwpTTl8uE2VYvIvz_jF27YSHoFGVXQSO2mo2Z6oUalcFtAS6jQ6SvIsdjxqAUrdz4tCt/w400-h300/8F8ED9D9-85B4-4CF7-84DF-CF575E2D138B_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Fahima is not the only child working here. Johir Islam is also 12. He said "I began working here two years ago. I have no father and I need to earn money to help my mother". He only completed first grade at school and is unable to read or write. Johir was working with another boy, also aged 12. We had just begun talking when a truck arrived carrying new garbage. The boys broke off, picked up their plastic sacks and ran towards it, hoping to find the best items before the other workers got there.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Apart from the odd pair of wellingtons. no-one was wearing protective gear. Rubi, who had by now been joined by several of her colleagues, curious to know what we were talking about, claimed never to have been injured at work. She said that she had never had a skin disease from handling the garbage, despite not wearing gloves. She seems anxious to emphasise this and the others nodded in support of her assertion. I had not mentioned specific diseases. Despite Rubi's claim, <a href="https://encyclopedia.pub/entry/25703">a recent report</a> says that as many as 80% of child rag-pickers in Bangladesh have been injured at work, mostly with cuts of different kinds. It also mentions the prevalence of dog and insect bites and respiratory problems from inhaling chemical fumes and airborne dust. Eczema, itching and fungal infection are listed as being widespread amongst this group. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Although Rubi and her colleagues denied having accidents, they went on to list the various hazards of their workplace. These included dogs, "rats as big as cats", needle sticks and occasionally, snakes. I had a close encounter with four dogs when I arrived. They ran towards me growling and showing their teeth before one of the older women chased them away. They retreated to watch from a distance but did not bother me again.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkFRGUPaXsQiazaabzd2n6ivktpv0KxJvQXG5nL3OQ511bTYl6Ci5r7n9H9MdI5Wtwwl7rPd-OFNX9dyXl40n0XhbMd05ZIU9H84y1xMn2uOCC2bAlp_5-VcXqPXXVg40b7YLfJnzgd3skpWznFZm9T0ukfOV8U69haN4W24QntGleAkJSNfnBiYi/s4592/502E8608-F1DD-4BC9-A62C-1574147277A8_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkFRGUPaXsQiazaabzd2n6ivktpv0KxJvQXG5nL3OQ511bTYl6Ci5r7n9H9MdI5Wtwwl7rPd-OFNX9dyXl40n0XhbMd05ZIU9H84y1xMn2uOCC2bAlp_5-VcXqPXXVg40b7YLfJnzgd3skpWznFZm9T0ukfOV8U69haN4W24QntGleAkJSNfnBiYi/w400-h300/502E8608-F1DD-4BC9-A62C-1574147277A8_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">From time to time, the authorities issue statements about banning rag-picking and then go quiet again. But as Rubi asked "what will we do if this happens? How will we survive?". It reminded me of the occasional proposals to end hand-pulled rickshas in Kolkata and the subsequent protests of the ricksha men, worried that they will be unable to find alternative employment. Rubi's final words before returning to work were "I would like the Government to do more to help people like us. We want to educate our children but we also need to feed ourselves".</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As I prepared to leave I saw that the boys had gone into the distance, searching for items away from the main dump. I also noticed Fahima amongst a group of older women workers. She was looking into the distance, perhaps wishing to be somewhere else. But she was in the garbage, picking through the city's waste under a dark, grey sky, with the sickly smell of decay and under the threatening gaze of those birds.</p><p>You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-rag-pickers-of-jhalawar.html">The rag-pickers of Jhalawar</a></p><p>Saunaya Roy's book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mountain-Tales-Municipality-Castaway-Belongings/dp/1788165373/ref=sr_1_1?crid=BJJ0C9FGX5MR&keywords=mountain+tales&qid=1679049116&s=books&sprefix=mountain+tales%2Cstripbooks%2C665&sr=1-1">Mountain Tales</a></i> gives a detailed account of the lives of a community of rag-pickers in Mumbai.</p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-85989715721179069862023-02-28T16:36:00.005+00:002023-04-19T13:40:08.901+01:00Night train to Chittagong<p style="text-align: justify;">The carriage was full and two men were occupying our seats. "Those are our seats" said Dev (my guide) in English, forgetting to switch languages after speaking to me. "Speak in Bangla" spat back the older of the two men, annoyed at having to move. Dev repeated himself in Bangla and reluctantly, very reluctantly they moved. Seats secured, the next challenge was to find somewhere to put the luggage. Just like the train from Kings Cross to Darlington there was insufficient storage space. After much moving of other people's belongings Dev managed to force my suitcase on to the overhead rack. It was some way from our seats and about one third of it hung over the head of those sitting below. I spent the first hour of the journey convinced the full 16kg (according to airline check-in) would come crashing down on their heads before eventually relaxing and then worrying again in case it disappeared if I slept.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We had arrived early at the station and sat in the waiting room where we found one man already sleeping - full-length on the metal seats, smelling of alcohol and grumbling in his sleep. Dev recognised him as one of Sreemangal's misfits, born to a rich family but spending much of his time drunk in the street. He wore trousers that looked a bit like a set of my checked pyjamas, a filthy once-white shirt and a tatty tie. After ten minutes or so he woke up and began trying to charm two very small children, members of a Hindu family waiting for the same train as me. The kids looked a bit scared, edged closer to their mother and pretended to not be there. Giving up, he wished me "good morning" in English and went outside. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The 11pm train from Sreemangal to Chittagong didn't have sleeper accommodation but it boasted a dining car. At least that's what it said on the side of one of the carriages. If it did have one, much of its business was being taken by dozens of vendors who invaded the train at each station selling water, juice, cooked food, crisps (or chips as they insist here), nuts, boiled eggs and other items. Most of the vendors were older teenagers who carried their goods on their heads and ducked past each other as they tried to cover the whole train during the ten to twenty minutes spent in every station. Inevitably there were younger vendors too. One very small boy selling water at 1.30 in the morning can have been no older than ten and possibly less. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">There were also vendors who remained on the train for most of the journey, selling tea and coffee made from a large thermos flask, tea bags or jars of Nescafe. They appeared every 20-30 minutes, calling out "tea coffee tea coffee" until about 4 am by which time most of the passengers were at least pretending to be asleep. I was tempted by the astonishing selection of items on offer and the not displeasing aromas, but having just recovered from a bout of food poisoning decided it was best to resist. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The seats have been designed to ensure maximum discomfort</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I find it hard to sleep on trains and flights and I didn't expect to sleep on the eight hours journey to Chittagong. My expectations were fulfilled. The seats are designed to ensure maximum discomfort. They are angled - too sharp to be able to recline and too far back to be able to sit upright. They are not adjustable. I tried various positions, including resting my head on the drop down table on the back of the chair in front, but again the angle of the seat made it impossible. I took my shoes off to feel a bit more cosy (and because my mam always says your feet swell at night if you keep your shoes on - I'm more like her than I care to admit) - and then I put them back on. I put them on again because I couldn't put my sock clad feet on the ground without stepping in detritus including discarded pieces of food, tissues, a comb and some cigarette ends. There were also several plastic bottles that rolled underneath my seat when the train hit a particular speed. The latter explained the presence of a young woman rag-picker on the middle part of the journey. It didn't explain the presence of two pairs of Hijra who got on at different stations to collect "donations". </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Hijra is the name given to the various third-gender communities found in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Nepal. Traditionally they have earned a living from giving "blessings" to newborn babies or at weddings, often demanding huge sums. They can be seen in the street soliciting money from passers-by or from the occupants of stationary vehicles. People generally give them a small amount of money in order to avoid any unpleasantness. If refused or otherwise upset they can sometimes become abusive and occasionally threatening. The first pair were good natured and received small notes from many the passengers. I usually "donate" and they were very happy with my 50 thaka, (about 50 pence) even providing me with change from a 100 thaka note and giving me a blessing which consisted of tapping me on the shoulder twice. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"Na? Na? What is this na?"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">When the second pair got on, they had a harder time as people didn't wish to give again. This led to some sharp exchanges, culminating in one with one of a group of inebriated young me sitting behind us. He refused to give, offering a short "na" (meaning no) when asked. "Na? Na? What is this na?" asked the very offended taller of the pair, with her teased back hair and heavy make-up. He continued to refuse and things quickly deteriorated, him suggesting she take part in certain sexual practises and her alleging that his wife entertained other "husbands" when he wasn't there. The rest of the exchange escaped me, but it went on for a few minutes until the Hijra, satisfied she'd had her say went off to the next carriage.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Around 4am things quietened down a lot, though there were still occasional murmurings from behind. I dropped off shortly afterwards but woke at 5.45 just as the light began creeping through the window. An hour later we pulled into Chittagong and my fellow passengers alighted in a surprisingly orderly fashion. Dev and I agreed to wait until last so as to avoid struggling through the carriage to recover my suitcase which was still there and still partially hanging over the heads of the people sitting below. At about one, he'd put his cap on, taken out one of those neck-rest things and a blindfold that people use on flights and gone to sleep. Or at least I thought he had. As we wheeled our luggage along the platform I asked if he'd slept much. "No. Not at all" he said. "I heard everything all night". "Oh" I said, as while avoiding the touts and taxi drivers, we stepped out of the station and into the Chittagong traffic. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8BHRA8z8g-8-noGzeayKuEHmvmiR6RYQHf_voDhj6hsU4hUVYa-Q2W_9DOmt2auJx2U0o-dzyF2IAULbQu2YxQ1h3GQBWwroXwy9AQBBM5G4YGzmACKKYaP7AhGxdq_XMKWHecOaGo9n197pVSC7pvoqALOX3XxLMGWVZuKFcdB0EjkR3u2Vzl3f/s1722/A781729B-39C0-40AF-8081-B37B46BC7B96_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="969" data-original-width="1722" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8BHRA8z8g-8-noGzeayKuEHmvmiR6RYQHf_voDhj6hsU4hUVYa-Q2W_9DOmt2auJx2U0o-dzyF2IAULbQu2YxQ1h3GQBWwroXwy9AQBBM5G4YGzmACKKYaP7AhGxdq_XMKWHecOaGo9n197pVSC7pvoqALOX3XxLMGWVZuKFcdB0EjkR3u2Vzl3f/w400-h225/A781729B-39C0-40AF-8081-B37B46BC7B96_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-24790201379842210622023-01-31T19:35:00.001+00:002023-01-31T19:35:31.465+00:00"What have you brought me?" - an encounter with the Bhand in Rajasthan<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Just outside Pachewar in Rajasthan we came across an encampment. As we approached, we saw that a ceremony was taking place. I was unsure about whether we should enter, but an elderly woman signalled to a teenager and chairs were brought for us. The ceremony continued. A young, shirtless man lay in the centre of the gathering with a family member, acting as a priest, speaking over him. An elderly man sat at the side of the gathering, wrapped in a blanket, shivering. The young man, trance-like, made responses to the priest before convulsing and appearing to lose consciousness. Then, the priest covered his face with a cloth, and he quickly recovered, got up and moved away from the group. The shivering man put down his blanket, apparently cured of whatever ailed him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzsHQUx2Y4Fi0to0B9J52E_L2NpJQ0DiCtR8291bnhkuqvLi3Zd4HDh8QFwKOpryZ7mtrbM30MMzbgyDbmqY3kYx1gSe-Xuri5X2ZMSlrCMTqb5TLj8dfy8gPQCoouNB9_ZAWy8Cdu3BQVMk4XzX1VgtqyO0xi-YxpS2mp-25tK7LCedvd-1JQeor5/s4592/38224EF9-6E32-47A9-A40D-14CDE9D3BF45_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzsHQUx2Y4Fi0to0B9J52E_L2NpJQ0DiCtR8291bnhkuqvLi3Zd4HDh8QFwKOpryZ7mtrbM30MMzbgyDbmqY3kYx1gSe-Xuri5X2ZMSlrCMTqb5TLj8dfy8gPQCoouNB9_ZAWy8Cdu3BQVMk4XzX1VgtqyO0xi-YxpS2mp-25tK7LCedvd-1JQeor5/w400-h300/38224EF9-6E32-47A9-A40D-14CDE9D3BF45_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: center;">"...my eyes and ears are still good, I can see and hear everything..."</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The old woman, the family matriarch, said that they were members of the Bhand tribe. She explained that their settlement was a temporary arrangement while they waited for a permanent location to be identified by the government. She added, “I don’t know how old I am, maybe 80, maybe more, but my eyes and ears are still good, and I can see and hear everything”. She claimed that her group was an extended family encompassing nine generations. Quite a claim, despite the Bhand often marrying young. My friend and interpreter, Vikas, later explained that she may have been counting different branches of the family rather than generations. He also explained the ceremony. The Bhand believe that the spirits of their ancestors, who they call <i>pitrs</i>, can help them in times of trouble. The ceremony was performed to assist the recovery of sick family members and the voice of a particular pitr was being channelled through that of the younger man. These spirits are mentioned in Hindu texts including the <i>Mahabarata</i> and the <i>Devi Bhagavata Purana</i>. Annual homage, or <i>shrad</i>, must be paid to them in order to retain their favour. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">During the days of the Maharajas, the Bhand were story tellers and entertainers. At important gatherings, they would act as acclaimers, announcing the arrival of guests, showering praise upon them and their ancestors. Some would </span><span style="font-family: arial;">maintain family trees for the nobility. They would also perform plays and dance. Although most of their work was for the wealthy, they would occasionally put on shows for the common people during important festivals. Today they perform their traditional work at weddings, large events and festivals.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3zkWM8xWXbzm-rVv92mab0_M1NYbr4b7tquegqcxnTlUJ1ukavHNljRA_-015gMdN8mh6HZcc-AebSTeWK4_q82aBRGt-ONQciWmB1MDxL9PgfyZ5b_WsBzI-K3IdHaJAN9KW3Fpt59nlNRPkdjWF4VNZ1wgcdyt6PLoyl-Y5UvVzlC_C4l5twE8/s4592/52503479-16C0-45CB-9F4E-287DAED1BF52.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3zkWM8xWXbzm-rVv92mab0_M1NYbr4b7tquegqcxnTlUJ1ukavHNljRA_-015gMdN8mh6HZcc-AebSTeWK4_q82aBRGt-ONQciWmB1MDxL9PgfyZ5b_WsBzI-K3IdHaJAN9KW3Fpt59nlNRPkdjWF4VNZ1wgcdyt6PLoyl-Y5UvVzlC_C4l5twE8/w300-h400/52503479-16C0-45CB-9F4E-287DAED1BF52.jpeg" width="300" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: center;">"..the priest...told a story to his perfectly silent audience"</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When the matriarch spoke, all present maintained a respectful silence, but then the man with the blanket began asking us for money. She silenced him with a look and then asked us what we wanted. I explained that I am a writer and was curious about her community. On hearing this, the priest (who was her son), stood up, donned a colourful turban and told a story to his perfectly silent audience. The gist of it was that the emperor Akbar once had his Bhand executed for some argument he had with Birbal – a poet and singer appointed as a Minister. The Bhand’s son took his revenge on Birbal by using his skills in poetry and humour.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Towards the end of the story, a smartly dressed young man arrived and interrupted the priest. He announced himself as Jelabi Lal. He spoke rapidly and made the family laugh. Then he asked us for money. At this the matriarch’s smile changed to a look of anger. She spoke sharply to him in Hindi, telling him to “<i>chup raho</i>” – “shut up”. He did as he was told and stood looking at his very stylish shoes. She then turned to me and said, “what have you brought me”. Thinking on my feet, I handed her the colander I’d purchased from the Gadia Lohar tribe settlement on the other side of the road. She examined it closely, turning it over and over before pronouncing it “good, very good”. It seemed like a good time to leave and we went back to the road, leaving her to admire her new possession.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-rag-pickers-of-jhalawar.html">The rag-pickers of Jhalawar</a></span></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-10358127774682314842023-01-15T14:36:00.003+00:002023-01-16T11:20:33.172+00:00The rag-pickers of Jhalawar<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6o1nTouYiwojJH0Q4onKSMyzmgJXaaU7fcjckQKxI35i0p-gIkzgrNCAOdpmMOykVPZSk_pveJ_RCBnWOAE-pV6rerFttSKQUSEOJrnjdiB673u8p3XkNf6JBE1b4RVQYAEW6A8-OJVF0oLxOnYawjN03QyJd2fqWKkBwODtZZcKviADwz3f2rW_/s4592/C4FB0ADC-540D-474F-A477-48F78813CA33_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6o1nTouYiwojJH0Q4onKSMyzmgJXaaU7fcjckQKxI35i0p-gIkzgrNCAOdpmMOykVPZSk_pveJ_RCBnWOAE-pV6rerFttSKQUSEOJrnjdiB673u8p3XkNf6JBE1b4RVQYAEW6A8-OJVF0oLxOnYawjN03QyJd2fqWKkBwODtZZcKviADwz3f2rW_/w300-h400/C4FB0ADC-540D-474F-A477-48F78813CA33_1_201_a.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Ayaan said he was 14 but he looked younger, perhaps 11 or 12. He was small but clearly well-fed which may have been why he was riding a decrepit looking exercise bike at the side of the road. I asked him where the bike came from. “Over there” he said, pointing to a mountain of plastic items being sorted into different bags by two young women. The women were employed by Ayaan’s father who buys waste goods from collectors, known as rag-pickers, before selling them on to more large-scale dealers for re-cycling. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The business occupies a large site, not far from the centre of Jhalawar, formerly one of Rajasthan's princely states and now a regional centre of more than 65,000 people. The two women sorting the plastic items - Rekha and Parvati - spend their working days bent over, causing them painful back ache. Rekha was a little shy, but Parvati was amused by my presence and laughed directly into the camera after I held it up to request a picture. Ayaan's father also deals in old tyres and two men sat on the floor separating the rubber into strips which would then be used to make different items. I asked Ayaan why he wasn’t at school. “It’s morning,” he said “I go to school in the afternoon. In the mornings I help my father.” The first part of his sentence was in English, the second in Hindi. As I left, I turned back and saw him standing arms folded, looking managerial and keeping an eye on the two women who were busily sorting and bagging. Rekha looked up at him and rolled her eyes before going back to work.</div></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGKQY1R43RnerrTXjQT9j6f8EwukoGgLEUjv1ESA_y4mo43UgXfF7YIOeVlo6mRDAMCcNg17JOk0N-1YGubAhUBzqMN0aCw5RpI5oE1AkjouJ0S_ZXdIQ1YZDbapZOmeEs4sIqtVDCt8ZJXZJSI0xx9HCPDg5767VxhHnydYSVs_5_tjaKO6FtkrX/s4592/CFE68027-C4A5-4CDD-916E-42BE6CBCD91F_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGKQY1R43RnerrTXjQT9j6f8EwukoGgLEUjv1ESA_y4mo43UgXfF7YIOeVlo6mRDAMCcNg17JOk0N-1YGubAhUBzqMN0aCw5RpI5oE1AkjouJ0S_ZXdIQ1YZDbapZOmeEs4sIqtVDCt8ZJXZJSI0xx9HCPDg5767VxhHnydYSVs_5_tjaKO6FtkrX/w300-h400/CFE68027-C4A5-4CDD-916E-42BE6CBCD91F_1_201_a.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parvati</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-uj2e_7wpxDhvbPIuGRHN8CgVGm0bqB9PfqpLWDu4yso8MW4WI15QeuMstVdgL2keP6ifmMloqwr9NgPCGYXTpwrnobtYAuVisF5k8UoLHKu3LzSSYjr3-Vn_71da4ftnPkMe6glC3tf619sTystHlDo9MzpR5CcZ4p27rRGgXzuDE5x_A7D_mWj/s4592/D15A5465-6644-444E-AB2F-CA23A8DD54F4_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-uj2e_7wpxDhvbPIuGRHN8CgVGm0bqB9PfqpLWDu4yso8MW4WI15QeuMstVdgL2keP6ifmMloqwr9NgPCGYXTpwrnobtYAuVisF5k8UoLHKu3LzSSYjr3-Vn_71da4ftnPkMe6glC3tf619sTystHlDo9MzpR5CcZ4p27rRGgXzuDE5x_A7D_mWj/w300-h400/D15A5465-6644-444E-AB2F-CA23A8DD54F4_1_201_a.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">As many as four million Indians, most of them women, are employed in informal waste collection</span></b></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Ayaan’s father buys his stock from collectors who gather discarded items from the street, from businesses and sometimes from garbage dumps. The collectors are widely referred to as "rag pickers". The name is similar to that given to the "rag and bone" men who collected unwanted household items from the streets of my north of England hometown during my childhood. The name came from their calling out "rag and bone" as they came through the streets, often with a pony and cart, alerting people to their presence. Indian rag pickers do not have the luxury of this form of transport and generally carry their finds on their backs.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As many as four million Indians, most of them women, are employed in informal waste collection. Their contribution to public cleansing and recycling is largely overlooked and poorly rewarded. The work is hazardous and exposes the collectors to infection, injury and in extreme cases risk of death. Saumaya Roy’s 2021 book </span><i style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mountain-Tales-Municipality-Castaway-Belongings/dp/1788165365/ref=sr_1_1?crid=31IG8TTD0W0WA&keywords=mountain+tales&qid=1673791600&qu=eyJxc2MiOiIwLjgxIiwicXNhIjoiMC42NyIsInFzcCI6IjEuMDAifQ%3D%3D&sprefix=mountain+tales%2Caps%2C163&sr=8-1">Mountain Tales</a></i><span style="font-family: arial;"> is an in-depth examination of the lives (and loves) of several families who make a living from sorting waste on a municipal rubbish dump in Mumbai. It follows the individual stories of the workers and describes in detail their work and living conditions. A few kilometres outside Jhalawar there is a rag-picker settlement of 35 families. Their makeshift camp is situated outside the city boundary, away from the residential areas and without running water or electricity.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I arrived at the camp at about half past ten in the morning. The residents were curious and perhaps a little suspicious about receiving an unexpected guest, but on seeing the camera began asking to be photographed. Some produced mobile phones and requested “selfies”. The volume of photographic requests soon became overwhelming and there was some jostling. My friend, guide and interpreter Vikas called order, saying that we would photograph them in family groups, one by one. I also took some individual portraits, including of Eeran, a girl of perhaps twelve years. She wore her blonde-brown hair swept back under a headband and looked directly into the camera. Her expression was hard to read a mixture of curiosity and a half, almost sad smile.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWmGDG05nfDjvzCFqVbW7WEZgwZxj6xQyvyOkic7MhVylys33twJ5X6Nm_NCfZ_FILjKIoY-uHP5rW7lwb_WOSh5UMyQGfA2I1mZzPl5cLKh2K2tVZga9DUpYQ3ag0TlCBhOkci7UpxQ4tCCK_GnQRmMbJ6IDZKx8Pm_THamgWI7wowy7Xibv8p1q/s4592/C85C2816-3933-42A1-9909-4424B9B10829_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWmGDG05nfDjvzCFqVbW7WEZgwZxj6xQyvyOkic7MhVylys33twJ5X6Nm_NCfZ_FILjKIoY-uHP5rW7lwb_WOSh5UMyQGfA2I1mZzPl5cLKh2K2tVZga9DUpYQ3ag0TlCBhOkci7UpxQ4tCCK_GnQRmMbJ6IDZKx8Pm_THamgWI7wowy7Xibv8p1q/w400-h300/C85C2816-3933-42A1-9909-4424B9B10829_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rekha</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGQn1Y6a3GUz6khHzDqOxnct4yqkHLBrljo4KecaBM6kG-XyTgIjS-2IX2ZOzG3Lef8RPTNyIf7t_M0j4wzwvdG4yDUznivmD-xpFzjRkTMR60-ud0jC5OrIdvRCkS0gYdtYeGMqAkikOxXEO2HfLDPGtCPaKJQNGrboS2MnxMeOPg-e5SJR8dJlx/s4592/28C56FC7-67F6-4FAF-921E-E434E96E281E_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGQn1Y6a3GUz6khHzDqOxnct4yqkHLBrljo4KecaBM6kG-XyTgIjS-2IX2ZOzG3Lef8RPTNyIf7t_M0j4wzwvdG4yDUznivmD-xpFzjRkTMR60-ud0jC5OrIdvRCkS0gYdtYeGMqAkikOxXEO2HfLDPGtCPaKJQNGrboS2MnxMeOPg-e5SJR8dJlx/w400-h300/28C56FC7-67F6-4FAF-921E-E434E96E281E_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandmother and grandchildren. Pardhi settlement near Jhalawar</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>"Criminal" by birth</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A young man stepped forward and began to explain that this was a settlement of Pardhi people, an Adivasi, or tribal group, originally from Madhya Pradesh. The name Pardhi comes from <i>papardhi</i> the Sanskrit word for hunting, reflecting their former occupation. They were traditionally forest dwellers, skilled in the use of bows and arrows, swords and hunting traps. This way of life was curtailed by the passing of the <i>1971 Wildlife Act</i> which outlawed hunting.It was not the first time that legislation had significant negative impact on the tribe. The <i>1871 Criminal Tribes Act</i> enacted by the British colonial government branded 150 Adivasi groups, including the Pardhi, as “criminal” by birth. This may have been in part, an act of revenge, due to their having participated in the 1857 revolt against colonial rule. The Act not only gave the police sweeping powers against those covered by its stipulations, but also ensured they were stigmatised in Indian society. Although this legislation was overturned after Independence in 1951, the stigma continues today.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">An unintentional impact of the Wildlife Act was to further impoverish the Pardhi. Their traditional way of life forbidden, they now earn a living through agricultural work, the sale of food and handicraft items, and in some cases, begging. Many Pardhi can be found in Mumbai including the women who attempt to sell garlands to tourists outside high end hotels. Others, like the group near Jhalawar work as rag pickers. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>"Sometimes the dealers try to reduce the price to 25 or even 23 rupees per kilo".</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I spent some time with several members of an extended family group. One of the younger men explained that the people here collect plastic and glass bottles which they then sell on to dealers who sort and sell the items on to larger companies. In return for one kilo of plastic they will receive 30 rupees – about 30 pence. I asked him, “how many bottles do you need to make a kilo?” “One hundred” he replied before adding “Sometimes the dealers try to reduce the price to 25 or even 23 rupees per kilo. We can’t do anything about this, there are many rag pickers, and the buyers can pay what they like”. For a single glass bottle, the going rate is three rupees. The Pardhi seem trapped in this way of life. Many have no formal education and although they claimed to be sending their children to school, few complete their studies. The health risks associated with the work are compounded by widespread alcohol abuse amongst the men. Despite the morning hour, many of them smelled of drink. Some had slurred speech or were unsteady on their feet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The excitement about being photographed was widespread but one family stood back. Their home was of slightly higher quality and appeared more robust than those of their neighbours. There were other differences too. It was a family with only one child – a boy of eight or nine years, cleaner and better dressed than the other children – and the father did not smell of alcohol. They lived on the edge of the settlement, as if they had made a deliberate attempt to separate themselves. It was clear that the boy wanted to have his picture taken, and as we left, his father called me over and I photographed the two of them. The mother stood to one side, watching before going back inside their home.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhDAUEVrRa6SS0qZKnNAlURTGoxHbJlpucUrLfumj39iusTDECGJn-XGa7Z1msAda78ugExIm4yjqMOOKR4NAKcIDDCNhnNxSozGY5gFDpheKDzeABY5fsVGCEMAFBPP7wPXf-9P21L1AyxZKOpJsZ9yDKgiaT7RDlwbOvgA9CyD3Ups_ZdwwcOLW/s4592/16B65422-24A9-4E5C-9DAE-02560E801BFA_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhDAUEVrRa6SS0qZKnNAlURTGoxHbJlpucUrLfumj39iusTDECGJn-XGa7Z1msAda78ugExIm4yjqMOOKR4NAKcIDDCNhnNxSozGY5gFDpheKDzeABY5fsVGCEMAFBPP7wPXf-9P21L1AyxZKOpJsZ9yDKgiaT7RDlwbOvgA9CyD3Ups_ZdwwcOLW/w400-h300/16B65422-24A9-4E5C-9DAE-02560E801BFA_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eeran</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: left;"><br /></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-80001671977975998882022-12-21T10:02:00.002+00:002022-12-21T19:45:56.591+00:00"We have three million posters, but we don't really know what we've got" - Baazi and the last Bollywood poster painter<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX72kl-_miUMUcjJc1MUVv5DAJ_J1eQRghWi1rrSK-4T4DohajEFVihYfTp_UZTK2ICxbrOW8Hbv6i9esavTzRQc3C5p9z1n2l00nsm2bGxhKfrsNJUavozsLpkWXRi3b4_O3E1Re0owgj7kQ33tVKp5bdL65PVVGKnb23a82z4WW1vNbOkFDcMJQT/s875/F07ABA74-9348-4118-81C5-6F36BE254C87_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="875" data-original-width="596" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX72kl-_miUMUcjJc1MUVv5DAJ_J1eQRghWi1rrSK-4T4DohajEFVihYfTp_UZTK2ICxbrOW8Hbv6i9esavTzRQc3C5p9z1n2l00nsm2bGxhKfrsNJUavozsLpkWXRi3b4_O3E1Re0owgj7kQ33tVKp5bdL65PVVGKnb23a82z4WW1vNbOkFDcMJQT/w436-h640/F07ABA74-9348-4118-81C5-6F36BE254C87_1_201_a.jpeg" width="436" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b>"We have about three million posters, but we don't really know what we've got"</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I stood in <i>Poster Stuff</i>, a tiny shop in Mumbai's Chor Bazar, trying to decide which of two vintage Bollywood posters to buy, <i>Baazi</i> or<i><a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/search/label/Albela"> Albela</a></i> While I struggled to make my choice, Kaleem, whose grandfather started the business 22 years ago explained that only a tiny proportion of the collection is held in the store. The remainder of it is kept outside the city in Badlapur. I asked him if the shop has a website or a catalogue. "No, he said "We have about three million posters, but we don't really know what we've got". Putting off my decision a little longer, I asked him how his grandfather had managed to acquire so large a collection. He said "He would get to know when a cinema was closing and then ask if they would give him their old posters. Most of them did not appreciate their value and were happy to hand them over. Sometimes he was too late and found that they had already been destroyed".</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Kaleem is extremely knowledgeable about old films, although he said he prefers modern cinema. I ran through my list of 1940's, 1950's and early 1960's movies, and he was able to either locate a poster for me or to tell me that it had been sold or sent for auction. "A lot of our business is with overseas dealers" he explained. "We've even sold some at the big art auction houses in London. We also get approached by dealers and collectors to verify that posters are originals and not copies. The <a href="https://filmsdivision.org/nmic.html">National Museum of Indian Cinema</a> in Mumbai recently asked for our advice". </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Chor Bazar is undergoing major change. Many of the old shops have been demolished and replaced by new structures with residential units above. Some businesses will not reopen when the re-development is complete. I asked Kaleem about the future of the store. He said "If this part of Mutton Street is demolished, we have been promised a new store on the same spot". I hope that promise is kept.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b>"It's the work of Sheikh Rehman, the last of the hand-painted poster artists"</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I made my mind up and chose the poster for Baazi, a Hindi film released in 1951. It was the first crime noir film to be made in India and is acknowledged as a classic of the genre and influenced many films in later years. It was directed by Guru Dutt, who also starred in, wrote, produced and choreographed many classic Hindi films from this period. Baazi, which means "gamble" starred Dev Anand, Geeta Bali of Albela fame, and Kalpna Kartik. It was the second highest grossing Indian film of 1951. At least two other Hindi films, made in 1968 and 1995 bear the same name but tell different stories.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">While I arranged to have the poster delivered to my hotel, Kaleem said "actually this is not a poster, but a painting. It's the work of Sheikh Rehman, the last of the hand-painted poster artists", and pointed to the artist's signature. I had heard of Rehman before, but enamoured with the deep reds, blues and downward brush strokes of his work, I hadn't picked up on his name. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Sheikh Abdul Rehman - better known as S. Rehman - began helping his poster painting father at the age of ten and has continued with this work for more than 50 years. His painting led him to establish friendships with <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0qTPjUkR6I">Mother India</a></i> director Mehboob Khan and Bollywood superstar actor Shashi Kapoor. He also worked with artist MF Husain, one of the founders of the <a href="https://artsandculture.google.com/story/the-bombay-progressives-breaking-new-ground-at-the-dawn-of-india’s-independence-kerala-museum/bwWR2KjgTwIrJQ?hl=en">Bombay Progressive Artists Group</a> who was later forced to leave India following controversy over his depictions of female Hindu deities. A 2015 documentary film, <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2iHFRnQag4">Original Copy</a></i>, showed Rehman at work in his studio right behind the screen at the Alfred Talkies cinema. The German made film showed various aspects of his personality - a bit prickly, fond of robust language but with a good sense of humour.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b>Alfred Talkies was open for business but there was no warm welcome</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Kaleem confirmed that Alfred Talkies still existed and was not too far from Chor Bazar, so with my friend and guide, Ranjana, I made my way to the cinema in Grant Road. This area was once an entertainment hub with many single screen cinemas attracting large audiences for the latest Hindi films. Today few remain and those that do, tend to show re-runs of old movies rather than the latest hits. This part of the city also has a long history of prostitution. As we walked along the road in the early afternoon, many women were on the street looking for customers. SM Edwards, noted in his 1924 book <i>Crime In India, </i>that the Ripon Theatre, the precursor of the Alfred, charged a special rate to prostitute patrons - one rupee. This was four times the amount charged to other women. The writer <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jun/11/saadat-hasan-manto-short-stories-partition-pakistan">Saadat Hasan Manto</a> lived in this neighbourhood before Partition, writing screenplays and working as a columnist for various film magazines. No doubt several of his characters were inspired by the people he met in these streets.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The cinema stands at the end of Grant Road East, and before we reached it, we passed New Roshan Talkies, another single screen cinema. It is now closed, and at least externally, in poor shape. Despite this, it was easy to imagine its former splendour as the brightly coloured detailing and Art Deco influenced metalwork of the ticket windows has survived. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Alfred Talkies was open for business, but there was no warm welcome. Just inside the lobby, three grim faced men, arms folded, sat on wooden chairs and told us we couldn't come in, take any pictures or make any films. This was backed up by a series of "don't..." notices displayed on the walls of the once very grand lobby. Stained glass, wooden panelling and several less off-putting vintage notices have survived, but unfortunately I have no photographic record of them. Ranjana explained we were interested in the story of the cinema and would like to have a peep inside the main hall. Despite her best efforts she received a firm "no". She tried again with the ticket sellers, one of whom eventually gave in and allowed us to look into the hall from the doorway, but once again warned us against photography and filming. Inside, the all male audience were watching the 1989 film <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ram_Lakhan">Ram Lakhan</a></i>. Tickets are priced at just 20 rupees, about 20p. Unfortunately this was reflected in the poor print and the appalling sound quality. All of the house lights were on, and the restless audience called repeatedly for them to be turned off, which they eventually were. We asked about seeing the balcony but were told it was closed because there were not enough customers.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We were soon bustled outside again and crossed the road to get a better view of the exterior. The cinema was built in 1880, originally as the Ripon Theatre, and the old name can still be seen, engraved on the windows at the upper level. It was one of the first theatres in the city to put on plays in local languages. In the 1930's, in line with changing tastes, it was modified to become a cinema and the name was changed to Alfred Talkies. It is now one of very few single screen cinemas in the city. Many of the older buildings on the opposite side of the road have been flattened and replaced with large, often ugly, "developments" that seem to threaten, rather than to attract. How long will it be before the art works from the Alfred become part of Poster Stuff's collection? </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b>Alfred Talkies</b> - 174-180, Pathe Bapurao Marg, Grant Road East, Khetwadi, Girgaon, Mumbai.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b>Poster Stuff </b>- 113 Mutton Street, below Qutbi Masjid, Ajmer, Kumbharwada, Mumbai</p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-85781483711649334742022-12-09T20:59:00.000+00:002022-12-09T20:59:33.695+00:00"The landowner refused to pay us...we had barely enough to live on" - Delhi's Sri Ram refugee colony<p style="text-align: justify;">The narrow alleys of Majnu Ka Tila in Delhi are full of businesses catering to the long established Tibetan refugee community. Both local and foreign tourists come to visit the Buddhist monastery and to eat in the many Tibetan, Korean and north-east Indian restaurants. A short distance from here, there is a group of less-well known refugees. The Sri Ram colony is home to Hindus who fled Pakistan, not during Partition, but in 2010.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I came upon the colony by chance when visiting a neighbouring <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akhara">Akhada</a>, where traditional Indian wrestling is practised. As I left I noticed an alley leading into a cluster of buildings resembling a village. I went in and although the residents were at first surprised to see a foreigner, they were welcoming and community leader Rajesh Solanki was sent for. He looked to be in early middle-age and wore the brown kurtha-pyjama typical of rural Sindh in Pakistan. He explained that the people living here had come on a religious pilgrimage in 2010, and then refused to leave. They cited discrimination and religious intolerance in Pakistan, as their reasons for wanting to remain in India, and staged demonstrations at Delhi's Jantar Mantar to draw attention to their plight. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVoSZXlPAWoiOYIn8CIkFZfqyeXaWc2NLZ1QNnJJpvdguIJPZdORrtnYNhAml5m4BdBY5i76CdrFO8ZA-aBZnqHi82Jr943P79bln9BjvGfESfH82HH2KQlsrmip0T4Zw2nsybJ5kI5CunJ7wXtCOj-WE6QPLS5WaNkNX6Bh-YBiy54hsyEWUXMHP/s4592/47331264-B970-424A-A7E1-8F0A47370F57_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVoSZXlPAWoiOYIn8CIkFZfqyeXaWc2NLZ1QNnJJpvdguIJPZdORrtnYNhAml5m4BdBY5i76CdrFO8ZA-aBZnqHi82Jr943P79bln9BjvGfESfH82HH2KQlsrmip0T4Zw2nsybJ5kI5CunJ7wXtCOj-WE6QPLS5WaNkNX6Bh-YBiy54hsyEWUXMHP/w400-h300/47331264-B970-424A-A7E1-8F0A47370F57_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">The Colony is a hotchpotch of solid, brick buildings owned by better-off families and less permanent structures consisting of metal sheets, tarpaulins and twigs. All of the homes have been built by the residents themselves. Several are unfinished, as many residents lack the resources to complete them. Despite this, there is evidence of ongoing construction and a group of women were laying down a courtyard outside their house. Most homes lack electricity or running water and toilet provision consists of communal male and female blocks. As the colony stands on the floodplain of the Yamuna River, there is a risk of flooding during the monsoon. There are also potential health hazards from mosquitos and from sewage regularly pumped into the river. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Some of the more entrepreneurial residents have established small shops selling snacks and sweets. Some of the houses have small shrines attached to them. These are referred to by the residents as "temples". There are displays of religious piety throughout the colony. The Hindu greeting "Ram Ram" is given in preference to the more secular "namaste" and symbols and pictures of various deities are displayed on the exterior of the buildings. Even the name of the colony is that of Ram Ji, the central character of the Hindu epic, <i><a href="https://asiasociety.org/education/ramayana">The Ramayana.</a> </i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzcBvr7DUPLb6ttGXcHl6rWVUT8U6BkxeuC014R5tNb7IeVesVGBWJhISkHfabdbm4dNpntmxn5TOUvILvUsOxC01zsEz2VaLfiBnEql5bDPpIGDs9IUZvLYoQUZOxF2dmYU9rklco6enmNEv5hvnzO8_OOUeQ8WJMgzyMuqw02BAhFAT4QP1rJcO/s4592/21D1B545-5E62-448B-A0F1-DCDAF7B594B2_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzcBvr7DUPLb6ttGXcHl6rWVUT8U6BkxeuC014R5tNb7IeVesVGBWJhISkHfabdbm4dNpntmxn5TOUvILvUsOxC01zsEz2VaLfiBnEql5bDPpIGDs9IUZvLYoQUZOxF2dmYU9rklco6enmNEv5hvnzO8_OOUeQ8WJMgzyMuqw02BAhFAT4QP1rJcO/w400-h300/21D1B545-5E62-448B-A0F1-DCDAF7B594B2_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chander's Hanuman temple</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>"The landowner refused to pay us the agreed amount. We had barely enough to live on"</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Badal is 39 and from the Kotri district of Sindh. Solanki asked him to show me around and answer my questions. I asked what had caused him to leave the place where he was born and to remain in India. He said" I owned eight acres of land in Pakistan. It was not enough to support my family and I entered into agreements with a larger landowner. The contract said that we would share the expenses of seeds, fertiliser and other items 50/50 with the landlord, and that we would also share any profits in the same way. We paid our share of expenses but when there was a good profit, he refused to pay us. We had barely enough to live on". Badal also lost his eight acres of land when they were seized by local gangsters. "There were too many of them for us to resist" he said "they were armed and had friends amongst the politicians. No-one would help us".</p><p style="text-align: justify;">He used to sell telephone covers and other accessories, but now has insufficient funds to buy stock. He works occasionally as a day labourer but this pays little and is unreliable. His home is in very poor condition - only partially built - and all eight residents sleep in one small room. The situation was made worse by the death of one of his five children at the age of 20, leaving behind a widow and a small child, now being cared for by Badal and his wife. Despite this, he says he feels safer in India and is happier there.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4zWInLObkQhmc18EfhI-q_HtOiLPSnj1NM7ECN0jBk0eYbbiGZ7dYdTzOZitaTZiRGx2lkxg3RdczaTymqrFQ7T0HdKgppih1HBCMRjJxJZZGhYOnkLIly11eUNsdl-qoD1PcQ3JoQiDKIomDxlGLr-1T3QAa06QV0bI3dVK2aqXQRoJE5Gd1I9s/s4592/E79D8D92-D823-4401-9B0D-B4BC6E33129C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX4zWInLObkQhmc18EfhI-q_HtOiLPSnj1NM7ECN0jBk0eYbbiGZ7dYdTzOZitaTZiRGx2lkxg3RdczaTymqrFQ7T0HdKgppih1HBCMRjJxJZZGhYOnkLIly11eUNsdl-qoD1PcQ3JoQiDKIomDxlGLr-1T3QAa06QV0bI3dVK2aqXQRoJE5Gd1I9s/w300-h400/E79D8D92-D823-4401-9B0D-B4BC6E33129C.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Badal</td></tr></tbody></table><p><i>"There was no violence, no threats, but the pressure to convert was always there, every day, in every conversation"</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">One of Badal's neighbours, Chander, also from Kotri district, tells a similar story. He owned no land in Pakistan and worked as an agricultural labourer to support his family. Again, the landlord refused to pay the contract share and Chander felt he had nowhere to turn for help. The colony's overt religiosity made me curious about faith-based discrimination, or pressure to convert in Pakistan. Chander said, "There was no violence, no threats, but the pressure to convert was always there, every day, in every conversation. Even in the market. People we thought of as friends would say to us 'why don't you convert? Things would be better for you' ". Chander also has problems in India. He showed me the small Hanuman temple he built at the side of his house. It is collapsing as the land subsides, possibly caused by the sewage being pumped into the Jamuna River just a few metres from his home. "I can't afford to repair this and I'm worried the house will collapse too" he said. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Two of the women residents told similar stories about pressure to convert. Janaki sat playing with two of her grand-children whilst she prepared a chick-pea dish for their lunch. "They would always talk about converting" she said. Janaki lives in one of the better quality houses. She still has family in Pakistan. Megha, perhaps in her sixties, stood outside her house, cuddling one of her granddaughters. She has ten children of her own - five in India and five in her home town, Mirfazal Pakistan. She was worried about her daughter-in-law. "She had an accident six months ago and is still in ICU in the government hospital. They won't let me see her. I want to give her soup and nurse her back to health" she said. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGaFCMVdHg-zAgc-o2Cmfip75KxcNpI94aYwJoa_aUv_eOky5pc4r1hSeXNtuJzADJ4JzU8Yz3qaAtOPUj6TIxgo_w8LGldlGw7Z7sP37H5xOf75g5jV00bU24HYc6eT3S7uxkjWcY0EbBEK7LB4Hm401anF3F3cb6Cv_9Yt7lQRT5Kme49y74Cfq/s4592/B6FAAAF8-63B8-4F65-BB9F-979E69FD51F3_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGaFCMVdHg-zAgc-o2Cmfip75KxcNpI94aYwJoa_aUv_eOky5pc4r1hSeXNtuJzADJ4JzU8Yz3qaAtOPUj6TIxgo_w8LGldlGw7Z7sP37H5xOf75g5jV00bU24HYc6eT3S7uxkjWcY0EbBEK7LB4Hm401anF3F3cb6Cv_9Yt7lQRT5Kme49y74Cfq/w400-h300/B6FAAAF8-63B8-4F65-BB9F-979E69FD51F3_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Janaki and her grand-children<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYrLLKR6exvs0bFgnWR99dxHwxnONv2qFRQG3l-QBBn9dPnq8GPOMBoIDRBxhpDjqLxHAer8hMR05XUzR2V3uRUbVYiRGkyIWNXK5JAdi9ux-qe1SrxQkD72rnBnsQXqcV9lJVrZe5rFa9O7FniM-KwQNC35tHPP0pqc6cS6yKalg7INwxAn-qlO8z/s4592/152BFF1D-5593-48B9-BADF-8B880BBA8201.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYrLLKR6exvs0bFgnWR99dxHwxnONv2qFRQG3l-QBBn9dPnq8GPOMBoIDRBxhpDjqLxHAer8hMR05XUzR2V3uRUbVYiRGkyIWNXK5JAdi9ux-qe1SrxQkD72rnBnsQXqcV9lJVrZe5rFa9O7FniM-KwQNC35tHPP0pqc6cS6yKalg7INwxAn-qlO8z/w400-h300/152BFF1D-5593-48B9-BADF-8B880BBA8201.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Megha and one of her ten grand-children</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>"...my assistant often has to go from door to door and bring the children here herself"</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Most of the children go to school outside, but there is some teaching goes on inside the colony. A single, windowless room is used for pre-school learning. When I visited, the children were enjoying snacks. I'd seen food provided in a village school in West Bengal, as a way of encouraging attendance. I asked the teacher if this was the case here. "Yes" she said "It's to encourage them to come. Not all of the parents are committed to pre-school learning, and my assistant often has to go from door to door and bring the children here herself". Resources appeared limited but she spoke enthusiastically and was clearly committed to delivering the best for the children. The teacher's and assistant's salaries are paid from Central Government funds allocated to supporting the welfare of women and children.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The older children have access to additional learning in a community hall built with funds from overseas donations. Teaching is provided by NGOs and volunteer university students. The room was clean and tidy. Charts with tricky algebraic formulations and maps of India and the world were displayed on the walls. There was also a row of sewing machines, provided by a charitable organisation and used for teaching tailoring skills. Although not a formal school, many of the children come here for tuition. I asked some of them what their favourite lessons were. Jalram, aged 11 said, in English, "I like mathematics and Hindi". Others gave maths as their favourite subject while one said "English". Some of them gathered around the maps, locating different cities and countries. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">More than a decade after their arrival, the situation of the Sri Ram residents remains uncertain. Solanki said "We are hopeful that the new law to assist victims of religious persecution will help us". He refers to the <i>2019 Citizenship (Amendment) Act</i> that provided routes to Indian Citizenship for persecuted religious minorities from Afghanistan, Bangladesh and Pakistan. Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, Christians and Parsis who arrived in India before December 2014 are eligible for consideration under the Act. Muslims are not included in its provisions. The application of a religious test resulted in sometimes violent demonstrations in various parts of India.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Despite their troubles, many of the people I met spoke about feeling happier in India than they had in Pakistan, and no-one expressed regret at having left. There may yet be a brighter future for Jalram, his friends and their families.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0weqCrVv1RDx27B0q4v_MHlYLMDLK38vqW0A0QOpbjuLhvWrBSg9SMEhRtjKHnncQTC3BY4ZSM0wx9q9RQ7KC5QBC2iGnkKmFAldpsciYGOGKPcsmsLNKl5BG2MlQv1TDNZuxl7yrOm6LFFLvMK_5tEt3HAj18CWiwLR6Vv6Y4amUjVR9yIuNWYfT/s4592/EBD5009D-5CC2-4603-8ABF-6C39008B34BC_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0weqCrVv1RDx27B0q4v_MHlYLMDLK38vqW0A0QOpbjuLhvWrBSg9SMEhRtjKHnncQTC3BY4ZSM0wx9q9RQ7KC5QBC2iGnkKmFAldpsciYGOGKPcsmsLNKl5BG2MlQv1TDNZuxl7yrOm6LFFLvMK_5tEt3HAj18CWiwLR6Vv6Y4amUjVR9yIuNWYfT/w400-h300/EBD5009D-5CC2-4603-8ABF-6C39008B34BC_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jalram (hiding) and friends<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_--yvnnf1AGQ_egSwPs5T1z6KF8MYPgc-c5RcfYr3PZjkGvdWXzVfgw3JL527Cd3h31Nv2EodLgC-jA4vGg3aBvNglwiV8uRGy1cE4yxx2CRm7GzDrfmlMOymQI6ahV11YlH4S_eTLdQM3DIU5Q3rYRq_hrQH1Or8oyLq6x7Vm-I1g_I3KqsZr4K/s4592/50B921CC-A130-45FD-8B2D-00C83D52EC98_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_--yvnnf1AGQ_egSwPs5T1z6KF8MYPgc-c5RcfYr3PZjkGvdWXzVfgw3JL527Cd3h31Nv2EodLgC-jA4vGg3aBvNglwiV8uRGy1cE4yxx2CRm7GzDrfmlMOymQI6ahV11YlH4S_eTLdQM3DIU5Q3rYRq_hrQH1Or8oyLq6x7Vm-I1g_I3KqsZr4K/w400-h300/50B921CC-A130-45FD-8B2D-00C83D52EC98_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where did my dog go?<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_Wn9XEdvM-p4vF44RQNGPM16UlK7jzP-UnM9t_ZCB9KDgv81hY7h5XIfFB-6XHRYkOGRa-ZURZZiUdNFpbgDGs2gtE1y3lRUwzM6KEasVir_dXDO2rSZubzUvbHsbevXDjSpAEfG3kfhooKLH8XJypfDXFSuK351xsrUjQJaPgKIGpAWp5Pqft7Q/s4592/3313A2D7-DF34-41DB-B437-FEB38A4A555A_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_Wn9XEdvM-p4vF44RQNGPM16UlK7jzP-UnM9t_ZCB9KDgv81hY7h5XIfFB-6XHRYkOGRa-ZURZZiUdNFpbgDGs2gtE1y3lRUwzM6KEasVir_dXDO2rSZubzUvbHsbevXDjSpAEfG3kfhooKLH8XJypfDXFSuK351xsrUjQJaPgKIGpAWp5Pqft7Q/w300-h400/3313A2D7-DF34-41DB-B437-FEB38A4A555A_1_201_a.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the residents have opened small shops</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-10939651395130133912022-08-18T13:54:00.000+01:002022-08-18T13:54:29.674+01:00Kaunas Modernism<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><b>Kaunas in Lithuania has been designated <a href="https://kaunas2022.eu/en/">European Capital of Culture</a> for 2022, together with Esch-sur-Alzette in Luxembourg and Novi Sad in Serbia. </b></span><b>This post which draws on my earlier articles about Kaunas' extensive collection of modernist architecture and appears in the current edition of <i>Spirit of Progress</i> - the magazine of the <a href="https://www.artdeco.org.au">Art Deco and Modernism Society of Australia</a>.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Until the 1920’s Kaunas was a relatively small city, characterised by wooden houses and baroque churches. A construction boom during the 1920’s and 1930’s changed this and left many new civic and commercial buildings as well as stylish apartment blocks. This was partly due to the city acting as temporary capital for Lithuania from 1918-1940. Today’s capital, Vilnius, was under Polish rule and Kaunas needed to acquire the trappings of a national capital. Unfortunately, this new found confidence and period of growth was not to last as the 1940 Soviet invasion, and then the German occupation of 1941-45, preceded incorporation into the Soviet Union. Independence was not regained until 1990. In the intervening period, many outstanding buildings fell into disrepair, were significantly altered, or even demolished. Despite this, Kaunas has one of the largest collections of modernist buildings in any European city. I first became aware of this about ten years ago and managed to visit the city in 2017.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh947DYjbFhzwibrBukLCzkggPcqnFQkD_m5Pv9rFrH9J3_bcoqtrkIfU2NvOLkB8riLtVEaQQebDrIooaxdKZ31-KA0DZ9MFfOsqV7Ioq8mIBcK4d25jaSjbLIHSMNTYeh3Q6ORi0wKADhPK77khwY7CWz0tKfa5MlXc83wHTihfXUw2ItOj9-WUT/s5472/BE733DA1-C74C-4552-8C18-62C1458A1DE3_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh947DYjbFhzwibrBukLCzkggPcqnFQkD_m5Pv9rFrH9J3_bcoqtrkIfU2NvOLkB8riLtVEaQQebDrIooaxdKZ31-KA0DZ9MFfOsqV7Ioq8mIBcK4d25jaSjbLIHSMNTYeh3Q6ORi0wKADhPK77khwY7CWz0tKfa5MlXc83wHTihfXUw2ItOj9-WUT/w400-h266/BE733DA1-C74C-4552-8C18-62C1458A1DE3_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Former Post Office, Laisvés 102</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Although examples of modernist architecture can be found all over Kaunas, several of them cluster on Laisvės, a tree-lined avenue pedestrianised during the Soviet period and today a place where people come to shop, stroll, sit outside the many cafes or ride along the green coloured cycle path. The former Central Post Office at Laisvės 102, was built in 1931. Feliksas Vizbaras’ design combined elements of folk architecture with the principles of modernism, including wide modern windows, convex glass on the façade’s corners and internal murals depicting Lithuanian postage stamps. The interior also features stained glass with heraldic symbols and figurative compositions. During the Soviet occupation, some of the original stained-glass works were removed and replaced with images of zodiac signs. The tiled lobby and main hall floors also reference folk art. The façade features curves, a flat faced clock in the central section and squared off towers to each side. Each of these elements rise to different heights. The building currently stands empty. Discussions have been held about using it for a museum of architecture but no date has been set for this.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kkiZiwqHCZTcMDS3U15YzWMNeKhjgIr1H2xyOIj2lyvmxO63kp7Gs6X7VpAeZbVCSSwKjzEACYhyubriwA1yswvVin_nAu2i3J6FqTNkv08hIX9mz4oGLPzjtcahOTB17SKilh-6wwvGUrzOMdCA9ir-RkTbU76fkQ-ODBYr5xtURcQLu1Y_EH9z/s643/92C225E1-F070-48AC-89E8-D6531C8AC721_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="432" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kkiZiwqHCZTcMDS3U15YzWMNeKhjgIr1H2xyOIj2lyvmxO63kp7Gs6X7VpAeZbVCSSwKjzEACYhyubriwA1yswvVin_nAu2i3J6FqTNkv08hIX9mz4oGLPzjtcahOTB17SKilh-6wwvGUrzOMdCA9ir-RkTbU76fkQ-ODBYr5xtURcQLu1Y_EH9z/w430-h640/92C225E1-F070-48AC-89E8-D6531C8AC721_1_201_a.jpeg" width="430" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laisvés 53</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Laisvės 53 is another Vizbaris designed building, designed for the Pažanga (progress) publishing company and was completed in 1934. It was owned by the then ruling National Union Party who produced their newspaper, books and journals here. It also had a second-floor snack bar and restaurant open to the public, accessed by a lift and a roof terrace. The upper floors were accessed by a lift and the large basement contained a meeting room with natural light from skylights made from glass bricks.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">As with the Post Office, the façade has varying depths and heights. The central part features three balconies with decorative metal railings that combine folk art with art deco motifs. It is flanked by curved and sectioned windows leading to loggias running the length of the building. The ground floor has large shop windows reflecting its use as a retail space and mirrors the curved elements of the upper floors. Some original features have been lost, including the skylights. In 2017, the upper levels were occupied by Vytautas Magnus University, but today the building is unoccupied.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Vizbaris was born in 1880 and is known to have lived in Ukraine from 1909-1918 where he worked as a construction engineer and an architect. From 1922-25 he headed the construction department of the Kaunas municipality. He later worked on the extension of the port of Klaipėda before emigrating to Germany in 1944.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfKu1JOayYxfd_vnmZrUQvVWTo7aFuL22MNpF5yOO64kqEQ_DJcuVcsyNf1zfjK9M1eeuqGIsIyEppqvmhimFw4rO1ie2Jf2zyupbanQL2qgV0aNdsR-Ves8f9vv3oNIS48t5BUpp9alFZp-_Ly4RPVNKGA8HJ9vQRYP88gGrVzclM3RFS3iTOx9q/s5472/77EFF957-2975-48D2-B841-3F91D829E0F0_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfKu1JOayYxfd_vnmZrUQvVWTo7aFuL22MNpF5yOO64kqEQ_DJcuVcsyNf1zfjK9M1eeuqGIsIyEppqvmhimFw4rO1ie2Jf2zyupbanQL2qgV0aNdsR-Ves8f9vv3oNIS48t5BUpp9alFZp-_Ly4RPVNKGA8HJ9vQRYP88gGrVzclM3RFS3iTOx9q/w400-h266/77EFF957-2975-48D2-B841-3F91D829E0F0_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Former headquarters of milk processing company, Laisves</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The building next door to Pažanga was the former headquarters of Lithuania’s milk processing company. It was designed by Vytautas Landsbergis and built from 1931-32. The exterior is defined by its interactions between vertical and horizontal elements. Each level is marked by uninterrupted panels running the length of the building. The rounded corner has convex glazing descending to the ground floor and main entrance, which is shaded by a wide illuminated ledge, reminiscent of Parisian department stores. This may have helped it to win the Bronze Medal at the 1937 International Exposition des Arts et des Techniques in the French capital. The entire structure is built around a reinforced concrete frame. As with the Pažanga building, there was a large basement, this one equipped with an icehouse. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The ground floor originally contained the Dairy Centre shop, a café, milk bar and the rather fabulous sounding, Muralis men’s hairdressing salon, which extended over two floors. A few pictures of the salon’s interior have survived and show a crisp, functionalist environment with barber’s chairs, large mirrors, screens and wall mounted lighting. The salon was designed by Arnas Funkas, a prominent architect of the period. The administration functions were spread over two floors with apartments at upper levels – three units to each floor. Several prominent people lived here, including Dovas Zaunius, one time Minister of Foreign Affairs and Vincė Jonušaitė, his opera singer wife. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMVWGCfz1ThxpCgNWaawzrb2vrr0pnhr-jQmUbuqLwrujbGF9BSq7E9IdsPsxKeG9ir9dJJ6oCN70gUfK1DzrqFMDAsAe8mDoblo36-g9JfCHk0XK4dIHe_1LPXguTXDUJWuY8OjHVA9bonDiwS0fV3xeAbqILD0LFxcXMJEDN5pnnVycIRBzVoJB0/s5371/B285F90E-A7B6-4986-9566-FEB4D36B115A_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5371" data-original-width="3648" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMVWGCfz1ThxpCgNWaawzrb2vrr0pnhr-jQmUbuqLwrujbGF9BSq7E9IdsPsxKeG9ir9dJJ6oCN70gUfK1DzrqFMDAsAe8mDoblo36-g9JfCHk0XK4dIHe_1LPXguTXDUJWuY8OjHVA9bonDiwS0fV3xeAbqILD0LFxcXMJEDN5pnnVycIRBzVoJB0/w434-h640/B285F90E-A7B6-4986-9566-FEB4D36B115A_1_201_a.jpeg" width="434" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Romuva Cinema, Laisves 54</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">During the 1930’s cinema design was heavily influenced by modernism. The Romuva cinema at Laisvės 54 was completed in April 1940. At the time, it was the biggest cinema in Lithuania, seating 687 people and benefitted from the most modern technology including mechanical ventilation and state of the art screen equipment. An oval shaped auditorium, special wall coverings and a vaulted reinforced concrete ceiling were included to enhance the acoustics. A circle was omitted from the auditorium for the same reason.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The tall, glazed tower on the exterior of the cinema was intended to be illuminated in changing colours. The Second World War had already commenced by the time construction was completed and the device needed to provide this feature was held up en-route and so this design element was not realised. The main part of the façade is divided by moulded frames and has two rows of different sized windows. The original plan was to use the upper level for advertising, but instead, windows were installed to light the office spaces. Numerous changes have been made to the original structure including moving the ticket office, increasing the slope of the hall and reducing the number of seats to 482. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Brothers Antanas and Petras Steikūnas, members of the Lithuanian Businessmen’s Union commissioned architect Aleksandras Mačiulskis to design their cinema which is still in use today. Kaunas’ other modernist cinemas have not fared so well. The former Daina cinema at Savanoriu 74 is in very poor condition. When I visited the main entrance was bricked up and the façade covered in grime. It was operating as a “gentleman’s club” and scowling security staff stood guard at the entrance. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQOMWDWcqFXuS7LNqV-CPPrh7vR-l53JeyRtH_gfIZPXrgr2a4S2LfYXvTuSyZhc_KV8XZP-VjXLCipJiHeuSskD3uWqUghhvRn5alx55E9TiUX-AIosUaHNeriwqGnRelboxPznGDtPeMIPxpbRhO9Z7GyOOJoVTdGyk5SvtgzHPIe6k2XYK4nvD/s5472/1C487A2A-A0D3-4C19-9376-CD2775D25FBA_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQOMWDWcqFXuS7LNqV-CPPrh7vR-l53JeyRtH_gfIZPXrgr2a4S2LfYXvTuSyZhc_KV8XZP-VjXLCipJiHeuSskD3uWqUghhvRn5alx55E9TiUX-AIosUaHNeriwqGnRelboxPznGDtPeMIPxpbRhO9Z7GyOOJoVTdGyk5SvtgzHPIe6k2XYK4nvD/w400-h266/1C487A2A-A0D3-4C19-9376-CD2775D25FBA_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Resurrection Church, Žaliakalnis Hill</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The Resurrection Church on Žaliakalnis Hill is one of Kaunas' best known buildings. In 1928, a competition was held to design a new church to commemorate the Lutheran revival. The entry from Karolis Reisonas, head of the city’s construction department, was chosen, despite his only placing third in the competition. His original proposal included an 82 metres high spiral tower with a statue at the summit, but was rejected on grounds of complexity and cost, and a simpler plan adopted. The church is an imposing white structure, supported by 1,200 reinforced concrete pillars. It has towers of differing height, a roof top chapel and can hold more than 5,000 people. For a small fee visitors may take a lift to the roof terrace and enjoy views across the city. Most construction took place between 1933 and 1940. The church was nationalised after Lithuania’s incorporation into the Soviet Union in 1940 and during the German occupation it was used as a paper warehouse. The returning Soviets converted it to a radio factory in 1952, but worse was to come. Stalin demanded demolition of the taller tower and chapel – fortunately this was not followed through. It was not until 1990 that the church returned to its original purpose following Lithuania’s regaining independence.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zFCqk2hGNiBhVgc84eBtrE3CWgeefVbG3phJoo505pys3H_Ux65q3KnlmtN4MeHTLLkyZ9WqqeTQBYmom5eGPRyryubG7oQrV2Io7-s5zRq7El6OJE8lTMs5FbwVZpThOMmoWvzLpYp8vlBYJYB4eGPqWpqvIdOrUr95tslYGC54Jfo737hfARJw/s5415/94B8DEF1-0E5B-465F-8DC2-519C962B34BD_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3610" data-original-width="5415" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zFCqk2hGNiBhVgc84eBtrE3CWgeefVbG3phJoo505pys3H_Ux65q3KnlmtN4MeHTLLkyZ9WqqeTQBYmom5eGPRyryubG7oQrV2Io7-s5zRq7El6OJE8lTMs5FbwVZpThOMmoWvzLpYp8vlBYJYB4eGPqWpqvIdOrUr95tslYGC54Jfo737hfARJw/w400-h266/94B8DEF1-0E5B-465F-8DC2-519C962B34BD_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonas Jablonski Primary School, Ausros and Žemaičiu streets</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The Jonas Jablonski Primary School is opposite the Resurrection Church on the corner of Ausros and Žemaičiu streets. It was the first school in Lithuania to make use of functional zoning, with the sports hall and auditorium located in an inner yard away from the classrooms. It was also the first school in Lithuania to have a swimming pool. Four handicraft classrooms were used to help children acquire skills for working in the craft industries and for managing their future households. The inclusion of these specialist rooms may also have been part of a general commitment to preserving traditional Lithuanian crafts. There was also a large canteen and a private apartment for the head teacher.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The school has an asymmetrical, rectangular configuration with one wing substantially longer than the other. The main junction has a stepped projecting turret – emphasising the corner location – as well as a small balcony above the main entrance which acts as a canopy. The façade is interrupted by a series of wide, red framed windows, contrasting with the blank rear wall of the auditorium. New sections were added during the Soviet period. Today the building is known as the Jonas Jablonski Gymnasium, serving an older age group than the original primary school which was completed in 1932 and designed by architect Antanas Jokimas.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHhOdZmiWl3CNgTBys-P_gv77UNBMGCdjtqmIpm_jD85zehJ7y_22BS48P2Xs4wX0WVaOZvt4Jjqq8UgR8KsHZzNSWYFmISdeiWJ0Miy178g5zCTiL9qbk1jFyblUvfflnPJZEuDeFprpHMzOmrISBUG61VMBq-4elH0bmISr_lx-7dX6OfJhb6Vc/s5353/3B66DC2F-689C-495D-B8AA-4305C48F8089_1_201_a.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3568" data-original-width="5353" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHhOdZmiWl3CNgTBys-P_gv77UNBMGCdjtqmIpm_jD85zehJ7y_22BS48P2Xs4wX0WVaOZvt4Jjqq8UgR8KsHZzNSWYFmISdeiWJ0Miy178g5zCTiL9qbk1jFyblUvfflnPJZEuDeFprpHMzOmrISBUG61VMBq-4elH0bmISr_lx-7dX6OfJhb6Vc/w400-h266/3B66DC2F-689C-495D-B8AA-4305C48F8089_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Donelaičio 63</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The once elegant apartment building at 63 Donelaičio Street looks a little faded today. It was built in 1932, to the designs of Jewish architect, Geršonas Davidavičius, who was responsible for designing several residences in Lithuania. The block was commissioned by the brothers Dovydas and Gedalis Ilgovskis, who were also Jewish and had a successful construction business.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The symmetrical main façade is animated by rounded corner windows, a long central balcony at first floor level and two smaller balconies with metal railings at the next level up. Towards the summit there is a decorative cornice topped by a parapet. Each floor originally contained two apartments with corridors separating private and common areas. The apartments contained built-in wardrobes as well as servants’ quarters located beside a rear staircase. It is believed that the Ilgovskis brothers maintained a construction office in the building.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Davidavičius, who was also known as Gerson Davids, escaped the fate of most Lithuanian Jews by leaving for South Africa in 1935. Shortly after arriving, he had a serious accident that resulted in the loss of an eye, but he continued working and designed several residential and commercial buildings before emigrating again, this time to Canada in 1959.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">A programme of events has been designed to celebrate Kaunas' European Capital of Culture status, offering visitors from all over the world the chance to discover and enjoy the city's busy cultural life and architectural heritage. Visitors may wish to obtain a copy go the superb book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Kaunas-Architectural-Guide-Julija-Reklaitė/dp/6098198020">“Kaunas Architectural Guide”</a> edited by Julia Reklaitė, published in 2017 by Architektūros Fondas, which includes many outstanding modernist buildings. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">I would like to note my thanks to Kastytis Rudokas for his help, support and advice in 2017 and with this article. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-78745932770350015612022-07-28T14:19:00.037+01:002022-07-28T14:41:51.753+01:00Fré Cohen - the Dutch artist who turned ordinary objects into things of beauty<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-align: justify;">“Fré’s work is so interesting.</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">She was skilled in a range of techniques at a time when there were few women in her field and was able to not only promote her beliefs but also to make a living from her work</span><span style="color: red; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">Our exhibition concentrates on her social ideals, feminist views and Jewish inspiration,” says Alice Roegholt, founder and director of the Het Schip Museum in Amsterdam, which is showing an exhibition on the work of the recently rediscovered Dutch graphic designer Fré Cohen.</span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlgz7QupKbums_RVxg3u2Sq5AD8SY8uBxURbd2ihfqhrV30sTr-NXVIhpd2UdjTL8KpaOwGPjlflznTvIDRKrqMiv66fUpGhW3lRzSh-7GIGKt8pXv2RQ2G__4XvOvVZMHUcMN08r6yJ6vrCmbv7A3WPPdL4D3wFZZW_DjTHYSd_cVgZ1KWLp67qNB/s3590/Fr%20maakt%20collage.tif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2538" data-original-width="3590" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlgz7QupKbums_RVxg3u2Sq5AD8SY8uBxURbd2ihfqhrV30sTr-NXVIhpd2UdjTL8KpaOwGPjlflznTvIDRKrqMiv66fUpGhW3lRzSh-7GIGKt8pXv2RQ2G__4XvOvVZMHUcMN08r6yJ6vrCmbv7A3WPPdL4D3wFZZW_DjTHYSd_cVgZ1KWLp67qNB/w400-h283/Fr%20maakt%20collage.tif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fré Cohen at work in her studio, 1934<br /> </td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Frederika Sophia Cohen, known as Fré, was born in Amsterdam in 1903, the oldest daughter of diamond workers, Levie and Esther Cohen. When she was still very young, the family moved to Antwerp in search of work only returning to Amsterdam in 1914, at the outbreak of World War I.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Fré showed skill in drawing at an early age and wanted to be a cartoonist. She also developed an early interest in left-wing politics, perhaps influenced by her father’s connections to Netherlands’ social democrat movement. She attended youth camps organised by the Arbeiders Jeugd Centrale, a Social Democrat movement, where she took part in hiking, sports and cultural activities. An image has survived of her at one of the camps, smiling and drawing and surrounded by friends. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-B_FbPlmyBn9AxsJOIs8ZxuF0wxlbt7yPu_MavMMdc8SpsryBWy_BhLoOJ8FJZzRLDO0Ao8wcu_duioqus1oqK1skRjYyrvl-gBW8MiyzjV98Nz68xcC8jB62WkHcUQ157sHzOmkRLolKe4FF--GiiohoxhN6Uf027CASftx47f_E7SB3mfcp_oZi/s6118/Giroboekje%20Gemeente%20Giro%20Amsterdam_1939_%20%20Fre%CC%81%20Cohen.png" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4115" data-original-width="6118" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-B_FbPlmyBn9AxsJOIs8ZxuF0wxlbt7yPu_MavMMdc8SpsryBWy_BhLoOJ8FJZzRLDO0Ao8wcu_duioqus1oqK1skRjYyrvl-gBW8MiyzjV98Nz68xcC8jB62WkHcUQ157sHzOmkRLolKe4FF--GiiohoxhN6Uf027CASftx47f_E7SB3mfcp_oZi/w400-h269/Giroboekje%20Gemeente%20Giro%20Amsterdam_1939_%20%20Fre%CC%81%20Cohen.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giro booklet</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Despite her artistic promise, it was not until she was 21, in 1924, that she began studying at Amsterdam’s Quellinusschool, first on a part time-basis and later, as a full-time student. She graduated with a Medal of Honour – the first to be issued in the school’s history. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">In 1921 she was hired to design advertisements for the Draka wire and cable factory and later found work with a publishing firm with strong links to the Social Democratic Party. She produced many designs for the party’s printing office, Vooruitgang (progress), and received commissions from trade unions, socialist youth movements and the magazine The Proletarian Woman. She depicted workers in a positive way, showing them as strong and capable, rather than downtrodden victims.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">She went on to work for the Amsterdam municipality’s printing firm but left in 1932 to become freelance. She was so successful that by 1933 she was living in her own studio. Her nephew, Ernst Waltemathe, who later became a leading Social Democrat politician in Germany, recalls visiting “my rich aunt” in her studio and receiving gifts from her. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmIQuw2tubhHbs0JBgWDNsFE4VjLPWCaT48FgmqtsekOvklJCHk3T_nWoAtpCdZRDuUKGktqqfSoBl_fChCORiSmDeLzB_JIuXLBQbhWpXSI5yS8EyDsV15_82_imDcC0DwG5c1PnS5iLSpfYZoECHGaXpRbvcbNoMC7_t6ib_XhODPvAFtnSAakG/s6187/Achter%20de%20Vaandels%20van%20Koos%20Vorrink_Fr%20Cohen.png" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6187" data-original-width="4385" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmIQuw2tubhHbs0JBgWDNsFE4VjLPWCaT48FgmqtsekOvklJCHk3T_nWoAtpCdZRDuUKGktqqfSoBl_fChCORiSmDeLzB_JIuXLBQbhWpXSI5yS8EyDsV15_82_imDcC0DwG5c1PnS5iLSpfYZoECHGaXpRbvcbNoMC7_t6ib_XhODPvAFtnSAakG/w454-h640/Achter%20de%20Vaandels%20van%20Koos%20Vorrink_Fr%20Cohen.png" width="454" /></a><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brochure for the Social Democrat Party's youth organisation, 1925<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAVqEpJV6ql9LvvCET-XtnQiYxUl_HWUHpLgGSBV275JMy551T4MUmKltGa-_3RwC9zY0n445_lEsIEtB_MuTOqfMgEfJpZf9y1cLnYpvAEEvYvwPPoS5ZzssJ74Z_AzGPtWwLIhn9onHBrw0wK_r5Vao9KDTO00OULfYN6ezzUF2ziglf8h1f7CE/s3383/6F04F7EF-2FA5-4CFC-8E6B-212773F59F05.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3383" data-original-width="2155" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAVqEpJV6ql9LvvCET-XtnQiYxUl_HWUHpLgGSBV275JMy551T4MUmKltGa-_3RwC9zY0n445_lEsIEtB_MuTOqfMgEfJpZf9y1cLnYpvAEEvYvwPPoS5ZzssJ74Z_AzGPtWwLIhn9onHBrw0wK_r5Vao9KDTO00OULfYN6ezzUF2ziglf8h1f7CE/w408-h640/6F04F7EF-2FA5-4CFC-8E6B-212773F59F05.jpeg" title="Postcard for Amsterdam city cleaning department, c931" width="408" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Postcard for Amsterdam city cleaning department, c1931<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXUCLV89vQseju506OpR9lJfUQuZx38u1Deq0ruNMnc6opePbb7f36Fw_Jl-QZrDKHQTbdj7fDM2SoQTPY-RpMkgRcL6asQE8IcpWPxG2aoUQ_TJT0cz-J84rrGdSw61lTTP908y1UnkEKzPxt696Phv-lEVLe0lEzLdGqrudcz9vpLpZK_yBn-lAc/s2581/Ex%20Libris%20Marie%20Hamel%20ontworpen%20door%20Fre%CC%81%20Cohen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2581" data-original-width="1854" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXUCLV89vQseju506OpR9lJfUQuZx38u1Deq0ruNMnc6opePbb7f36Fw_Jl-QZrDKHQTbdj7fDM2SoQTPY-RpMkgRcL6asQE8IcpWPxG2aoUQ_TJT0cz-J84rrGdSw61lTTP908y1UnkEKzPxt696Phv-lEVLe0lEzLdGqrudcz9vpLpZK_yBn-lAc/w460-h640/Ex%20Libris%20Marie%20Hamel%20ontworpen%20door%20Fre%CC%81%20Cohen.jpg" width="460" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ex-libris for actress Marie Hamel, 1932</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Her work was varied and included book bindings, ex-libris, illustrations, postcards, calendars, playing cards, posters and pamphlets, as well as woodcuts and linocuts. Examples of all are included in the exhibition and show a range of influences including art deco, art nouveau and the Amsterdam School. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The Amsterdam School movement had been founded by Jewish architect Michel de Klerk at the beginning of the 20th century with the aim of improving the living conditions of the working class. The Het Schip Museum, which is devoted to preserving and promoting the work of the movement, is one of his buildings. Fré not only shared his politics but was one of the leading graphic designers associated with the movement. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Many of the artworks and objects she designed found their way into the homes of ordinary people, where they have survived until today. “When we announced the exhibition, many people visited us, bringing items that she had designed. We thought they wanted to donate them to us, but no, they just wanted us to see these things that they have treasured for so long,” said Roegholt.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh47rJdhZDjEsGqtyGWMUD4DcVGF6jq8jqxtoahPDZL3NcsTOGOv0ggiqE-2QaM8KGV4xNO3SqBar6oaRogRvO16abKuyXXkaYqBixFpwzJO_q3T3NG9Y2OVqQIPanRVpfRmfv4zWmbiaxqOf5RWPTdaxEyZPVcQE7GFoaiuPbsnvT9ZK-FKs3-EPRv/s11513/CB897DEA-BC90-4735-828F-37265CF1E024.jpeg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="8063" data-original-width="11513" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh47rJdhZDjEsGqtyGWMUD4DcVGF6jq8jqxtoahPDZL3NcsTOGOv0ggiqE-2QaM8KGV4xNO3SqBar6oaRogRvO16abKuyXXkaYqBixFpwzJO_q3T3NG9Y2OVqQIPanRVpfRmfv4zWmbiaxqOf5RWPTdaxEyZPVcQE7GFoaiuPbsnvT9ZK-FKs3-EPRv/w400-h280/CB897DEA-BC90-4735-828F-37265CF1E024.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">City of Amsterdam coat of arms, 1930</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Cohen was not afraid to work in different mediums or new formats. In 1934 she wrote “Each new technique is welcome: book print and lithography, offset and rotogravure. It’s just a matter of choosing the right technique suitable for the product we wish to create.” She exemplified this by making three-dimensional works including boxes and scale models. She also pioneered statistical graphics, in which data is presented with icons rather than numbers. This work included brochures for Schipol Airport and the Amsterdam port, using pictograms to show the growth in passenger numbers and cargo. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Her reputation spread, and in 1934 the Midlands Master Printers Association invited her to give a series of lectures in the UK. Her subject was ‘Modern Lay-out in Holland,’ and she designed an invitation card especially for the lectures. The December 1934 edition of the Association’s magazine reported that “The lectures were both interesting and helpful and everywhere well attended”. In her presentations, she outlined the history of Dutch printing and spoke about new technology within the industry. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Fré also explained her design philosophy saying, “My task is to create solid books, to make beautiful printed matter. The ordinary articles we use every day should be things of beauty”. She managed to provoke a minor controversy. The same article reported on her, “…friendly criticism of William Morris’ work, that the decoration tended to become more important apparently than the text” and how this provoked questions about her own use of white space within designs. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Although Fré enjoyed work, she also liked to have fun and in 1934 took her first holiday in an artists’ village in Ascona, Switzerland. She wrote to a friend describing the town’s bohemian atmosphere saying “…there are vegetarians of all kinds (and) don’t be shocked…principled nudists”. She enjoyed the town’s café culture and painted watercolours there, some of which feature in the exhibition.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLbvaWCSGxTyG9bHKDhFCfcH8fujAKS9ly9vtGoiE28a-nwrUkGwDP6uskjayjuOxTfEy5jE4kKWZrmih__UwLSn0BgX1wWiQBnSNFcrx_MQUMUT2E6nLkdTV01fG8lQWCa6K8qzBEpKq_M1fDuEI02CcuD0FvbHiD-zx6kMMv9wTgKa-qmzHFs4F/s5902/Een%20van%20de%20eerste%20ontwerpen%20van%20Fr%20Cohen%20Oostindische%20inkt%20met%20waterverf.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5902" data-original-width="4815" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLbvaWCSGxTyG9bHKDhFCfcH8fujAKS9ly9vtGoiE28a-nwrUkGwDP6uskjayjuOxTfEy5jE4kKWZrmih__UwLSn0BgX1wWiQBnSNFcrx_MQUMUT2E6nLkdTV01fG8lQWCa6K8qzBEpKq_M1fDuEI02CcuD0FvbHiD-zx6kMMv9wTgKa-qmzHFs4F/w522-h640/Een%20van%20de%20eerste%20ontwerpen%20van%20Fr%20Cohen%20Oostindische%20inkt%20met%20waterverf.JPG" width="522" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Greetings to eternity - watercolour by Fré Cohen</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbxkamrLURSUgvOlhfcPVQ222G-pqHIltHER2ynr0JaS_Sopc0c3A0QSJUvXRrJ1ZZLZG0r7Euysg6cKs4EVlW-BG-ubko9jOL4Gn-UJDa-Uf3OOLGKgJ_yzdowSuXsoJqtC2Jxb-LgdDxiME63jgR2s-2sz53tcGDtXzFR_IaxoDjQFCbt2XSCn7M/s4379/Gedrukte%20prent%20Ascona%201937%20Fr%20Cohen.jpg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3529" data-original-width="4379" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbxkamrLURSUgvOlhfcPVQ222G-pqHIltHER2ynr0JaS_Sopc0c3A0QSJUvXRrJ1ZZLZG0r7Euysg6cKs4EVlW-BG-ubko9jOL4Gn-UJDa-Uf3OOLGKgJ_yzdowSuXsoJqtC2Jxb-LgdDxiME63jgR2s-2sz53tcGDtXzFR_IaxoDjQFCbt2XSCn7M/w400-h323/Gedrukte%20prent%20Ascona%201937%20Fr%20Cohen.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anscona landscape by Fré Cohen<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">In the 1930’s her work increasingly showed Jewish influences. Hebrew letters appeared on her ex-libris, magazine covers and political posters. In 1933 she began working with an organisation assisting Jewish refugees from Germany and Austria. It was there that she met writer, journalist and poet, Joseph Gompers. She designed two ex-libris for him. One, from 1934, shows a ploughman and Hebrew text which translates as, ‘the day is short, and the work is much’. The other, produced in 1936, shows a body crushed by a swastika and the words, ‘Ex-libris antisemitism’ in Hebrew. It was intended for Gompers’ collection of books on antisemitism. The two friends would sometimes go for walks in Amsterdam’s Jewish neighbourhoods. Gompers wrote about these walks in the Nieuw Israeliëtsch Weekblad magazine, under the title Wanderings in Little Jerusalem. Fré contributed the illustrations. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">In 1940, Germany occupied the Netherlands and in October of that year, legislation was passed dismissing Jews from government employment. Fré’s commissions from the municipality ceased but her private commissions continued, including some teaching work at the WH Van Leer Jewish Applied Arts School above the Hollandse Schouwburg (Dutch Theatre). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">In the summer of 1942, the theatre began to be used as a holding point for Jews before deportation. The exhibition includes a photograph taken that year, showing her with a group of the students, and wearing a large Star of David on her coat. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Life became increasingly dangerous for Dutch Jews, and in 1942, Fré went into hiding, staying at various houses in Amsterdam, Diemen, Rotterdam, Winterwijk and Borne. She continued to keep a busy routine, working on private commissions under the pseudonym ‘Freco’. The exhibition includes playing cards and illustrations for children’s books produced during this period. She also went for walks – running the risk of being recognised and arrested. This troubled her friend, Rie Keesje-Hillebregt, who hid her in Diemen. In a video recording in the show, Rie says, “She dyed her hair red…but she still looked very Jewish.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Fré still had hopes and ambitions but was clearly aware of the danger she faced. In 1942, she wrote, “I still have plenty of plans, sketches, and drawings at the ready, for after the war, if we ever live to see the end of it. You sometimes begin to doubt it.” She was right to doubt. On 9th June<sup>,</sup> 1943, she was captured in Borne and quickly took the poison she had been carrying for such an occasion. After two days in a coma, she died in hospital in Hengelo on June 12th. She is buried in the Jewish cemetery there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">After the war, she was largely forgotten, but in recent years interest in her work and life has grown. Amsterdam’s <a href="https://www.stedelijk.nl/en">Stedelijk Museum </a>has a large collection of her graphic works, some of which are included in the Het Schip exhibition which is being enthusiastically received and attracting crowds. Perhaps, more importantly, many of those ‘ordinary articles’ that she designed as ‘things of beauty’ have survived, and are treasured, in the homes of people all over the Netherlands.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGHA_4oBKJ_ow_3Dj12sl_YrN3j_LrzHNHgeQFMkk-_87q5qo-o8zzL5YNQ_tdZhWIk9TfMbNSWBxgj1S_qKAoICE6Sr6dJ_uLhQUhh9iZjEfDRm4yDbS93bnskVPlwfIUXalwN1uySgY60inpebqhOZ1Ox7-NXl0xVuujEMplAeXirSUTEssDD_t4/s3565/Fre%CC%81%20Centraal%20Station%20Amsterdam.tif" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2921" data-original-width="3565" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGHA_4oBKJ_ow_3Dj12sl_YrN3j_LrzHNHgeQFMkk-_87q5qo-o8zzL5YNQ_tdZhWIk9TfMbNSWBxgj1S_qKAoICE6Sr6dJ_uLhQUhh9iZjEfDRm4yDbS93bnskVPlwfIUXalwN1uySgY60inpebqhOZ1Ox7-NXl0xVuujEMplAeXirSUTEssDD_t4/w400-h328/Fre%CC%81%20Centraal%20Station%20Amsterdam.tif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fré Cohen, outside Amsterdam Central Station, c1935</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Fré Cohen, Form and Ideals of the Amsterdam School runs until 30th<sup> </sup>October 2022 at the <a href="https://www.hetschip.nl/en/">Het Schip Museum.</a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">An edited version of this article, with additional illustrations, appears in the Summer 2022 edition of<a href="https://www.jewishrenaissance.org.uk"> Jewish Renaissance </a>Magazine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">All images are reproduced with the kind permission of Het Schip Museum.</span></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-20937193087630938972022-07-12T09:51:00.001+01:002022-07-12T09:51:43.685+01:00"We are the last generation" bringing in the catch at Angeiras<p style="text-align: justify;">"We are the last generation" said Dona Fatima. She was perhaps 70, quick to smile and happy to talk. I noticed her as I passed by the fishermen's cottages of Angeiras, a small town just 15 kilometres from Porto. She sat in the open doorway of her family's storage unit, waiting for her husband to return with the catch. Her family have fished here for generations but as she explained "The young people don't want to do this work. It is hard and dangerous, they want to do other things".</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8GZCgkYQogFiVp2HjK1rTi6W3nb7PoQxMKmYfR3jZLEb_YpbY8Fbugtl3fOO1ZUt1SHJdUHPC8n-v0UIciCoOKlHqOXGOjfrjv87r-2IY7wQ8YKAdOxrTRrhVMVWgZ6MFJL3trG37PYv2jKWeb2c5GAN_SgOd924W2biomKuEM0bY_BUj7XeTdWVa/s4592/59F39728-B6EF-4E74-84F7-C060A4FE7BE4_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8GZCgkYQogFiVp2HjK1rTi6W3nb7PoQxMKmYfR3jZLEb_YpbY8Fbugtl3fOO1ZUt1SHJdUHPC8n-v0UIciCoOKlHqOXGOjfrjv87r-2IY7wQ8YKAdOxrTRrhVMVWgZ6MFJL3trG37PYv2jKWeb2c5GAN_SgOd924W2biomKuEM0bY_BUj7XeTdWVa/w400-h300/59F39728-B6EF-4E74-84F7-C060A4FE7BE4_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dona Fatima</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">The grey, sea-fretted morning reminded me of my home town on England's north-east coast, where there was once a thriving fishing fleet, but where today there are only a handful of boats. It also reminded me that there is no guarantee of sunshine on Portugal's Atlantic coast during June. The importance of fishing to Angeiras is emphasised by the paraphernalia stored along the pathway at the edge of the beach. Nets, baskets and flags used to mark the pots left at sea are piled up waiting for use or repair. A black and white cat roamed the nets, looking for tasty scraps and grew angry when one of the locals stroked her tail. Other less active (or maybe less hungry) felines dozed, waiting for the boats to return, knowing they would be thrown the rejected fish from the early morning catch.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtGgMBaQhiPLLvdB-8KkGY3w1Zv62-pm02IrfZxPmIvWlqLIHVAL2_e2yl2Uf9_RcZkWV2m3Ma4JHtxgQLvMSjyHkoo45FxV75E05Lzhg1R_c6IFgtajziTfOZiIb34KqMFTbDgia1QY04nHuEI6Ncc4Jywh7jyOCD22tVshibMm0UyDc0pom5nzo/s4592/C5FAA801-8AE1-4351-95E9-AB6E819CB049_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtGgMBaQhiPLLvdB-8KkGY3w1Zv62-pm02IrfZxPmIvWlqLIHVAL2_e2yl2Uf9_RcZkWV2m3Ma4JHtxgQLvMSjyHkoo45FxV75E05Lzhg1R_c6IFgtajziTfOZiIb34KqMFTbDgia1QY04nHuEI6Ncc4Jywh7jyOCD22tVshibMm0UyDc0pom5nzo/w400-h300/C5FAA801-8AE1-4351-95E9-AB6E819CB049_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwIRb6lRuwZZOtu3CBjRxzJPBw-3JI3w63wzUZCzm0jFMCtHpERXwHji3DF484GiQwLuOICLRU2rcA5VapEEY0FEFdWp4N05x3MhM5bbsDNMgbKNqaqHd5irm_PKkf-oBQzFS1zEUhR51l6zPsMZn6jxioTCEnrN6tUtGLBruWq2SNGPu5L5bW_rvm/s4592/FB8A4854-DF8E-4779-AA46-17E492863E21_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwIRb6lRuwZZOtu3CBjRxzJPBw-3JI3w63wzUZCzm0jFMCtHpERXwHji3DF484GiQwLuOICLRU2rcA5VapEEY0FEFdWp4N05x3MhM5bbsDNMgbKNqaqHd5irm_PKkf-oBQzFS1zEUhR51l6zPsMZn6jxioTCEnrN6tUtGLBruWq2SNGPu5L5bW_rvm/w400-h300/FB8A4854-DF8E-4779-AA46-17E492863E21_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Year-round fishing began here at the beginning of the twentieth century Prior to this, </span></span>activity was seasonal and related to agricultural work. Small crabs and seaweed were gathered for use as fertilisers. Today's fishing activity includes the catch of pout, bass and octopus. According to a sign on the beach pathway, the sardines and shrimps caught here are considered to be the best in Portugal. The beach is known as Praia des Pescadores, or, the beach of the fishermen.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Dona Fatima was not the only one waiting for the boats. Small groups clustered around the cottages, talking, smoking and hoping that there had been a successful morning's work. Most of the people I met were in their sixties or older, all of them friendly, talkative and happy to be photographed (thank you Signors Salvador, Fonseca and José). <span style="text-align: left;">Most of their families have been involved in fishing for generations but one young man said he had previously been a carpenter. Corsino Benjamin's uncle was a fisherman and he decided to join him some years ago. Since then he has remained working with the uncle, his aunt and his own wife, Eugenia, only occasionally practising carpentry. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The boats come in one by one. They are first brought to the water's edge and then pulled along the beach by tractor. In the past this task was carried out by villagers who dragged the boats in by hand. One boat had recently been painted and left a colourful trail on the sand. Once the boats were sited, the village women emerged and quickly began sorting and cleaning the fish, preparing it for sale at the nearby market. Meanwhile, t</span><span style="text-align: left;">he men checked and repaired the nets - there is a clear division of labour with "men's work" and "women's work".</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Few of the men were happy and most reported a poor catch. Aurelio, also in his sixties said "the fish here were once plentiful but not today". He was removing the small fish that had become stuck in the net, rejecting most of them and throwing them to the waiting cats and seagulls who rushed forward to pick up the treats. From time to time squabbles broke out between the birds as one hungry gull tried to snatch food from the beak of another.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR39qxtK-0VK3oUD2TgGDbExS6gqS3R01TZCF2rMtYA-uNheRDabjsWjvHHPsrE7gH6dDl_lJhF5oDDSQwmuOfKLWiMT1CBv2mjbf5YKXUN7Fa8yqW0eWS-_tfMZ8x-Uj553x4k6XP-J0RBvSyWRIsg-ugA8xWisVygMe62OJ0OE5IAkhorgQykMfX/s4592/1E62D7A9-62F0-40CE-B504-7602736E783F_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR39qxtK-0VK3oUD2TgGDbExS6gqS3R01TZCF2rMtYA-uNheRDabjsWjvHHPsrE7gH6dDl_lJhF5oDDSQwmuOfKLWiMT1CBv2mjbf5YKXUN7Fa8yqW0eWS-_tfMZ8x-Uj553x4k6XP-J0RBvSyWRIsg-ugA8xWisVygMe62OJ0OE5IAkhorgQykMfX/w400-h300/1E62D7A9-62F0-40CE-B504-7602736E783F_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signor Aurelio</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4SdsLamSdrWrwvcMaGacIdgZ7kAa3dL7om5rqjWlSL3pBdFOHIQvsaGxiyFTrXkNxJR7d5R3gtjUv8JxkcAqQeftypbgBuN35Ahq0yeW0TYq2t7a2Nyht-MC6sfm0d5gxbMfDPnpx0E9NjNrXtUMjZvzAwPLE7t27SL2rL8G_UvkkLTfkWAKPiqc/s4592/457D23F6-8D35-4426-B65B-EDD116BC6D8B_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4SdsLamSdrWrwvcMaGacIdgZ7kAa3dL7om5rqjWlSL3pBdFOHIQvsaGxiyFTrXkNxJR7d5R3gtjUv8JxkcAqQeftypbgBuN35Ahq0yeW0TYq2t7a2Nyht-MC6sfm0d5gxbMfDPnpx0E9NjNrXtUMjZvzAwPLE7t27SL2rL8G_UvkkLTfkWAKPiqc/w400-h300/457D23F6-8D35-4426-B65B-EDD116BC6D8B_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signor Salvador</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSC6SqP6z8pYfz35DlKS_QoXdwvPrQerrIB6BMGcjBKyiNqyEymKKX0KN1ePnH-DmsdDxgQPwg6IiD4L-xxUDCzuTMcn-Xnjmmok49n2Io6Q2o9VCbzNwC9p1ieyhZmU5hVZ-lFEi2i0o6pt1HaKOC4T9WamQ7dRKQXaDTuoUEqd1C8e3fxvuhfhnc/s4592/2103CBE6-92FD-4C23-B313-6142CC76B8C5_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSC6SqP6z8pYfz35DlKS_QoXdwvPrQerrIB6BMGcjBKyiNqyEymKKX0KN1ePnH-DmsdDxgQPwg6IiD4L-xxUDCzuTMcn-Xnjmmok49n2Io6Q2o9VCbzNwC9p1ieyhZmU5hVZ-lFEi2i0o6pt1HaKOC4T9WamQ7dRKQXaDTuoUEqd1C8e3fxvuhfhnc/w400-h300/2103CBE6-92FD-4C23-B313-6142CC76B8C5_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signor Fonseca<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoBR6Gu3O1TllrT7nzEJtCMo77Tu_XUCmp5pMEXogVdrrCoXJ1ZEo5EmQ9mDRA5rt8lEPMskG03zr2zR4ZkGVhF75dFGhr4NSBXaZxzRO_ORbGU9MKMYO4SedRXnj5Qx19WS7dKMlcSUePLhPQAgdUbTTHarpD6DJ1T_QAh0lhNh422XnoTKho0qK/s4592/B517104C-4A05-4250-833B-BE7B24D16A08_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="3448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieoBR6Gu3O1TllrT7nzEJtCMo77Tu_XUCmp5pMEXogVdrrCoXJ1ZEo5EmQ9mDRA5rt8lEPMskG03zr2zR4ZkGVhF75dFGhr4NSBXaZxzRO_ORbGU9MKMYO4SedRXnj5Qx19WS7dKMlcSUePLhPQAgdUbTTHarpD6DJ1T_QAh0lhNh422XnoTKho0qK/s320/B517104C-4A05-4250-833B-BE7B24D16A08_1_201_a.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signor José</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">Angeiras has several places to eat. The street behind the fishermen's cottages is lined with cafes and restaurants. Most of them specialise in fish and sea food but good coffee and the ubiquitous <i>pastel de nata </i>can also be found at the Doce Mar (sweet sea) cafe. On the day of my visit, numerous backpackers sat outside the cafes, some of them in pairs, most of them alone. All were participants in the <a href="https://santiago-compostela.net">Camino de Santiago</a> pilgrimage, heading for <a href="https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/347/">Santiago de Compostela</a> in Spain.There is also has a small but busy indoor fish market where hoteliers, restauranteurs and local families come to make their purchases. The market boasts two delicatessens that sell local cheeses, meat and wine. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Dona Olindina was selling shellfish from a tiny stall outside one of the restaurants. It's hard to believe she can make a living from this and I wondered if it's something she does in order to keep active and to remain in contact with other people. She nodded and called out "bom dia" (good morning) in response to my greeting. After asking me about my work and family she became philosophical "I'm 82 now. I've bought a plot for my burial. My husband is already there. I don't think we (humans) are really from here. Maybe we are from heaven and when we die we go back there". </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLlGA7e7HDPkcQz-tGTX5_BKwCW2WJo0Ppl53acI9qKxfJkId-JYCxDaypN90XDzhLMAi9i4Hw_7lL2KV2hF349MlHykgai_zUUX2duzR5XhA9WprLHjTY5oqR_EQkUFt8mCucyiWq-rPa53I2q9ikGzRoQrmIMRqziMvalwawRj0TkCMcdz3THYAO/s4592/E52CC5D5-135B-42EF-8579-29E719DBD9F8_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLlGA7e7HDPkcQz-tGTX5_BKwCW2WJo0Ppl53acI9qKxfJkId-JYCxDaypN90XDzhLMAi9i4Hw_7lL2KV2hF349MlHykgai_zUUX2duzR5XhA9WprLHjTY5oqR_EQkUFt8mCucyiWq-rPa53I2q9ikGzRoQrmIMRqziMvalwawRj0TkCMcdz3THYAO/w400-h300/E52CC5D5-135B-42EF-8579-29E719DBD9F8_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dona Olindina</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">I don't often find myself in front of the camera, but I was accompanied in Angeiras by José of Picture Photo Tours in Porto. He assisted me in engaging with the people I met and also took a few shots of me, including the one below, in which I am a little directive! Details of his services are available <a href="https://www.picturyphototours.com/en">here</a>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl8ry3DA9dOI3C6hHp7o90kstIkRaSYHtyjE3nioAoNAtqUZTZzPpmmOtu4VL2RDQQ1vtPAx8jjz5ZwEOK3iEPMO-gBbmvdcnsM-9xR_unnPphys1I7M6jvzGb8qF8fYSnklJallMY9wVEGymzDu56xgbPW99vXCuEO3bPheAU_5IF2WLpoamMEaLw/s1900/7DDA1254-53CE-4203-9E79-8669E2FB2C3B_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1425" data-original-width="1900" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl8ry3DA9dOI3C6hHp7o90kstIkRaSYHtyjE3nioAoNAtqUZTZzPpmmOtu4VL2RDQQ1vtPAx8jjz5ZwEOK3iEPMO-gBbmvdcnsM-9xR_unnPphys1I7M6jvzGb8qF8fYSnklJallMY9wVEGymzDu56xgbPW99vXCuEO3bPheAU_5IF2WLpoamMEaLw/w400-h300/7DDA1254-53CE-4203-9E79-8669E2FB2C3B_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-37012126889916830862022-06-06T07:14:00.002+01:002022-06-06T07:21:29.245+01:00Picture Post 73 - An Art Nouveau Warehouse in a Porto Alley<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvaKlaGV0m6gHPWcKPn-EjJZ-c7Ebi9AlvgrEkkR7xgLmPiDous1_NxGVaG3Cm8tGMdHe_T5oNyxvklok6jIQ-tJYC-61NNId6A9y6Fg-pH60eLhlOnq0CaqY0ZwQCXVEavgQQsADs-oyNxn7ytqHlVZxqs0_oyssPKkqP2h1WCvcvm8HH1mA9rn_/s4592/EB1B02EB-AEC8-4F09-84CB-2E1012FF4801_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="4592" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvaKlaGV0m6gHPWcKPn-EjJZ-c7Ebi9AlvgrEkkR7xgLmPiDous1_NxGVaG3Cm8tGMdHe_T5oNyxvklok6jIQ-tJYC-61NNId6A9y6Fg-pH60eLhlOnq0CaqY0ZwQCXVEavgQQsADs-oyNxn7ytqHlVZxqs0_oyssPKkqP2h1WCvcvm8HH1mA9rn_/w400-h300/EB1B02EB-AEC8-4F09-84CB-2E1012FF4801_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Last week in Porto, each morning at 10.30, I had coffee and a <a href="https://leitesculinaria.com/7759/recipes-pasteis-de-nata.html">Pastel de nata</a> at the <a href="https://5f3cf5afed925.site123.me">C'alma Speciality Coffee Room</a> on Rua de Passos Manuel. This small cafe is tucked away on the ground floor of the Porto Commercial Athenaeum gentlemen's club, established 150 years ago and which today hosts occasional concerts and group tours. On my last morning in Porto I took a different route to C'alma and discovered a piece of the city's history.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just a few steps away from my morning coffee, I noticed a single storey building with an art nouveau facade. The Depósito de Sola e Cabedaes is the former warehouse of what was once once an extremely successful shoe parts supplier. The company was founded in 1887 by Adriano Vieira da Silva, whose name is inscribed on the decorative tiles at the top of the facade. These premises were inaugurated in 1917 and are an example of late art nouveau. The design features floral flourishes, classical references with small pillars and discs, and stained glass windows, the colours of which brighten when they watch the sun. The building incorporated modern design ideas including skylights that maximised the use of natural light and air circulation equipment which helped prevent deterioration of the stock. This approach was carried through into service and the staff were known to be polite and knowledgeable.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>Da Silva was born in Santarém in 1869 and came to Porto at a young age, initially finding work as a clerk. He went on to establish a successful business and to have a career in politics. He was a member of the Portuguese Republican Party and a close friend of its leader, and three times Prime Minister, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Afonso_Costa">Afonso Costa</a>. From 1919-1926, Da Silva served as administrator of the Gondomar municipality, just outside Porto. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The April 1917 edition of the <i>Illustraçáo Portuguesa</i> magazine marked the inauguration of the premises saying "we can consider today that this is the biggest and most complete (shoe parts supplier) of Portugal and all of the Peninsula". An extensive range of products was offered, including leather, suede, soles, glues, laces, buckles, waxes, polishes and insoles. The company was the main supplier for cobblers, leather workers, bag makers and other artisans. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Over time low-priced competition from overseas and the decline of the tanning industry in Portugal impacted on the business and it closed its doors for the last time in 2016. The building appears to be well maintained with only a small amount of graffiti but stands empty, in a side-alley, waiting to be brought back into use. Similar premises in Porto are now serving as cafes, restaurants or cultural venues. I'd happily have my coffee and pastry in the old warehouse on my next visit.</div>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-50254305239537873202022-04-17T21:08:00.000+01:002022-04-17T21:08:47.078+01:00"We slowly lose our hearing because of the noise" - Stories from Bangladesh<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOHVGrf0WASXeRUKT4WpwjlIAmJX3GIoDPBVh8sDOl4IUjNLAqf9zbCawKG8qamE7BfuunYM28MxkvnPIDV3uB94tnH4m-qwXdzigTOuhK6IyikE3dsXd5M9fiFSTB_AhiKUFxtqOLmMeW5_dWbX0k3LLUBAcOHnCYXE65sa9Ekw4SmLpmxoKJ4mCp/s4592/296185C3-A160-4A38-BEFF-067BDF0465B1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="2584" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOHVGrf0WASXeRUKT4WpwjlIAmJX3GIoDPBVh8sDOl4IUjNLAqf9zbCawKG8qamE7BfuunYM28MxkvnPIDV3uB94tnH4m-qwXdzigTOuhK6IyikE3dsXd5M9fiFSTB_AhiKUFxtqOLmMeW5_dWbX0k3LLUBAcOHnCYXE65sa9Ekw4SmLpmxoKJ4mCp/w360-h640/296185C3-A160-4A38-BEFF-067BDF0465B1.jpeg" width="360" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Much has been written about Chittagong's notorious ship-breaking yards. Their appalling safety record and working conditions have been the subject of numerous documentaries. The owners, not welcoming this kind of exposure, no longer admit visitors. Dhaka's Karaniganj ship-repair yard is less well-known and attracts little media attention. This may be why I was able to enter unchallenged, look around, take photographs and talk to the workers, despite the presence of several managerial staff. No-one seemed perturbed by my being there, and there were no problems with photography. One of the supervisors even asked me to take his portrait.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I noticed the noise from the yard well before I reached the gate. Hundreds of small hammers chip away the rust from the ships' sides, releasing toxic particles into the air and damaging the workers' hearing. Other hazards include chemical fumes and extreme heat. Some of the men wore hard hats but most worked without protective gear. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I asked some of the men (I saw only male workers here, unlike at <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2022/03/there-is-no-work-without-hard-work.html">Mirpur</a>) about the lack of safety equipment and the impact of the work on their health. Ripon, aged 32 and a Dhaka native, said "When I first came here I had a headache every day. I'm used to it now and I don't get them anymore, but we slowly lose our hearing because of the noise". Shahin, a welder, aged 30, said "I have goggles and a mask but I can't wear them. It's too hot and it gets difficult to see". Like several others, he also reported having respiratory problems and headaches. Shahin had dreams of a better life. "I wanted to work in Singapore" he said. "An employment broker asked for $4,000 to find me a job there. I took a course in welding and then borrowed the whole amount to pay him, but he disappeared with the money and now I have a debt. I have a wife and two small children and life is very difficult". </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Many Bangladeshis work overseas and send money back to their family to pay off debts, to improve their living conditions, or to educate their children. Unfortunately stories like Shahin's are not unusual including in the UK. Last year the British Government published a <a href="https://www.gov.uk/government/news/beware-of-work-visa-scams-targeting-bangladesh-nationals">warning</a> about employment scams that target Bangladeshi nationals.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeI9gudgXG3B9-rCNVXDK3gOWgDsrFx3ZFIy3MgFEZwlYINU7hQxszef3Xsg22anDHLdbDyGRtyqI79Nv3biqo9Xdh7_W0AhvL-S0P0LxgUIicPgvzGEFgNj_21QDPABapFPXs0G9YE208vuVummoUSQM4AE0hQK9Yf_M3bApM3NWtQTpmii1jPjYb/s4592/6C83A4C7-9F3F-4359-BA4C-076DEC54B438_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2584" data-original-width="4592" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeI9gudgXG3B9-rCNVXDK3gOWgDsrFx3ZFIy3MgFEZwlYINU7hQxszef3Xsg22anDHLdbDyGRtyqI79Nv3biqo9Xdh7_W0AhvL-S0P0LxgUIicPgvzGEFgNj_21QDPABapFPXs0G9YE208vuVummoUSQM4AE0hQK9Yf_M3bApM3NWtQTpmii1jPjYb/w400-h225/6C83A4C7-9F3F-4359-BA4C-076DEC54B438_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZog88MB5pXog3q9okt_De-x0rR3BCXjJrM0avOmJK6lM0aFAWxvii9fYCO2rIwaY6vxcnC_3No6q64KWVCr5UTIFdltLkVWKro0kuQJlIRqY2ERghEtAiHVipzLf-p0st-rA-xAhWidvHv6M5Uvc9xWIDFRPqggr3txWOll86bJefeMZlpNtzPWLq/s4592/452CD1D9-6FB9-45F8-99A3-647A9DD24059_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2584" data-original-width="4592" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZog88MB5pXog3q9okt_De-x0rR3BCXjJrM0avOmJK6lM0aFAWxvii9fYCO2rIwaY6vxcnC_3No6q64KWVCr5UTIFdltLkVWKro0kuQJlIRqY2ERghEtAiHVipzLf-p0st-rA-xAhWidvHv6M5Uvc9xWIDFRPqggr3txWOll86bJefeMZlpNtzPWLq/w400-h225/452CD1D9-6FB9-45F8-99A3-647A9DD24059_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAPbwjnHfGClBRak_n1of20PZO9qOXTeQpvzYERYjf0ZO8C7OYVR6j1iVaxXLfvAv3Im98S-nBhiVsMVnmZhdoCV3go1D-bnckDXRWpJX3hyFiaPKc-MmvF0HNcK2pNJgkyCX21RnjVQJFTuOxEK6m-2QxHjYJW5Gb8H__b5v7vNsbFdrYDsusvQa/s4592/CF9E4237-5D7A-4008-8734-2DC156688D62_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2584" data-original-width="4592" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAPbwjnHfGClBRak_n1of20PZO9qOXTeQpvzYERYjf0ZO8C7OYVR6j1iVaxXLfvAv3Im98S-nBhiVsMVnmZhdoCV3go1D-bnckDXRWpJX3hyFiaPKc-MmvF0HNcK2pNJgkyCX21RnjVQJFTuOxEK6m-2QxHjYJW5Gb8H__b5v7vNsbFdrYDsusvQa/w400-h225/CF9E4237-5D7A-4008-8734-2DC156688D62_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Back in Karaniganj, the ships are drawn up onto the muddy banks of the heavily polluted, and in places, foul-smelling Buriganga river. A few hundred metres from the water, behind the ships, there are small houses where many of the workers and their families live. It is here that new propellers are made. Visitors venturing this far need to tread very carefully as they pass red hot metal and open fires, trying not to breathe in the steam, smoke and sulphurous air, while avoiding areas of soft, sinking ground. None of this seems to trouble the workers or the children, or the goats and dogs that live, play and wander around in this area.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><p>Some of those children are themselves employed here. One 18 year old painter told me he started work in the shipyard when he was 12. He was one of very few wearing some kind of protection - a thin scarf covering his mouth and nose. He removed it and asked me to take his picture. There are reports of children as young as five or six carrying out some of the tasks but I did not see this when I visited. </p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Amidst the mud, noise and noxious fumes there are occasional scenes of beauty. I saw a young man climb down from a ship, his movements delicate and precise, like those of a dancer. As he descended he made shadows and shapes on the freshly painted, vivid red ship. He swung and stepped from one narrow wooden platform to another, manoeuvring by the rope used to secure the wood to the ship. Elsewhere groups of three or four men stood on similar structures, removing paint or adding an extra coat. Like their workmates, they make about $5 per day. A little further on, water poured from the rear of one of the ships. A labourer waiting close-by, appeared to be standing under the water - taking a shower fully clothed. But this was a visual trick and no water touched him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WnsthBPjvKbtpOaTKviB0Ovz9owVtsEVuEDxi9MaDP81euxjRVeHVidv2vH1eHhYFFfDDQr1RwUToeC1lksATOmoR9OWB4FAa0s4qtgbfzkO5YG5xYJycHT6ctxRleQiIXLyt6k6-sw18gyGDIu69hweUKpQ6Vhq_sfTc0TBMS6LbHdA1nR8tlmY/s4592/8F5B91D8-C53A-4C1A-81ED-55E3327C9930.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="2584" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WnsthBPjvKbtpOaTKviB0Ovz9owVtsEVuEDxi9MaDP81euxjRVeHVidv2vH1eHhYFFfDDQr1RwUToeC1lksATOmoR9OWB4FAa0s4qtgbfzkO5YG5xYJycHT6ctxRleQiIXLyt6k6-sw18gyGDIu69hweUKpQ6Vhq_sfTc0TBMS6LbHdA1nR8tlmY/w360-h640/8F5B91D8-C53A-4C1A-81ED-55E3327C9930.jpeg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgmgBYIaGLpJHNU9fJ1xZVROjiOe7w8-ztuL6rvb0MI64XRgyEsMt1VBM8sZpLz-i41AgAnaKx5WBkWTBQDDK3Vjn--6A8ZsdrgomGJcM4klrsys-wFzZK2J987lIuK7-JKAeca3J6uuhm8imuHEPV5kZThhg6Fhk2EWDEyxfCkeDmLbGtA7oIreg/s4592/AD139BB8-20E8-4172-8CCA-AED4A494768F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="2584" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgmgBYIaGLpJHNU9fJ1xZVROjiOe7w8-ztuL6rvb0MI64XRgyEsMt1VBM8sZpLz-i41AgAnaKx5WBkWTBQDDK3Vjn--6A8ZsdrgomGJcM4klrsys-wFzZK2J987lIuK7-JKAeca3J6uuhm8imuHEPV5kZThhg6Fhk2EWDEyxfCkeDmLbGtA7oIreg/w360-h640/AD139BB8-20E8-4172-8CCA-AED4A494768F.jpeg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikZ9MqdYwsDTPtPpcF15G-N8N5TzTI7tRzhxhRMbv9DWMyd1qctiYSqk-F1r2ZHTdraFq9vdl3Qdog_bLEagTy5MtzO5gU0nWgax1Hqw0DTryLG4sht7HGMhkwlidlMIMm0VExU67FKnPgUTnSeXfTkrtQpyWOSNa5mf9CDpixfnQl-hzFiDfppKru/s4592/4C526132-BBED-4003-989B-3E88EC56A934_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="2584" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikZ9MqdYwsDTPtPpcF15G-N8N5TzTI7tRzhxhRMbv9DWMyd1qctiYSqk-F1r2ZHTdraFq9vdl3Qdog_bLEagTy5MtzO5gU0nWgax1Hqw0DTryLG4sht7HGMhkwlidlMIMm0VExU67FKnPgUTnSeXfTkrtQpyWOSNa5mf9CDpixfnQl-hzFiDfppKru/w360-h640/4C526132-BBED-4003-989B-3E88EC56A934_1_201_a.jpeg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">A couple of hours in the shipyard was enough for me. It was hot, my head ached, my eyes were itchy and I'd pulled my scarf up over my nose and mouth to block the dust and fumes. Just before leaving, I was offered a drink at a small tea stall near the exit. I joined a group of workers, taking a break, drinking chai and eating snacks to give themselves a little more energy to complete their shift. They wanted to know my name, where I am from and what I was doing there. I don't speak Bangla but was able to use some of my limited knowledge of Hindi, which surprised and amused those who understood it. Many of them were not from Dhaka but had moved there to find work. Most of them had left school aged 10 or 12. They joked with each other and we spoke about football, films and family before they went back to work and I went back back to my hotel. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgppPJS7HxCi5_7u3MU96w0mwU5uIUvKoWUWaH5_ATIlb37AfuB6Xl23YvSHnhMVjGvrTnC88JOiZwfWgcVn0GvaexqrgCBhhX5nBLiZB0fd2HVbe7VxMlw535vtH6DskBzg9MELTJIpulHETxliHM9RBuCeyaqu9SxQx-STK2JTBTykD-SSvvXXfe7/s4592/126FDCBF-073A-4553-969A-D0D8707628BA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="2584" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgppPJS7HxCi5_7u3MU96w0mwU5uIUvKoWUWaH5_ATIlb37AfuB6Xl23YvSHnhMVjGvrTnC88JOiZwfWgcVn0GvaexqrgCBhhX5nBLiZB0fd2HVbe7VxMlw535vtH6DskBzg9MELTJIpulHETxliHM9RBuCeyaqu9SxQx-STK2JTBTykD-SSvvXXfe7/w360-h640/126FDCBF-073A-4553-969A-D0D8707628BA.jpeg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2022/03/there-is-no-work-without-hard-work.html">"There is no work without hard work" </a> or <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-rickshaw-woman-of-kamalapur-stories.html">The Rickshaw Woman of Kamalpur</a> from the Stories of Bangladesh series.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">You can see more pictures from my Bangladesh trip <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/yekkes/albums/72177720296947465">here</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Follow me on instagram at <a href="https://www.instagram.com/adrianyekkes/">@adrianyekkes</a></div>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-34743567688889780632022-03-19T09:11:00.004+00:002022-07-24T21:28:10.321+01:00"There Is No Work Without Hard Work" - Stories From Bangladesh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvhcOB62Nwz_fp3B66NcinuaxkL9lqlBIZWlyqJfnQLixXG8Gl97IzqgGl6BegHR-TwUSY76CeFJelJ46CAjMw_wugboMhU7M5M-w9dlFVfqxYovE7ME_14hLoMvTiJ1wGHi0wqR1efsVW3ElMXXMavq2PBzSMUK8MHJZP_sW6Q5CSwAJ0VebKjE05=s4592" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2584" data-original-width="4592" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvhcOB62Nwz_fp3B66NcinuaxkL9lqlBIZWlyqJfnQLixXG8Gl97IzqgGl6BegHR-TwUSY76CeFJelJ46CAjMw_wugboMhU7M5M-w9dlFVfqxYovE7ME_14hLoMvTiJ1wGHi0wqR1efsVW3ElMXXMavq2PBzSMUK8MHJZP_sW6Q5CSwAJ0VebKjE05=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"In Bangladesh, there is no work without hard work" said Omison, a day labourer at Mirpur, Dhaka. </span>Just a few kilometres from the centre of the city, Mirpur is one of several places in Dhaka where goods are delivered for unloading and onward sale. All day, hundreds of labourers collect 30kg baskets of coal, place them on their heads and then walk up a steep narrow plank before emptying the goods onto a dark, dusty mountain. They repeat this process over and over again. For each load, a foreman hands them a plastic token. The tokens are collected at the end of the day and the workers are paid 3 thaka for each one. That's less than 3 pence. A cup of street tea in Dhaka costs between 5 and 10 thaka. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Omison is not sure of her age, but thinks she is about 60. She wore a purple and orange floral print sari, part of which she pulled up to cover her head in the way many Bangladeshi women do when talking to strangers. I asked her how she came to be working as a labourer. She said "I've been doing this work for many years. I can't remember exactly when I started. It's very hard but I don't want to beg". I asked about her family. She said, "I am originally from Jamalpur. My father was a farm worker and my mother begged in the street. I live alone. I don't have a husband and my son is dead." I pressed a little, still curious about why she is doing this particular type of work. "I didn't go to school" she said. "I am not educated. I tried to get work in a garment factory or in the home of a wealthy lady but they wouldn't take me. What else can I do?"</div><div><br /></div><div>As I stood and watched, the endless line of workers moved up and down the ramp, their motion regular and unchanging like the workings of a clock and their moving shadows reflected on the side of the barge. They have a short break in the morning and another one for lunch when, for a few thaka, they can buy rice and watery curry from one of the stalls that have sprung up to serve them. The breaks are taken in shifts. The line never stops.</div></div><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpNeWpioeazg1cQEEnZSjiWoQlU0qa_Ky2V1639yVyuwlENHKp7cb_3gDhVqb6N2p6aNXBKbY8vs4WtQIHHWfb0hOYnrd8GkJr85mdYBMwiftCUsQ4FL4dBVCHRwStNjT06MnC9dVqZbhbUF35zR1CAh5FhvAUcm2h7GFdPAWwvKLq9YEoiFGyHlWP=s4592" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2584" data-original-width="4592" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpNeWpioeazg1cQEEnZSjiWoQlU0qa_Ky2V1639yVyuwlENHKp7cb_3gDhVqb6N2p6aNXBKbY8vs4WtQIHHWfb0hOYnrd8GkJr85mdYBMwiftCUsQ4FL4dBVCHRwStNjT06MnC9dVqZbhbUF35zR1CAh5FhvAUcm2h7GFdPAWwvKLq9YEoiFGyHlWP=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"I have to take painkillers every day after work so that I can sleep"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Most of the workers are men, but there are also several women. Most of them younger than Omison, but at a different location, I met a woman doing similar work who said she was 66. Male or female, they have similar stories. Most of their parents were day labourers either in rural areas or in the city. The majority had either never been to school or had received only a few years of education. Despite this, they were hopeful for their children and the younger workers I spoke to claimed to be sending their sons and daughters to school. This does not mean that they will complete their education and many Bangladeshi children leave the classroom before they reach their teens, to start work and to help the family survive.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">All of the workers I met told me they suffer from headaches, back pain and problems with their knees and shoulders. Krishna, aged 30 said "I have to take painkillers every day after work so that I can sleep". I asked if they had respiratory problems because of their exposure to the coal dust. All of them said the dust did not affect them. I hope that this is true but as Dhaka has recently been identified as having the <a href="https://www.thedailystar.net/environment/pollution/air-pollution/news/dhaka-again-ranks-worlds-most-polluted-city-2976026">poorest air quality</a> of any city in the world, it may be that they haven't noticed due to their constantly breathing in dust and other pollutants.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Most day labourers cannot afford to be ill. They are only paid for the work they do and there is no sick-pay. I asked how they had managed during Covid. Tinku, aged 48 said "It was a struggle. I have two children to feed. I had to buy food and pay the rent, so I took a loan from an NGO". He is now making repayments at an interest rate of 15%. Omison had been able to stay at home. "Friends helped me" she said and then added "I didn't have to beg". She mentioned begging three times during our conversation. Financial security is precarious here and many live with the fear of having to ask for money in the streets. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1ondur1pkLeAldIN7Nm5LX2Igw1npG8GPKOCc0Q_DCMT2NsTGHbTpuS6sUv9tHThMmBlBnbxvtde1XeUuMidpiADELhjOhX0TNKq5ZwdWRN8_XvUmoAS1z32WfWYYKLTz-mJ3tf9NcBgO7VkzJLzXNmOopcGYp-jSo33oXZfTG2hDqjq19PNycK1F=s4592" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2584" data-original-width="4592" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1ondur1pkLeAldIN7Nm5LX2Igw1npG8GPKOCc0Q_DCMT2NsTGHbTpuS6sUv9tHThMmBlBnbxvtde1XeUuMidpiADELhjOhX0TNKq5ZwdWRN8_XvUmoAS1z32WfWYYKLTz-mJ3tf9NcBgO7VkzJLzXNmOopcGYp-jSo33oXZfTG2hDqjq19PNycK1F=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Dreaming of some other place</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Bangladesh is full of surprises. In the midst of this hard labour, two Hijra, members of the country's third gender community, sat on the ground, one arranging the other's hair. They saw me, and start pulling faces and joking. They were quickly joined by two other Hijra who begin to dance, and to pretend to fight, as they staged a "scene" for the camera. They are also employed as labourers which is most unusual. I have met and interviewed several members of this community in India, but have never encountered or heard of Hijra working as labourers.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Beside the food stalls, there was, of all things, an ice-cream kiosk. A small boy, in a long-sleeved shirt and tatty shorts, stood a few feet away from it, slowly eating an ice-cream on stick. His legs and feet were covered in grey dust. I was certain that one, or both of his parents, were unloading coal. He briefly looked at the camera, but not in an excited or curious way like many children do. Rather, he had a detached air, as if he wasn't really there and was dreaming of some other place. He may well have been dreaming of better things, but the cruel truth is that when he reaches his teenage years, he is likely to be doing the same work as his parents.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_mcJ52SMhdNqRanOTSrOpbw_IWpn4dKBkMPzr7ZZV7M3dc29LVS_VXXJ5oHWFuzdLpFz_gHrrpNqgFZKPGVFewIwio_eJv1WFAjRcjDIPLZ-8Ue5vKGLiRvyFB6n6U7RUIY8o8LJAqC8sMdPu8KERri5QQN5q851hkM8GoXi9Kn8wQYnsHWmgIIlT=s4592" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2584" data-original-width="4592" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_mcJ52SMhdNqRanOTSrOpbw_IWpn4dKBkMPzr7ZZV7M3dc29LVS_VXXJ5oHWFuzdLpFz_gHrrpNqgFZKPGVFewIwio_eJv1WFAjRcjDIPLZ-8Ue5vKGLiRvyFB6n6U7RUIY8o8LJAqC8sMdPu8KERri5QQN5q851hkM8GoXi9Kn8wQYnsHWmgIIlT=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">You might also like <a href="https://adrianyekkes.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-rickshaw-woman-of-kamalapur-stories.html">The Rickshaw Woman of Kamalapur</a> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">You can see more pictures from my Bangladesh trip <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/yekkes/albums/72177720296947465">here</a>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Follow me on instagram <a href="https://www.instagram.com/adrianyekkes/">@adrianyekkes</a></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594943214258392471.post-89379389568476817842022-03-13T09:37:00.002+00:002022-03-17T20:00:54.815+00:00The Rickshaw Woman of Kamalapur - Stories From Bangladesh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIENhGFTyUX76z_Vidh90cezgZD2N_Wfa0xTS2W3vsRxyjswwdspdmUB9yUcEujOj4S8R4wRu_4ZgCicnA0VmowrCh8lKniXZcK9g5v3Y2Qx9p1fUVS-59Fg7lCgVv10Uf21izox_Xsa-gAhSaOjMTnn0X6P2BGO7ogp9MRrKUK-Mk661iMtSO7Z85=s4592" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4592" data-original-width="2584" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIENhGFTyUX76z_Vidh90cezgZD2N_Wfa0xTS2W3vsRxyjswwdspdmUB9yUcEujOj4S8R4wRu_4ZgCicnA0VmowrCh8lKniXZcK9g5v3Y2Qx9p1fUVS-59Fg7lCgVv10Uf21izox_Xsa-gAhSaOjMTnn0X6P2BGO7ogp9MRrKUK-Mk661iMtSO7Z85=w360-h640" width="360" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">I met Noor Jehan outside Kamalapur, Dhaka's main railway station. Not the Noor Jehan who was Pakistan's best-known actress and singer, but her namesake, who is one of the city's two known women rickshaw drivers. I asked her how she came to be doing this work. She said "I began six years ago when my drug-addicted husband finally left me. I need to support my two daughters and I want them to complete their education." Her girls are now aged 13 and nine and their photographs are displayed on the back of her rickshaw. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>"My name is Noor Jehan"</b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I went to <a href="https://www.tbsnews.net/feature/habitat/architectural-significance-kamalapur-railway-station-184351">Kamalpur</a>, Dhaka's main station to admire the modernist architecture, and to look for pictures and stories. Kamalapur is a mini-version of Dhaka. Huge crowds flow in and out of the station. Hawkers, beggars and street kids take up residence under the external canopies, hoping to make enough money to feed themselves, and dozens of rickshaw and tuk-tuk drivers wait, anticipating customers. At night (and sometimes during the day) homeless people sleep here. The mood is often raucous as the drivers tease each other or minor disputes break out between the other occupants. The drivers drink tea purchased from a street vendor and drive a hard bargain with commuters and shoppers before setting off on their next journey.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In the midst of this activity I noticed a woman standing beside a rickshaw, with a small crowd around her. She wore a gamcha (worker's towel) as a hijab and held the handle-bars of an electronic rickshaw. I have never seen a woman rickshaw driver in my travels around India and did not expect to meet one in Bangladesh. Together with Liton, my guide and interpreter, I drew closer and we began to talk to her. She was small and quietly spoken and understandably seemed a little suspicious at first. We introduced ourselves and she said "My name is Noor Jehan".</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I wanted to know how she became a driver, and how people reacted to her. This was only my second day in Bangladesh but I had already learned that if I stop to speak to someone, a small crowd will gather, follow the conversation and sometimes try to add to, or dispute, the answers I'm given. The canopy at Kamalapur was no exception and very quickly a large group gathered, including other drivers, passers-by and a couple of Hijra, all of them taking close interest in our conversation. It was clear that this wasn't the best place to talk, so we hired her, and she took us for a drive around central Dakha.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> "I am determined I will never beg and nor will my daughters".</b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Driving in Dhaka at four in the afternoon is not for the faint hearted. Actually, driving in Dhaka at any time is not for the faint-hearted. There are too many vehicles, not enough space and the rules of the road are interpreted very broadly. The rickshaw is a very fragile vehicle and when surrounded by cars, buses and overloaded trucks the driver and passengers are vulnerable. Despite this I love traveling this way, being close to the activity, and getting a different view of the street. But of course, I don't have to do this to earn a living. Noor copes with this every day.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">She explained how the rickshaw system works. She rents the vehicle from the garage, for 300 thaka, per day, which is about £3. By 4pm on the day I met her she had made 400 and so had only just cleared a profit. She would go on working until the evening while a neighbour looked after her daughters. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I asked her how she managed to secure the job. "I needed work but didn't know what I could do. I thought maybe I could drive a rickshaw and so I went to a garage and asked to rent one. The owner laughed and told me to go away. He said the work is too hard for a woman and that I wouldn't be able to do it. But I didn't give up and eventually he agreed to rent an e-rickshaw to me". I wondered about the response of the other rickshaw drivers and how they treated her. "Some are pleasant and encourage me" she said, "others are not pleasant and say bad things. It's the same with the customers". Shortly after starting our drive I saw an example of this less pleasant behaviour. While we were waiting at a traffic light, a man leaned out of a bus window, shouted something and leered at us. Liton shouted something back and the man quickly sat down. I asked him what had been said. "He was rude and asked us why we had chosen a woman driver. I told him to mind his own business" he said. From the expression on the man's face, I suspect it may have been something a little stronger than that. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I asked if she was there were any other woman rickshaw drivers in the city. "I only know about one other" she replied. "I've seen a woman driving a rickshaw in the university area but I've never spoken with her". After twenty minutes we made our way back to the station. As we said goodbye we wished her and her daughters luck before insisting she accept the tip that she twice refused. "Remember me in your prayers" she said, "I am happy to work hard for my girls. I am determined I will never beg and nor will my daughters".</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Logistics for my trip were managed by <a href="https://nativeeyetravel.com">Native Eye </a>and <a href="https://bangladeshecotours.com/aboutus/">Bangladesh Eco Tours.</a></p><p style="text-align: justify;">You can see more pictures from my Bangladesh trip <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/yekkes/albums/72177720296947465">here</a>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Follow me on instagram <a href="https://www.instagram.com/adrianyekkes/">@adrianyekkes</a></p>Yekkeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04946085834861575574noreply@blogger.com0