I recently administered exams here in Hyderabad, and it became clear that cheating is a way of life in my school and, from what I hear, in many Indian schools. I’m quite accustomed to being the hawking watch-dog during 10th grade exams or while proctoring SATs, and I feel like I’ve got a pretty good handle on the techniques often employed by desperate teens. I see the warning signs—the shifty eyes, the restless hands, the slightly irregular tilt of the head.
On the first day of exams, I walked into the room and my cheat odometer practically blew a fuse. The students weren’t cheating at that point, of course, but the potential for cheating was remarkable. One student from class 6 and one from class 7 sat at one desk. Superficially, this seems like a good idea as both students are taking different tests. However, the reality is that the older student just last year completed a similar test and can thus easily help the other student. And vice versa, even the younger student might help the older student if he/she was better at Hindi or Sanskrit. With 45 students in each classroom, it is almost impossible to catch a student who slyly points to an answer on his neighbor’s page.
Then, of course, there are those lovely desks that have the shelf built-in underneath. Although I suppose I could have looked into every student’s desk for a cheat-sheet before the exam, I ultimately concluded it would give students more ideas. Alarm bells started ringing even louder when I saw all of the students whipping out clipboards. First of all, attaching a cheat-sheet to a clipboard is pretty easy, and secondly, clipboards are tiltable—perfect for classmates sitting behind you. Then, oh joy, there are the pencil boxes that every student owns. These pencil boxes are opened, closed, and shared during the test. Perfect places for a little card of answers? You betcha.
I also found it interesting that the students kept their exam questions. I asked a teacher about this, and she said that each teacher writes slightly different questions each year, so it isn’t a problem. My response? It’s a national curriculum used year after year. How different could the questions be??
Needless to say, I caught quite a few students attempting to cheat. The first two I nabbed writing Sanskrit answers on their hands, and I brought them down to their teacher for remonstration. What did the teacher do after I had explained the situation? Chuckled and shook her head. She wasn’t going to do anything. Happily, another teacher was on the scene and gave the students a royal tongue-lashing. But that was the extent of the consequences.
One of the most difficult aspects of my exam week was that I was not allowed to proctor my own tests. Thus, when I began correcting my classes’ exams, I soon discovered that not all of the teachers were as vigilant as I. But it was hard to prove it until I found two tests that were identical; even the letters to their brothers were exactly the same. So I righteously stomped off to the teacher who was in charge of exams, to ask her about the school’s policy regarding the matter. She looked at the papers, smiled, and then told me to give them both a warning. "Tell them that if it happens again, it will be 10 points off." My stomach churned. "You mean give them the exact same, high grade?" It was reaffirmed. Perhaps I took it too personally, but I seriously felt ill. "Should I report the matter to the principal?" "No." I didn’t even bother mentioning to her that this "first case" of cheating would occur year after year if there was no uniform documentation. And a warning is worth the risk if failing is the other option.
I ended up writing to my exchange partner in Vermont and asking her advice. She gave a much more reasonable response, to my relief, and I penalized both students in the end.
Now I am known by the teachers for my ability to catch students cheating. Even the stone-faced principal poked fun at me during a presentation I made this week
My impression is that many of the teachers are accomplices to cheaters in order to avoid confrontations with disgruntled parents. I’m now calling it the "Don’t show, and I won’t look" policy. Teachers quietly look the other way while students "do what they need to do." And I am left asking, what is the point of this educational system???
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Beggars
Beggars are coming up to my apartment now. It’s definitely uncomfortable. I had the window open the other day, and suddenly I realized there was a woman outside of it. She was standing there, not looking in at me, but more at the window pane itself. She was speaking, probably in the local Telegu dialect. At one point, I think she caught a glimpse of me and realized that I did not understand. Another woman came up to her; they laughed briefly, and then moved on.
Today someone rang my doorbell. It was after dark, and I was a little nervous because my principal had warned me just today about letting unknown people into my apartment. I opened the door, and an old man started saying something urgent to me. It wasn’t English and I pointed upwards questioningly, "Do you want the people living above me?" I was a little skeptical when he shook his head yes. My suspicions were confirmed when my landlady’s son came down to talk with the man. "The beggars are getting creative," he told me. "He said that ‘aunty’ had sent him. I asked him to describe her, and he couldn’t."
I have a suspicion that people are going door to door right now because it’s Ramadan. During Ramadan, Muslims are encouraged to be extra hospitable and generous to those less fortunate. I live in a very Muslim neighborhood, so I think they are actually targeting my landlady’s family more than me. This makes me feel better.
The whole beggar situation is quite tricky. I’ve heard various stances on it. Some advise that you give every so often, others say they only give to those who are physically handicapped and thus can’t work, and then there are those that advise that you never give to beggars. It is very true that it is always a risk to give—I once took out a coin to give a little girl, and suddenly a mob of children materialized. I’ve also heard that people are purposely deformed in childhood so that they will be lucrative beggars. (It happens in A Fine Balance.) At this point, I’ve made a not-so-firm decision to withhold my money. I ease my guilt by reassuring myself that I’ll give a chunk of money to a good organization before I leave.
Today someone rang my doorbell. It was after dark, and I was a little nervous because my principal had warned me just today about letting unknown people into my apartment. I opened the door, and an old man started saying something urgent to me. It wasn’t English and I pointed upwards questioningly, "Do you want the people living above me?" I was a little skeptical when he shook his head yes. My suspicions were confirmed when my landlady’s son came down to talk with the man. "The beggars are getting creative," he told me. "He said that ‘aunty’ had sent him. I asked him to describe her, and he couldn’t."
I have a suspicion that people are going door to door right now because it’s Ramadan. During Ramadan, Muslims are encouraged to be extra hospitable and generous to those less fortunate. I live in a very Muslim neighborhood, so I think they are actually targeting my landlady’s family more than me. This makes me feel better.
The whole beggar situation is quite tricky. I’ve heard various stances on it. Some advise that you give every so often, others say they only give to those who are physically handicapped and thus can’t work, and then there are those that advise that you never give to beggars. It is very true that it is always a risk to give—I once took out a coin to give a little girl, and suddenly a mob of children materialized. I’ve also heard that people are purposely deformed in childhood so that they will be lucrative beggars. (It happens in A Fine Balance.) At this point, I’ve made a not-so-firm decision to withhold my money. I ease my guilt by reassuring myself that I’ll give a chunk of money to a good organization before I leave.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Frozen Moment in Time
Today was one of those days that just clicked. After a pretty normal school-day, I hunkered down in the women’s staff room to wait for my Indian dance class at 6. That’s right—this was one of the exciting events of the day, but we’ll soon come to that. I decided to wander over to the computer lab and do a little e-mailing before it closed down. I turned on a computer, but ended up having a long and interesting conversation with one of the male math teachers.
This wouldn’t have been so odd back in the US, but here males and females are quite segregated—you might have noticed that physically they are separated on the bus as well as in the school staff rooms. So the male teachers simply avoid me. They’ll greet me with a short, "hello," but I don’t even think they’re really meeting my eyes during the passing. This is very typical of educated males in India, as they respect the rules of the society; it is a token of respect that they do not treat me differently than an Indian woman. It would be uncouth to begin a personal conversation with a female teacher, and I imagine this is particularly true for young, foreign, female teachers.
But in the privacy of the computer lab, after hours, we managed to have a great back-and-forth. I was particularly delighted because he wanted to hear about the US educational system, my topic of expertise. I had been feeling a little frustrated with the seeming lack of interest by the female teachers, with whom I share most of my idle hours in the staff room. During breaks, the female staff room can get a little . . . well, shall I say, estrogenized? It seems that someone is always upset (and by this I mean angry, not sad) about something. Whether it’s about the principal, the students, or with each other, I really can’t say—although it’s certainly all three at some point during the week. These Hindi verbal battles are rarely directed at me, but let’s just say they don’t really make for a relaxed working environment. Emotions are certainly on the surface here, and they come out enforce sometimes. But, in any case, it’s always a little disappointing to me when I finish my lunch and realize that I’ve again sat through 20 minutes of conversation that I can’t understand.
So, getting back to the story, having an educated conversation with a male teacher was really a pleasure. Our talk even concluded with him giving me some advice about cultural presentations in Hyderabad. He didn’t offer to take me to anything (that would be crossing the line, I imagine) but he did write down two places that have performances every evening.
I was then called away to meet an English teacher from a neighboring KV school, who is also my exchange teacher’s close friend. She had come to the school explicitly to meet me and seemed to genuinely want to know how I was fairing in India. She promised to take me to some places in Hyderabad and perhaps even on a day trip outside of the city. She also expressed an interest in observing some of my classes, and then ultimately doing some team-teaching. It’s so nice to again be a respected professional; I had forgotten how hard my standing was won at RHS, and how much I appreciate their regard. I am really hoping that she’ll follow through with her intentions, as this could be a really valuable cultural exchange—exactly what my Fulbright is all about.
They started closing the school at 4, so I took off to find the row of stores located on the compound. (Have I mentioned that my school is on a military compound?) As I was walking by a nice park, I heard a car pull up and a man’s voice say, "hey hey hey!" I nonchalantly looked the other direction, into the park, as if remarking on the beautiful gardens. The owner of the voice didn’t leave, however, and then I suddenly heard my name. I turned to see Mani and Rani (my facilitator), smiling at me. I jumped into their car and they happily took me home with them (they live on the compound) for a snack of fried eggs and toast and even a little homemade wine.
Mani dropped me off at my dance class, which is taught by a young female teacher, Archana. She also teaches at my school, and this is how I was connected with her. I walked in to watch about 10 little elementary school girls do Indian dances for me. I was amazed at their display of fine motor skills at such a young age. The finger patterns involved in Indian dance are just beautiful but also challenging, as I was soon to discover. After a few dances, the teacher dismissed the students and turned her attention to me. Archana is a lovely young woman, the first woman who is approximately my age that I have met so far. She began by teaching me the beginning and ending stretch/prayer that is done to thank Brahma for allowing us to beat our feet upon the earth. The movements include a thanks to the gods (signified by joining fingertips above the head), to gurus (signified by joining palms and touching them to the forehead), and then to elders (signified by joining palms in front of the chest).
Then we did a few basic steps, and I think she was encouraged about my ability. (She admitted afterward that she had been nervous about teaching me.) The two older students then guided me through some of the more advanced steps of a dance. It got a little overwhelming at one point when one person was correcting my hand movements, another reminding me about my feet, and then the third critiquing my facial expression. "No, no! You are too happy, you must be serious, with little smile. You are showing Brahma!"
I must admit that I didn’t get all three pieces moving in tandem, but I think I’m getting there. The best part was that Archana would explain to me the history of the dance and the meaning of each movement. The dance I was learning was explaining how the guru (teacher) is lifted to the level of a god. (Pretty appropriate dance for me to learn, I think.) During the dance, all three of the primary gods are depicted: Brahma, the maker of the world; Vishnu, the operator of the world; and Shiva, the God in charge of death. Each hand motion signifies one of them. I felt like I was in an Indian painting.
They wanted to see some American dance towards the end of the class, and I must admit I was at a loss. How many years of dance have I taken, but I couldn’t really show them "American" dancing. . . I guess maybe I could have started grinding or something but, no. Instead I asked them what kind they’d like to see. "Salsa!" was their response. I chuckled, but didn’t point out that this was not a very American dance. Luckily, I had learned the basic salsa step during my TAing days in Chicago, so I did a little bit of that and then threw in a few spins and they loved it. They wanted to see another kind of dance, and I finally decided to show them a little bit of what they might see in the club. . . at a hip-hop show. If you’ve seen me dance, I’m sure you can imagine. Needless to say, they were quite amused (and impressed, of course, by my flashy moves!)
I took the bus home that night. It was around 7:20, and the city had come to life in a new way. Most stores here are open-air stores, and they close with a sliding, metal garage door. Everything was open on my way home, and I enjoyed peaking into each lighted box. Each store was a portrait, a frozen moment in time.
I have moments sometimes when I just feel too incredibly fortune to be here, and emotion fills my eyes. It is at these times that my center catches up with my environment and I am fully present and aware. This was one such moment. My experience came together last night.
This wouldn’t have been so odd back in the US, but here males and females are quite segregated—you might have noticed that physically they are separated on the bus as well as in the school staff rooms. So the male teachers simply avoid me. They’ll greet me with a short, "hello," but I don’t even think they’re really meeting my eyes during the passing. This is very typical of educated males in India, as they respect the rules of the society; it is a token of respect that they do not treat me differently than an Indian woman. It would be uncouth to begin a personal conversation with a female teacher, and I imagine this is particularly true for young, foreign, female teachers.
But in the privacy of the computer lab, after hours, we managed to have a great back-and-forth. I was particularly delighted because he wanted to hear about the US educational system, my topic of expertise. I had been feeling a little frustrated with the seeming lack of interest by the female teachers, with whom I share most of my idle hours in the staff room. During breaks, the female staff room can get a little . . . well, shall I say, estrogenized? It seems that someone is always upset (and by this I mean angry, not sad) about something. Whether it’s about the principal, the students, or with each other, I really can’t say—although it’s certainly all three at some point during the week. These Hindi verbal battles are rarely directed at me, but let’s just say they don’t really make for a relaxed working environment. Emotions are certainly on the surface here, and they come out enforce sometimes. But, in any case, it’s always a little disappointing to me when I finish my lunch and realize that I’ve again sat through 20 minutes of conversation that I can’t understand.
So, getting back to the story, having an educated conversation with a male teacher was really a pleasure. Our talk even concluded with him giving me some advice about cultural presentations in Hyderabad. He didn’t offer to take me to anything (that would be crossing the line, I imagine) but he did write down two places that have performances every evening.
I was then called away to meet an English teacher from a neighboring KV school, who is also my exchange teacher’s close friend. She had come to the school explicitly to meet me and seemed to genuinely want to know how I was fairing in India. She promised to take me to some places in Hyderabad and perhaps even on a day trip outside of the city. She also expressed an interest in observing some of my classes, and then ultimately doing some team-teaching. It’s so nice to again be a respected professional; I had forgotten how hard my standing was won at RHS, and how much I appreciate their regard. I am really hoping that she’ll follow through with her intentions, as this could be a really valuable cultural exchange—exactly what my Fulbright is all about.
They started closing the school at 4, so I took off to find the row of stores located on the compound. (Have I mentioned that my school is on a military compound?) As I was walking by a nice park, I heard a car pull up and a man’s voice say, "hey hey hey!" I nonchalantly looked the other direction, into the park, as if remarking on the beautiful gardens. The owner of the voice didn’t leave, however, and then I suddenly heard my name. I turned to see Mani and Rani (my facilitator), smiling at me. I jumped into their car and they happily took me home with them (they live on the compound) for a snack of fried eggs and toast and even a little homemade wine.
Mani dropped me off at my dance class, which is taught by a young female teacher, Archana. She also teaches at my school, and this is how I was connected with her. I walked in to watch about 10 little elementary school girls do Indian dances for me. I was amazed at their display of fine motor skills at such a young age. The finger patterns involved in Indian dance are just beautiful but also challenging, as I was soon to discover. After a few dances, the teacher dismissed the students and turned her attention to me. Archana is a lovely young woman, the first woman who is approximately my age that I have met so far. She began by teaching me the beginning and ending stretch/prayer that is done to thank Brahma for allowing us to beat our feet upon the earth. The movements include a thanks to the gods (signified by joining fingertips above the head), to gurus (signified by joining palms and touching them to the forehead), and then to elders (signified by joining palms in front of the chest).
Then we did a few basic steps, and I think she was encouraged about my ability. (She admitted afterward that she had been nervous about teaching me.) The two older students then guided me through some of the more advanced steps of a dance. It got a little overwhelming at one point when one person was correcting my hand movements, another reminding me about my feet, and then the third critiquing my facial expression. "No, no! You are too happy, you must be serious, with little smile. You are showing Brahma!"
I must admit that I didn’t get all three pieces moving in tandem, but I think I’m getting there. The best part was that Archana would explain to me the history of the dance and the meaning of each movement. The dance I was learning was explaining how the guru (teacher) is lifted to the level of a god. (Pretty appropriate dance for me to learn, I think.) During the dance, all three of the primary gods are depicted: Brahma, the maker of the world; Vishnu, the operator of the world; and Shiva, the God in charge of death. Each hand motion signifies one of them. I felt like I was in an Indian painting.
They wanted to see some American dance towards the end of the class, and I must admit I was at a loss. How many years of dance have I taken, but I couldn’t really show them "American" dancing. . . I guess maybe I could have started grinding or something but, no. Instead I asked them what kind they’d like to see. "Salsa!" was their response. I chuckled, but didn’t point out that this was not a very American dance. Luckily, I had learned the basic salsa step during my TAing days in Chicago, so I did a little bit of that and then threw in a few spins and they loved it. They wanted to see another kind of dance, and I finally decided to show them a little bit of what they might see in the club. . . at a hip-hop show. If you’ve seen me dance, I’m sure you can imagine. Needless to say, they were quite amused (and impressed, of course, by my flashy moves!)
I took the bus home that night. It was around 7:20, and the city had come to life in a new way. Most stores here are open-air stores, and they close with a sliding, metal garage door. Everything was open on my way home, and I enjoyed peaking into each lighted box. Each store was a portrait, a frozen moment in time.
I have moments sometimes when I just feel too incredibly fortune to be here, and emotion fills my eyes. It is at these times that my center catches up with my environment and I am fully present and aware. This was one such moment. My experience came together last night.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Outward Affections
I find it very ironic that I have never seen anyone kissing on Indian TV, but as a whole Indian culture is much more hands-on. Two men will regularly walk down the street with their arms around each other’s shoulders or holding hands. At first I was impressed; what an open-minded society! But then I realized that it is acceptable for men to touch each other because it is entirely unthinkable that the relationship could be other than platonic. Not so open-minded.
The other Fulbrighter in Hyderabad is having a tough time, because everyone wants to touch his not so touchable 3-year-old. Strangers see him on the street, and immediately run over to pinch his cheeks, rub his head, or even pick him up. I’ve watched as the poor boy runs away from these people screaming, making them want to pinch him even more—so they chase him! I can only imagine how people in the U.S. would react if total strangers started chasing and grabbing their children.
Here’s one physical caress that I discovered. The caresser cups the caressee’s face briefly before making a gentle swiping motion; then they bring their fingertips to their lips and kiss them, as an Italian would after appreciating a good meal. It is so sweet and unobtrusive—no pinching of cheeks like those pesky aunts or up close and personal kissing like those amative French. Just a simple little caress and then kiss to the air.
The other Fulbrighter in Hyderabad is having a tough time, because everyone wants to touch his not so touchable 3-year-old. Strangers see him on the street, and immediately run over to pinch his cheeks, rub his head, or even pick him up. I’ve watched as the poor boy runs away from these people screaming, making them want to pinch him even more—so they chase him! I can only imagine how people in the U.S. would react if total strangers started chasing and grabbing their children.
Here’s one physical caress that I discovered. The caresser cups the caressee’s face briefly before making a gentle swiping motion; then they bring their fingertips to their lips and kiss them, as an Italian would after appreciating a good meal. It is so sweet and unobtrusive—no pinching of cheeks like those pesky aunts or up close and personal kissing like those amative French. Just a simple little caress and then kiss to the air.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Woman on the Bus
I enter a bus, returning from staying at a friend’s house. I scan the front seats, and determine that my best chance of a seat lies in front, next to the saree-clad woman with a few shopping bags. The buses are relative enclaves of safety for me, as hungry-eyed men are relegated to the back seats, and I can tuck myself into a safe nest of women in the front.
The woman sitting next to me looks at me, curiously. I smile, something I would not do if there was a man sitting next to me. She smiles back and says something that I don’t understand. "The USA," I reply, assuming she has asked me what everyone else asks when they first meet me. She nods and smiles and looks out the window shyly. I think the conversation has ended, but a few minutes later she reaches into one of her bags and plucks out two rose blooms, pink and yellow. She offers them to me, and I shake my head, "No, I couldn’t!" But she smiles and takes hold of my hand and presses them into my palm. She smiles and squeezes my hand and nods. I smile and squeeze back.
When she gets off the bus, she looks up and catches my eye. We both smile. We have connected, in some small way. The city streets suddenly seem friendly.
The woman sitting next to me looks at me, curiously. I smile, something I would not do if there was a man sitting next to me. She smiles back and says something that I don’t understand. "The USA," I reply, assuming she has asked me what everyone else asks when they first meet me. She nods and smiles and looks out the window shyly. I think the conversation has ended, but a few minutes later she reaches into one of her bags and plucks out two rose blooms, pink and yellow. She offers them to me, and I shake my head, "No, I couldn’t!" But she smiles and takes hold of my hand and presses them into my palm. She smiles and squeezes my hand and nods. I smile and squeeze back.
When she gets off the bus, she looks up and catches my eye. We both smile. We have connected, in some small way. The city streets suddenly seem friendly.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Teacher's Day
After recovering from a bout of dengue fever (which I don't recommend to anyone), I happily returned to school on a holiday. . . a holiday that celebrated me, in fact! Although I was a little weak, I sat on the stage with the other teachers during the morning assembly. Speeches were made about the value and importance of teachers, and then each teacher (and administrator and staff person, I might add) was called up individually to receive a flower and a fancy pen from their "replacement" for the day. Yes, that's right. Students in classes 10-12 were going to be taking over the classes for the entire day, and the teachers were to sit in our cozy teachers lounge and bask in the glory of being gurus.
Although you might scoff at my use of the word guru, I was actually warned during the Delhi orientation that this is exactly how students view teachers. There is an often told story about a student that stands before God and a teacher, and the student asks, "Whose feet do I touch first?" And the teacher answers that the student should touch God's feet, teaching that one should always give respect to others.
So I went up in front of the school and received my flower, and my replacement teacher bent down to touch my feet before standing and shaking my hand. Then the whole school burst into applause! I was a little taken aback, but then I realized it was probably because I was wearing a salwar kameez for the first time to school. It was a little embarrassing, because no one had clapped before, but I managed to humbly wave, bow, and look sufficiently awkward as I went back to my seat.
The rest of the day was full of cards and flowers and general appreciation. I think it's safe to say that you don't feel unappreciated until you truly feel appreciated, if that makes any sense.
At this point in the blog I think it would be appropriate to report a bit about what I heard from the Academic Joint Commissioner of the KV (government) schools during our orientation in Delhi. He began by getting our attention with a few statistics about government schools. Seventy-five percent are multi-level schools, which means that many classes are taught in the same room (classes 1-5, for instance). All of the Fulbright teachers are placed in big cities, so this was an excellent reminder about how many children are living in rural communities. He also gave a staggering statistic: 53% of primary students drop-out or are forced out of school. By forced out, he meant that they were needed to work and therefore could not continue schooling. This number really shocked me. In fact, I hope I heard him wrong.
His tone was quite hopeful, however, and he convinced me that India is on a new path when it comes to education. He complained about the old system inherited from the British that puts too much emphasis on uniformity and rote learning. He asserted that too much importance is on the tests, and that he wanted education to be more connected with life and more inspired by the child.
It's very interesting. Here is India moving away from a standardized national curriculum and away from emphasizing testing. . . And on the other side of the world America is picking up a more national curriculum and encouraging testing. Our two countries could learn something from each other, I think.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Indian Families
Indians are very proud of their close family ties, and I think they are right to be proud. I was told that, to get the respect of my students and coworkers, I should express my love for my family. As a single woman, I think I already battle a negative image, particularly because I am not traveling with my family. So during my first speech for the school, I stood up and explained that I enjoy reading, taking photographs, and spending time with my family.
Many Hindu holidays tie in beautifully with the intimacy Indians have with their families. For instance, a week ago we celebrated a holiday for brothers and sisters. The girls made beautiful, sometimes ornate, bracelets (rakhi) and tied them to their brother’s wrists. This is a symbolic action, asking for their brothers to protect them. Although I would have been left out of the fun since I didn’t have a brother until recently, I have to admit that it’s a nice tradition honoring the special bond between brothers and sisters.
I finally brought the camera to school and got a shot of the morning prayer. The entire school, classes 1-12 are lined up behind each other. If you zoom in, you can see that some students are a little more intent on their prayers than others. Indian children are not so different from American ones in some respects.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Article
Before I left for India, I arranged with the editor of the Perspective to do a series of articles. The first of these articles came out today. The Perspective section comes out each Sunday in both The Rutland Herald and The Times Argus, so hopefully some of you can check it out in print. The online version is not quite so exciting, as it lacks photos. (That's why I had to ask my dad to send me a photo of it.) If you don't have access to the paper, you can find the text at:
It feels good to be published once in a while. . . adds some authenticity to my teaching.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Hindu-Muslim Tensions
I didn’t need the two bombings to know that Hyderabad is a bastion of religious intolerance. On the second day of my arrival, I experienced the most blatant religious discrimination that I had ever seen first-hand. I was in the market for a cell phone, and a Muslim friend had offered to give me his old one. When I told my Hindu friends, they practically exploded.
"Do not take the phone. We do not know this Muslim boy."
"He is a Muslim. You cannot trust him."
"They may turn violent any minute."
"Don’t give them any personal information."
"Don’t you remember the Twin Towers?"
They continued ranting and raving for about 10 minutes, and I was literally stunned into silence. I think my jaw even dropped as I stared at them. It was this expression that prompted them to say the line about September 11, I think. I wish I could say that I jumped right in and started gently pointing out that not all Muslims are extremists or killers, but it was my second day in the city, and I didn’t know this couple very well. I was silent.
Two days later, I was having tea with the same couple in addition to another couple from the school. They brought up the whole cell phone incident, and the other couple immediately agreed. This time I tried to stand up for my Muslim friends, explaining that they had been very kind to me. They told me not to be fooled. "That is how they act on the outside. You do not know what is inside. Don’t be fooled. Don’t trust them. They will cheat you."
A week later in the staff room, some of these same people expressed disbelief at the bombings. "Why would anyone want to do this? Why would they want to ruin their own city? They are killing their own countrymen."
"Do not take the phone. We do not know this Muslim boy."
"He is a Muslim. You cannot trust him."
"They may turn violent any minute."
"Don’t give them any personal information."
"Don’t you remember the Twin Towers?"
They continued ranting and raving for about 10 minutes, and I was literally stunned into silence. I think my jaw even dropped as I stared at them. It was this expression that prompted them to say the line about September 11, I think. I wish I could say that I jumped right in and started gently pointing out that not all Muslims are extremists or killers, but it was my second day in the city, and I didn’t know this couple very well. I was silent.
Two days later, I was having tea with the same couple in addition to another couple from the school. They brought up the whole cell phone incident, and the other couple immediately agreed. This time I tried to stand up for my Muslim friends, explaining that they had been very kind to me. They told me not to be fooled. "That is how they act on the outside. You do not know what is inside. Don’t be fooled. Don’t trust them. They will cheat you."
A week later in the staff room, some of these same people expressed disbelief at the bombings. "Why would anyone want to do this? Why would they want to ruin their own city? They are killing their own countrymen."
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