Passport Magazine Fall 2011

Volume 14 Fall 2011

bridging theBARZAKH

EVER BEEN AT WARwith YOURSELF?

ALOFA (a-lo-fa)—(n) Love

strength in a CHILD’S EYES

CATHARSISat Kathmandu

Joan Nambuba

Jennifer HongSarah Zhang

Jonathan Lee

Alem BulchaEric EmeryJustin KoMatthew WhiteAllie YeeYuqi Zhang

Allie YeeYueran Zhang

Ben DeMarcoRebecca GilJustin KoJonathan LeeElisabeth MichelNadine MichelJoyce OkendoJihye SeoToney ThompsonCaitlin TutterowAlice Yen

editor-in-chief

senior editors

graphics editor

graphics

editors

writers

EDITOR’S NOTE

After spending two months in mbarara, Uganda with some of the most incredible people I have ever met (sawa sawa to my DukeEngage team!), I felt bittersweet leaving the place to which I had become so ac-

customed and returning to the upbeat pace of metropolitan D.C. As the plane descended over the expanse of Appalachian forestry, northern Virginia rolled into view through the small plexiglas of my window. Paved roads and high-ways branched out into planned residential areas with modern architecture, a distinct contrast to the dirt roads, single plots, and varied housing structures of the second largest city in Uganda. I was overcome with an emotion that I had not experienced before—amazement coupled with the tranquil realiza-tion of “I am home.” Cynthia Ozick put it best in her essay The Shock of Tea-pots: “Nothing is so awesomely unfamiliar as the familiar that discloses itself at the end of a journey.”

In many ways, this issue of Passport magazine captures this same emotion. No matter how many times I’ve read about Berlin or heard about the crisis in Haiti, there are always new perspectives writers bring based on their unique experiences around the world. It never ceases to amaze me how much I learn and come to appreciate more about our world with each new issue. So, as you flip through this semester’s publication, I invite you to keep an open mind. I never knew that a massage could be the link between generations nor had I realized just how severe the famine in Somalia had become, despite spend-ing my mornings in Africa watching updates from Al Jazeera. Even then, the images on the screen were not nearly as intriguing as the faces and places captured by our photo essays. And while some continue to keep up with real-ity T.V. shows like Superstar K, others take time to venture out. Hop on a bus to explore the city outskirts of a Malawian capital or consider a more local adventure on the Robertson to enjoy international cuisines off campus.

More shocking than the culmination of one journey is the start of another. This semester has been unlike the rest, not just for me, but for Passport. With a larger staff of eleven enthusiastic and diligent individuals, Passport maga-zine was ready for a change. Unlike our previous issues, we present the four-teenth volume of Passport in full color, giving each piece its own vibrancy and individuality. We hope that you will embrace this change and take flight with us on this new journey of international exploration.

Passport magazine is a member publication authorized by the Undergraduate Publications Board and sponsored by the International House. The views expressed in this publication are the author’s own and do not reflect the opinions of the magazine.

photo by Flavio@Flickr

cover photo by Brendan Lally

1

CONTENTSReal Malawians:Beyond the Walls and Guard Gates

Living in the Barzakh

Korean Kraze:American reality show frenzy meets Hallyu Wave

Nepali Faces & Places

Famine in Somalia

The International Triangle

The Haitian Experience

Girls at War

Memories from Berlin

Aesthetics from Berlin

Alofa

Into Their Eyes

3

5

7

9

13

15

17

21

24

26

27

28

by Alice Yen

by Caitlin Tutterow

by Jihye Seo

by Ben DeMarco

by Toney Thomspon

A Staff Piece

by Nadine Michel

by Joyce Okendo

by Justin Ko

by Jonathan Lee

by Rebecca Gil

by Elisabeth Michelph

oto

by M

ikeb

aird

phot

o by

Mas

terb

utle

rph

oto

by J

PBen

nett

1ph

oto

by J

o@ne

t

2

Fall 2011

by Alice Yen

all photos by author

I came out of the house and peeked through a crack in the white wall that separated me from the dusty road outside. Gideon, the guard, smiled and nodded. “You want to go out?” he asked in choppy English. I looked back at the house and wondered if today would be the day I would venture out on my own. It was my first week in Africa, the place that many of my friends from home imagine to be full of malaria, a place where all natives are likely to go hungry and die. This past summer, I chose to go to Malawi, one of the southern landlocked countries of Africa.

I grinned back at Gideon, “I do want to go out.” His dark eyes glistened and reflect-ed off the sun bearing down on us. It was spontaneous, and I was excited to jump in full throttle. It had been a week since my arrival in the capital city of Lilongwe. Since then, I had been able to explore the government buildings where I spent my workdays and even meet quite a few officials and members of the expatriate commu-nity. I loved it, but I itched to go beyond the walls of the city—to see the real deal, the real Malawi with real Malawians.

I went back to the house, grabbed my pack and water bottle and then headed out.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, Gideon,” I waved as he opened up the iron gates.

“See you soon!” His pearly whites glim-mered against his dark skin.

Two years ago, I spent the summer in Malawi working for a research institute and conducting an in-depth study on agricul-tural policy and climate change. Most of my time was spent surveying households in four different villages located in the southern part of Malawi. Other times, I was based in the capital city working with policymakers at the Ministry of Agriculture.

Because I had only recently arrived in Malawi, I was not sure what to expect. I was not with a formal group—it was just me on my own in Africa. I had set up and designed my own itinerary, figured out the logistics of how I would get from point A to point B, determined which vaccines to take, and made sure I knew which precautions to take. It was only when I arrived that I realized there was so much that I just couldn’t plan for, especially in Africa.

After a lot of searching and planning, I was fortunate enough to find housing in ‘the nice part of town’ with an established foreign doctor from the States. What I hadn’t taken into account before arriving on Malawian soil was that if you live in the nicer part of town, then you are also far removed from the more genuine part of town. As such, one Saturday morning I decided to walk out and meet the locals in an attempt to better understand the community firsthand. I did not really know where I was going but figured that if there was any way to see and be part of Malawi, it was on foot.

Real MalawiansBeyond the Walls and Guard Gates

What I hadn’t taken into account before arriving on Malawian soil was that if you live in the nicer part of town...

“

3

What I thought would be a one to two mile venture turned into nearly seven. Walking from the well-off expatriate area of Lilongwe into the heart of the city without directions meant going in a lot of circles, but it also introduced me to people along the way. Initially, the streets seemed quite empty; I passed by one or two people at most. As I drew closer to the heart of the city, though, I began to see more locals. Eventually, I gathered the courage to strike up some small talk with them about the weather, nsima—the staple food of Malawi—and what I was doing here. In turn, they would tell me their stories from which I learned about the true Malawi through the voices of locals. I encountered

children playing ball in the dusty streets, a woman washing clothes in the river, a man selling bananas, and another selling cell phone minutes at a stand right off the side of the road.

I got a lot of stares, perhaps under-standably so. With pale skin, straight black hair, and small eyes, I was not quite what is considered ‘normal’ in this part of the world. Granted, there is a sizable pop-ulation of foreigners in Lilongwe working for this-or-that foundation, non-profit organization, or think-tank, but a large number of these individuals drive around in black SUVs and other fancy cars. There-fore, it was an unusual sight to see a for-eigner traveling on foot.

After walking for some time, I caught a minibus to the center of town. It was packed and blasting Malawian tunes. At the center, I stood out like a sore thumb and drew more stares. Resolutely ignoring this, I persisted in trying to fit in as much as I could. I ate at a local restaurant of questionable sanita-tion and bought some bananas from the city market. This Saturday was only the begin-ning of how I grew to know and understand Malawi, a gradual venture outside of the capital city. Sure, there were stares along the way, but the opportunity to get to know Malawi beyond the walls and guard gates made it all the more worth it. After all, it was the real Malawi I was looking for, and getting to know it was nothing short of incredible.

snapshots of a Malawian open-air market:

Lilongwe,Republic of

Malawi

...then you are also far removed from the more genuine part of town.

“

4

Fall 2011

There is always that initial shock when you jump into water—the hard impact of the water hitting your body, the breathlessness that comes from immersing yourself. You feel the current pulling against you, and as you struggle to stay up above the roll-ing waves, you temporarily forget the cold. Slowly, you feel the current playing with your toes, curling itself around them only to disappear for a second and then reappearr to wind up your foot and leg. As the cold be-gins to ache in your bones, you look up and see the Rumeli Hisari standing resolutely over the strait of water you are trying to cross. Built during the Ottoman conquest of Constan-tinople in 1451, this fortress has stood over these waters for almost six hundred years, demonstrating the timeless-ness of the area1. Though cold and uncomfortable, you have a strange feeling of belonging, as if this is where you are meant to be, caught in the swift flowing current between two continental megaliths: Europe and Asia.

The Bosphorus Cross-Continental is an annual one-of-a-kind race, offering the rare opportunity to swim from Europe to Asia. A boundary between two continents, the Bos-phorus strait is at once European and Asian, while retaining its own unique identity as a geographical barzakh. The term barzakh can be found in two contexts—Islamic

theology and environmental science. In Islam, the barzakh is the space between this world and the next, a sort of limbo that is neither here nor there2. In environ-mental science, a barzakh is the terminol-ogy used to describe brackish water—water that is neither salty nor sweet (fresh), but a unique mixture of the two. The Bosphorus can then be seen as a geographical phe-nomenon that extends not only to its own waters but to Istanbul, the city that bridges two continents, and Turkey, the nation that is in both Europe and Asia.

This past summer, I had the unique op-portunity to experience a country with a culture that, while situated between two spheres of influence, strives to retain its own identity. Similar to the experience when caught between jumping and fully submerging into water, I was caught be-tween two worlds; I literally lived in the bar-zakh. A common catechism within Turkey is that Turks think with their minds like the

West but feel with their hearts like the East. Imagine, then, being thrown into a culture that exists not only as a geographical dichot-omy but also serves as a cultural dichotomy in itself. Living in Turkey was both exhila-rating and draining. As I watched people navigate the polarizing waters of Western and Eastern influences, they seemed to thrive under opposing ideals. They seemed to breathe above and below the water, to survive in a mix of European and Asian conditions while maintaining their own culture. In comparison, I was just a surface

dweller stuck in my Western mentality, trying to grasp their unique situation.

I stayed in Istanbul for six weeks and also had the opportunity to travel around the country. Throughout my adventures, I was continu-ally struck by how Turkey combined both European and Middle Eastern influences to formulate a distinct culture.

While staying in Antakya (modern day bib-lical Antioch) I woke up in the morning to both Christian church bells and the Muslim call to prayer within a span of minutes. Gift shops would sell necklaces with the Star of David, the cross, and Arabic inscriptions of Allah side by side. Even during the Otto-man Empire, Turkey had a history of eth-nic, religious, and cultural diversity that was unique to the area. Although 99% of

Living In THe

Barzakhby Caitlin Tutterow

5

people consistently welcomed our group with open arms. One of my favorite memories of Turkish hospitality, or edep (an Ottoman concept of the correct way of living), is of a place called Arkadaş Café. When translated, arkadaş means friends, and the family who owned the small restaurant quickly became some of our first Turkish companions, despite the hefty language barrier. We had been told

that tipping was not expected in Tur-key but one member of our group

was so struck by the friendly ser-vice and welcoming attitude that she could not help but leave a small tip. The next time a couple of us went to the café, the owner

gestured for us to come up to the cash register. He handed me a small

stack of coins wrapped in saran wrap and an informational booklet that we had received at a mosque just a few days before. In some broken English, but mostly through gestures, he explained that someone from our group had left the money and book a couple of days ago and he wanted me to return it to them. He did not understand that the money we left on the table was not an accident, but rather a reward—a form of thanks and grati-tude for his service. We had only come into Arkadaş to pick up our takeout but the owner refused to let us leave until we had sat down for a while to drink some complementary tea. Using one of the few Turkish phrases we knew, we thanked him for the tea and the items. The Turkish people have mastered the infrastructure of a Western city but with their hearts demonstrate the importance of cross-cultural conversation, friendship, and a cup of good tea.

While Turkey has created its own new identity, it has not forgotten its past. One can still find traces of edep in almost every Turkish citizen. Known for their hospitality and kindness to strangers, the Turkish peo-ple made my group and I feel completely at home in their country. While it was some-times hard for us to live in and understand their barzakh society, the Turkish people were quick to forgive our cultural mistakes and even quicker to help us meld into their world. Through their kindness, they gave us the lungs to breathe in their remarkable world, making my six week experience in the barzakh unforgettable.

1 Cooke, Miriam, Erdağ M. Göknar, and Grant Richard Parker. Mediterranean Passages: Read-ings from Dido to Derrida. Chapel Hill: Univer-sity of North Carolina, 2008. Print.

2 Freely, John. John Freely’s Istanbul. London: Scala, 2005. Print.

3 Kinzer, Stephen. Crescent and Star: Turkey be-tween Two Worlds. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2002. Print.

4 “Turkey’s Leadership.” New York Times 20 Sep 2011, n. pag. Web. 13 Nov. 2011. <http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/21/opinion/turkeys-leadership.html>

the population today is Muslim, significant portions of the country were comprised of Jews, Greek Orthodox Christians, and East-ern Orthodox Christians during the early twentieth century3. Even though religious diversity has decreased in the last century, one can still find all three religions coexist-ing in Turkey.

From my travels, I have come to realize that Turkey’s identity has not created a cultural barzakh. Rather, Tur-key’s identity has been derived from living continuously in the barzakh between Europe and Asia. The Turkish people hold strongly onto their unique identity even in the midst of a crossfire of European and Mid-dle Eastern influences. This cross-fire can be seen politically through the contentious issue of Turkey’s entrance into the European Union (EU). If Turkey were admitted, it would become the only Muslim country in the EU and could potentially act as a political bridge, crossing the barzakh, from Europe to the Middle East4. Caught between these two polar worlds, Turkey is internationally recognized for successfully forging its own identity amidst a host of cultural confusion that many nations would crumble under.

With an elaborate bus, train, and subway system, Turkey could be the envy of any major metropolitan city. Even so, one cannot miss the people’s carefree attitude towards time and driving regulations. The concept of “on time” does not exist in Turkish culture nor does driving within the lanes. While I was busy holding my breath, the Turkish

Istanbul,Republic of

Turkey

all p

hoto

s by

aut

hor

map by Mireia Saenz

6

Fall 2011

Why do we watch reality T.V. shows? What do they mean in our lives? Since the suc-cess of Big Brother and Survivor in the early 2000s, reality shows have taken on important roles in mass media and have expanded their domain to fashion, music, comedy, and more. Despite continuous criticism of their intrusive nature, it is very unlikely that their popularity will wane in the near future. Just as humans adapt to their environment to survive, reality shows adjust their formats to accommodate for changing cultures, thus maintaining their prevailing popularity. Though mostly prev-alent in Western culture, reality shows are now taking another turn—countries in the East are now hooked to the “real people” they see on screen. Among recent globaliz-ing trends, the popularity of reality shows in South Korea is especially interesting to consider.

If you were to go on to Naver, Korea’s equivalent of Google in America, you would find that more than half of the entertain-ment news feed is taken up by Superstar K. Probably the most popular reality show in Korea, Superstar K entered its third season in 2011 and the public’s attention to the show is borderline obsessive. Even the most minute details of the contestants’ whereabouts are meticulously reported to the extent that an individual’s health infor-mation and family history may be revealed. Most of the show’s contestants, indistinct figures only a few months before, are now superstars in mainstream media.

Why are South Koreans fascinated by Su-perstar K? Let us begin with the simple, in-arguable fact—Superstar K bears the same basic format as the long-running American show, American Idol. There have been nu-merous audition-based programs in South Korea in past years, but only Superstar K has resulted in such wide-spread popular-ity. Could this popularity be based on the

dominance of reality shows that began earlier in America? At the very least, the reactions from both Korean and American audiences to the show seem identical: they love the prevailing competition in the show and the contestants’ emotional stories, but tend to forget about the contestants soon after the shows end.

Superstar K is not the only show that has clear Western roots. The Korean cable T.V. channel OnStyle, which has been airing American T.V. shows such as Sex and the City and Friends since the mid-2000s, is now producing Korean versions of Amer-ica’s Next Top Model (ANTM) and Project Runway. Unlike Superstar K, which de-nies its direct involvement with American Idol, Korea’s Next Top Model and Project Runway Korea advertise their relation-ships with their American counterparts. Not only do the Korean versions produce commercials that contain short clips from the American shows, they also feature ce-lebrities from the originals like Jay Alex-ander from ANTM and Austin Scarlet from the first season of Project Runway. By es-tablishing the authority and credibility of the shows based on their American mod-els, the Korean versions aim to increase their own popularity. So far, they have been successful. Though not as popular as Superstar K, these shows still receive very high viewer ratings compared to other pro-grams.

Some Koreans seem disturbed by the ascension of these American-based reality shows in Korean media. Although the term “cultural colonization” may be too radical, the American influences in these shows are certainly not negligible: John Park, who was in Season Nine’s Top 20 of American Idol, appeared in Superstar K, and the fi-nal stage of the second season of Korea’s Next Top Model was located in New York, the city of fashion. American popular cul-

Korean KrazeAmerican reality show frenzy meets Hallyu Wave

photo by OnStylei

photo by OnStyle

photo by Mnet.

Media South K

oreaphoto by M

net. Media

South Korea

photo by OnStylei

photo by erjkprunczyk

photo by Mnet.

Media South K

orea

Reality ShowQuick Facts

Super Star Season 1: 720,000 contestantsWinner: Seo In KookPrize: Grand Record Contract$100,000 USD

Project Runway Korea:Prize: 50 million won, car, fashion spread in Elle magazine

Korea’s Next Top Model Season 1:Winner: Lee Ji-MinPrize: Feature in W Magazine Korea and a contract with SK-II

Super Star Season 3: Still in progress; one audition was held in New York CityWinner: TBDPrize: $500,000 USD

Super Star Season 2: 1,350,000 contestantsWinner: Huh Guk Prize: $172,282 USD & Samsung QM5 (Car)

Korea’s Next Top Model Season 2:Winner: Jin Jung-sunPrize: Feature in W Magazine Korea and a contract with SK-II

7

ture is clearly idolized in these shows. The harshest critics would go so far as to say that the nature of the shows, which requires intense competition and results in only one winner, comes from the neo-liberalist so-cioeconomic culture in the United States. Some are concerned that the competitive and strictly Western atmosphere prevalent in these adapted shows will eventually per-meate into Korean culture.

Yet, it is too much of an ex-aggeration to attribute the dominance of American-based reality shows to Western adulation. In fact, these shows portray a significant bit of Korean cul-ture: all contestants are raised in Korea and directly appeal to their pre-dominantly Korean audience; the judges, all important figures in the Korean enter-tainment industry, also evaluate the con-testants based on the criteria of how native Koreans would react to them. For example, the hip-hop group Yellow Boyz, famous Youtube stars, was eliminated without hesitation at the very beginning of “Super Week” (the equivalent of American Idol’s “Hollywood Week”) in Superstar K3. Many Koreans were quite disturbed by the Amer-ican-born group,a accusing them of being impolite because they barely spoke Korean and were unfamiliar with the culture.

Personally, I don’t believe that it is West-ern influence that makes reality shows so attractive as it is their appeal to an innate and universal component of human nature. We love reality shows because we can easily empathize with and relate to the characters in them. Unlike professional entertainers, the contestants on these shows seem much closer to people in our lives. Also, as we live in an era where television programs are swamped with artificial and fictionalized characters, we are moved by the tenacity

presented by these contestants who some-times have endured hardships and chal-lenges similar to the ones we experience. It is the same is in Korea as it is in Amer-ica—the general public loves what it can connect with on a personal level, therefore making reality shows so popular.

It could be said that the only compo-nents of a successful reality T.V. show are

an interesting format, contestants with stories, mean judges, and

smart producers to establish competitiveness among the contestants. However, we cannot attribute such

characteristics to a certain culture. Rather, they can be

easily adopted and modified to satisfy the taste of the audience regard-less of cultural differences. South Koreans love their reality shows not because of the American elements present in them but be-cause they can identify with the characters in the shows. Indeed, Koreans and Ameri-cans are similar: they are both caught in a craze of reality television shows.

1 Allkpop. “New York City: Superstar K Season 3 Wants You!” Last modified May 16, 2011. Accessed November 13, 2011. http://www.allkpop.com/2011/05/new-york-city-superstar-k-season 3-wants-you.

2 Wikipedia: the Free Encyclopedia. “Superstar K2.” Last modified October 17, 2011. Accessed Novem-ber 13, 2011. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Superstar_K_(season_2).

3 Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. “Superstar K.” Last modified November 4, 2011. Ac-cessed November 13, 2011. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Superstar_K.

4 Wikipedia: the Free Encyclopedia. “Korea’s Next Top Model.” Last modified October 9, 2011. Accessed November 13, 2011. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Korea’s_Next_Top_Model

5 Wikipedia: the Free Encyclopedia. “Project Runway Korea.” Last modified October 20, 2011. Accessed November 13, 2011. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Project_Runway_Korea

Korean KrazeAmerican reality show frenzy meets Hallyu Wave

“[Superstar K] was conceived to bring change and progress to the Korean

Music Industry”—Superstar K Producer, Soohyun

Hung

Huh Guk,Grand Winner of Superstar K Season 2

photo by sithuseo

Seo In Kook,Grand Winner of Superstar K Season 1

Lee Ji-Min, Winner of Korea’s Next Top Model Season 2

phot

o by

Gen

eras

iaph

oto

by S

isun

phot

o by

soo

mpi

by Jihye Seo

Seoul,Republic of

Korea8

Fall 2011

Nepali FacesAs a Benjamin N. Duke Scholar, I was blessed with the opportunity to embark upon an international summer of service in 2011. As I was browsing the “Projects Abroad” section of the scholarship web-site, I stumbled upon a Nepalese volunteer placement that united my interest in rural health with the opportunity to experience a novel culture. After contacting people and making arrangements, twenty-one hours of airtime landed me in Kathmandu, Nepal, where I spent eight weeks learning and exploring. The majority of my time in Nepal was spent in Banepa at one of Nepal’s best chil-dren’s orthopedic hospitals, the Hospital and Rehabilitation Cen-ter for Disabled Children (HRDC). I consulted with doctors and residents as they worked ceaselessly to stem the incoming flood of patients from across the country. I observed various surgeries in the operation theater, ranging from a minor clubfoot correc-tion to major spinal reconstruction. Damu, my physical therapist host father, imparted his knowledge of Ponsetti casting and joint manipulation so that I could in turn treat some children. Through these experiences, I was immersed in the world of orthopedics and witnessed the nuance, politics and complications of medical care.

More importantly and more memorable than the medical erudi-tion, I met the people of Nepal. Every morning I was greeted by the expectant smiles and excited voices of eager children. The over-flowing gratitude of many parents’ hearty thanks was a humbling reminder of my meager contributions. From Damu’s cheerful greetings of Namaste to Parbati’s gentle corrections as I clumsily attempted the Nepali tongue, I felt welcomed by the warmth and hospitality of everyone I met. Embracing the inevitable mistakes and regular laughter, I reveled in the challenge of communicating largely without a common language. That minor difficulty did not diminish the joy I shared in Bhim’s regular carrom board victories or watching Prem walk for the first time. Nor could it soften the stinging pain that permeated the ward on operation days, when the nursuing staff was perpetually low on painkillers and chil-dren’s eyes would well with tears. Long after the different types of clubfoot and the causes of rickets have faded from my memory, the people will remain—the smiles and the tears, the laughter and the sadness, the faces of Nepal.

Top: Parbati Sharma, eversmiling and eager to ensure my Nepali pronun-ciation was up to par.

Below: The front of HRDC, atop a hill just on the outskirts of Banepa.

Sanchamaya’s older sister leans against the brick wall of the hospital outside the rehabilitation ward. She lingers patiently as the days melt into weeks and her sister slowly heals and re-covers. Her knowing smile and quiet, pristine beauty portray the warmth and hospitality common to Nepali people.

all photos by author unless otherwise specified

by Ben DeMarco

9

Nepali Top: Bhim (pictured right), the hospital ladies’ man and general troublemaker, sits contemplatively with a friend.

Middle: A lover of high-fives, Sanisha had beautiful eyes that were constantly accompanied by a broad smile…until you took out the camera

Bottom: Sanchamaya, one of the cutest kids in the hos-pital, stopped to pose for a photo with me.

photo by Luci McMahon 10

Fall 2011

Nepali

Above: Playing with camera effects to highlight the beautiful blues of the Phewa Tal (tal is the Nepali word for lake) in Pokhara.

Left: The vibrant colors of a fresh fruit stand in Patan. The bananas and mangos were the most delicious of the bunch.

PlacesWe had the weekends off, so the laughter and learning at HRDC was replaced with the mountains and monkeys of our Nepal explorations. Our international cohort of volunteers staying with Damu spent the weekends traversing the di-verse countryside of Nepal in all directions. We flew north into the heart of the Himalayas and witnessed the power and pristine majesty of Mount Everest’s peak, bursting through the cloudbank into the clear blue atmosphere. Along the Indian border to the south were the flatlands of Chitwan National Park, complete with elephant safaris through the jungle and sunsets over crocodile infested rivers. We made the seven-hour bus trip west to Pokhara and enjoyed a quieter tourist scene for a few days, a brief respite from the constant haggling of tiger balm salesmen and souvenir vendors. A leisurely hike up to the World Piece Pagoda followed by a meandering boat ride across the cool blue water of the Phew Tal contrasted the chaotic cacophony of Kathmandu. Banepa is home to ornate temples (some complete with monkeys!), innumerable souve-nir shops, and restaurants that added some much needed variety to our dal bhat-heavy diet (dal bhat is the traditional Nepali dish of rice and vegetables that was served twice a day while I was in Banepa). From the clean air of the soaring mountains to the suffocating humidity of the dense jungle, wandering the diverse geography of the country was an unforgettable part of my summer in Nepal.

11

Nepali

Top: Buddhist monks overlooking the urban sprawl of Kathmandu.

Top Right: The sprawling beauty of the Himalayas before the obscuring clouds of monsoon season moved in.

Bottom Right: Sunset over the Narayani River in Chitwan National Park.

Left: A private elephant used to gather grass for roof huts and animal feed returns home with his bounty, lumbering down the streets of Sauraha, right outside the national park.

photo by Janine Nowak

photo by Luci McMahon

Kathmandu,Federal Democratic

Republic of

Nepal12

Fall 2011

Famine in Somalia

Ever since I can remember, Somalia and the surrounding area known as the Horn of Africa have always been topics of hope-lessness. Constant famine, war, political and social unrest are synonyms that have constantly been associated with Somalia. July 20, 2011 marked another tragic event in Somalia’s history as the United Nations (UN) recognized that the lower third of the country, including the capital of Mogadishu, has been thrown into a famine, putting half of the population in crisis. A famine is de-clared when the malnutrition rate among children exceeds thirty percent, more than two people per thousand die every day, and the general population is not able to receive nutrition and other basic necessities1. Currently, nearly four million people in Soma-lia, the equivalent of the entire population of Oklahoma, are in danger of starvation.

percent in just a year. The majority of families, if not farmers, are herders who also depend on the land to raise their livestock. This drought has impacted the herders no less; it is estimated that ninety percent of the animals in the region have died. With fami-lies depending on the money they receive for their cattle, many are left with little to no purchasing power.

The declaration of a famine is a rare process that usually requires several fac-tors to catalyze its pronouncement. Even though the ongoing drought has had cata-strophic effects on the Somali economy, the principle reason for this crisis lies in the complete failure of Somalia’s government to tackle the country’s general unrest, espe-cially the grave issue of poverty. Since the collapse of the government in 1991, there has been little stability in the country. An

An estimated fifty percent of the children are malnourished2. From the Somali civil war and general famine in the early nine-ties to the constantly renewed fighting and conflict throughout the region, Somalia’s crises have always elicited an international response. However due to political insta-bility and risk of interference, that the international response has been much different this time around.

This famine has been in the making for several years. For the last two years, Somalia has been experiencing a severe drought at a level that has not been seen in over half a century. Farmers are expecting to see only a fifty percent crop yield in the upcoming year, resulting in a massive food shortage. With the crop supply crippled, food prices have soared. The price of red sorghum, Somalia’s principle crop, increased 240

Famine in Somaliaby Toney Thompson

photo by Daniel J Gerstle

image by Permjak

13

Islamist group called Al-Shabaab rules the majority of southern Somalia and has been denying aid groups access to the people suf-fering most. Only recently has the Somali government regained control of the capital city. However, the fledgling government is filled with corruption and lacks the capabil-ity to prevent dire poverty. The areas most impacted by the famine directly correlate to the areas controlled most tightly by Al-Shabaab. The lack of government assis-tance has forced hundreds of thousands of Somali people to flee the country in search of assistance elsewhere. That is, if they are able to escape from Al-Shabaab’s control3.

In situations like this, when there is little international or governmental help, travel-ing to find relief is extremely dangerous. It is no different in Somalia. Traveling to the two major refugee camps, located in Moga-dishu, Somalia’s capital, and in Dabaab, Kenya, requires approximately fifteen days across a desert with little food or water to safety. It is estimated that one thousand people cross the Somalia-Kenya border per day in an effort to reach the refugee camp in Dadaab. However, the journey is incred-ibly perilous. Along the way are countless armed bandits who take advantage of the helpless refugees and demand whatever they are carrying with them. Many who have made it to the Kenyan camp have had multiple encounters with these armed groups, retelling countless stories of theft, violence, and rape. Most families only send their eldest or ablest members in the hopes that they can send back help or offer a safer passage. However, with little government intervention near the border, cases of rape and violence will only continue to increase4.

Even when the refugees make it safely to the camp, they often find little relief. Dadaab hosts a United Nations High Commis-sioner for Refugees (UNHCR) base for the general region of Africa, providing a refuge for those escaping general turmoil in their home regions. The base is meant to support up to 90,000 people but, with the current crisis, now sustains a growing population of 440,000 refugees. Most of the malnour-ished children die within days, despite the help they receive at the camp. This is partly due to the limited resources, as volunteers and doctors are stretched to their limits. The refugee camp in Mogadishu, which is not any easier to travel to, has similar conditions. Military officers who are sup-posed to protect citizens are instead raping

photo by David Kerkhoff

women; the government as a whole has been stagnated and ineffective in respond-ing to the plight of the country.

During the 1993 famine in the Horn of Africa, international assistance was staggeringly high. Along with the U.N., the United States sent in troops to ensure the delivery of much needed aid to people who otherwise would not have received it due to appropriation by warlords and other militant groups. However, those who had troops in Somalia were extremely con-cerned about the casualties they suffered during the intervention, which inevitably occurred in the First Battle of Mogadishu or “Operation Black Hawk Down.” Dur-ing the battle, an estimated one thousand Somalis and twenty-seven U.N. troops were killed, with the U.S. accounting for nineteen killed and over seventy wounded. American and U.N. troops immediately pulled out of the area despite the ongo-ing famine5. Now, in the 2011 famine, no country is will-ing to spend military capital in the area. Countries, including the U.S., have concluded that military assistance will not solve the continuing problems, stating that only the establish-ment of a strong, stable Somali govern-ment intent on solving internal problems can fix the issue. As a result, the United States and other countries have invested billions of dollars to aid affected groups without any other interference. However, the money has only been invested into a corrupt and dysfunctional government and has therefore been ineffective. Even if put to good use, the total amount allocated is nowhere near the estimated amount necessary to quell this crisis, especially with the Horn of Africa facing a possible 750,000 deaths in the coming months4.

The slow and underwhelming inter-national response to this crisis is under-standable. No country feels that excessive aid will not stop the famine or prevent similar events from recurring. A large amount of monetary aid will not bring sta-bility to the Somali government nor will it enhance people’s living conditions. An all-out humanitarian effort would be difficult to carry out and could stir worldwide in-security if it angered terrorist groups. The political and social situation on the ground could not be more complicated than it is right now.

Truthfully, I do not know how to solve this issue. However, I believe that each country has a humanitarian responsibility, not nec-essarily to the country and its government, but to the people of Somalia. Monetary in-vestment into the Somali government, a significant recipient of America’s contribu-tions, was misused by government officials and has thus proven to be unsuccessful. The people of Somalia should not have to suffer for the faults of their leaders. The United States of America has never been a coun-try unwilling to put its best foot forward towards any issue that is deemed impera-tive. With nearly one million people facing death over the next few months, the famine in Somalia should be a situation that we as Americans are willing to put that same foot

forward for. Foreign aid currently consti-tutes only one percent of the Unit-

ed States’ budget, most of which goes to Israel and Pakistan6. America is nowhere near its budget capacity. It is possible that foreign assistance will

not completely solve the coun-try’s problems, but offering aid

to this region should not be an issue of preventing history from repeating itself. Rather, it is more about whether we as a global society have lost the compassion and sense of morality that we all claim to have. If we have, then the Somalis will continue to fight a losing battle. If we have not, then we need to wake up and realize that more needs to be done and even more can be done. Only then can the Horn of Africa start to become a topic of hope.

1 “UN declares famine in two regions of southern So-malia.” UN News Centre 20 Jul 2011, n. pag. Web. 12 Nov. 2011. <http://www.un.org/apps/news>

2 Tran, Mark. “UN declares sixth famine zone in So-malia.” Guardian 05 Sep 2011, n. pag. Web. 12 Nov. 2011. <http://www.guardian.co.uk/global-devel-opment/2011/sep/05/famine-somalia-crisis-deep-ens>.

3 Kristof, Nicholas. “Glimpses of the Next Great Fam-ine.” New York Times 17 Sep 2011, n. pag. Web. 12 Nov. 2011. <http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/18/opinion/sunday/kristof-glimpses-of-the-next-great-famine.html?_r=2&hp>. 4 NY Times article 2

4 Kristof, Nicholas. “On Top of Famine, Unspeak-able Violence.” New York Times 24 Sep 2011, n. pag. Web. 12 Nov. 2011. <http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/25/opinion/sunday/kristof-on-top-of-famine-unspeakable-violence.html?_r=1>.

5 Bowden, Mark. “Blackhawk Down: A defining bat-tle.” Inquirer 16 Nov 1997, n. pag. Web. 12 Nov. 2011. <http://inquirer.philly.com/packages/somalia/nov16/rang16.asp>.

6 “Foreign Assistance and the U.S. Budget: What We Spend.” Center for Global Development 2010, n. pag. Web. 12 Nov. 2011. <http://www.cgdev.org/section/initiatives/_active/assistance/budget>.

Mogadishu,

SomaliRepublic

“The people of Somalia should not

have to suffer for the faults of their

leaders.”

14

Fall 2011

Bali HaiHaving served the Triangle area for over twenty years, Bali Hai calls itself “the taste sensation which others can only attempt to copy.” The process of creating your dish of stir fry here is what makes this place unique. First you choose whether you want one bowl ($6.50), two bowls ($8.50), or three bowls ($10.50). Then you pile your bowl, or bowls, as high as you can with the ingredi-ents you like. You can choose from an array of meats (from beef to pork to turkey) and more than ten kinds of vegetables. The piling-up is great fun, and even an acquired skill as you refine a technique of stacking tons of ingredients into one bowl. After your bowl is filled to carrying capacity, you choose your own sauce combination among home-made Mongolian flavors. I personally recommend the spicy sauce. With blood rising and tears welling into your eyes, your eating experience will be exciting to say the least. The chef prepares your specialized dish on the grill in front of you. Fried rice and steamed rice are available as add-ons. And now, the cuisine is ready on your table, beckoning you to its flavored glory—enjoy!

Vin Rouge

811 Ninth Street Suite 170, Durham, NC 27705

Parlez-vous français? Because I sure don’t. Yet, this does not stop me from enjoying the delicious French cuisine at Vin Rouge. This quaint restaurant is tucked away at the end of Ninth Street, marked by a distinct yellow awning. Although it is modest in appearance, the interior does not lack flair. Classic chandeliers intertwined with modern architecture makes Vin Rouge an ideal location for a classy dinner date. Put on a button-down (or dress) and stop by for a “night out on the town.” After getting lost in translation, you’ll find a wide assortment of meat, fish, and pasta. Exquisite appetizers make sure that you leave satisfied and full, but just in case you are still hungry, a small dessert menu completes the experience. With moderate prices, this international escape serves both college students and adults alike. As one of the nicer venues in Durham, this is a restaurant for those interested in expanding their taste in food.

2010 Hillsborough Road, Durham, NC 27705 Have yoU ever foUnd yoUrself standing in the middle of the plaza on a bright, sunny day with clearly no intention of attending to your work, but rather in the mood for a hearty and filling meal?

No, you don’t want to grab a cup of coffee at Joe Van Gogh’s. Nor do you want to head over to the Loop for our campus’s version of gourmet American food. Skip over the endless list of smaller restaurants that come to mind like Bella Union, Pitchfork Provisions, and the infamous Mc-Donald’s. While everyone else is busy milling about, making the occasional stop at the Greek Devil to grab a quick bite, or combining their lunch and dinner into a footlong at Subway, you have a serious decision to make: what do you want to eat? For an authentic Durham experience, sometimes you have to leave the comfort of Food Points and immerse yourself into the real world of cash and debit cards. Yes, we’re talking about places situ-ated only a few feet from the edges of Duke University and extend only a driving distance into an area called Research Triangle. That extra cash your parents gave you can be well- spent at these fine dining options that are only a key and engine away or just a short trek from the Gothic Wonderland.

photo by Sifu Renka

The International Triangle

15

Lime & Basil

The Palace InternationalSituated at the corner of West Club Boulevard and Broad Street, Palace International provides a sweet escape from your usual din-

ing experience. Greeted by a kind smile and immediate service, you are eased into a lighthearted African ambiance. You are surrounded by dim lights and walls decorated in earth tones as popular songs and rhythms play in the background. Head over on Sunday between eleven and four in the afternoon and you may just catch the live jazz band, a nice complement to the buffet of chicken, beef, rice, and vegetables. Apart from the Sunday buffet, you have a wide variety of ethnic options to choose from, including vegetarian and spicy dishes.

Palace International offers food for the senses, mixing delectable spices and seasoning into nearly all of their meals. For starters, grab some samosas, triangle-shaped pastries stuffed with ground beef and vegetables. They even have salads with a special Kenyan red pepper for added flavor, and stuffed wraps that are incredibly filling. I tend to lean towards the chicken curry entree but can easily settle for a fish and chips combination with chapati to take home. No matter which

dish you choose, you are bound to leave more satisfied than you were when you first entered.

1104 Broad Street, Durham, NC 27705

200 W. Franklin Sreet, Chapel Hill, NC 27516

Craving some real, authentic Vietnamese food? Look no further—Lime & Basil is the Triangle’s premier Vietnamese res-taurant and only a hop, skip, and trip on the Robertson away!

Located on Franklin Street, Lime & Basil has a full menu of ap-petizers, stir fry, and most importantly, phó, a Vietnamese noo-

dle soup consisting of hot, simmering beef broth, rice noodles, and thinly cut beef. Vietnamese basil, lime, and bean sprouts are

also available to add flavor to this mix, all for a reasonable price of $7.50! Much of the stir-fry menu is geared towards vegetar-ians, making this restaurant an excellent choice for veggie-lovers

craving some hot, good Vietnamese. Don’t forget some bubble tea to take away for your trip back home.

Have yoU ever foUnd yoUrself standing in the middle of the plaza on a bright, sunny day with clearly no intention of attending to your work, but rather in the mood for a hearty and filling meal?

No, you don’t want to grab a cup of coffee at Joe Van Gogh’s. Nor do you want to head over to the Loop for our campus’s version of gourmet American food. Skip over the endless list of smaller restaurants that come to mind like Bella Union, Pitchfork Provisions, and the infamous Mc-Donald’s. While everyone else is busy milling about, making the occasional stop at the Greek Devil to grab a quick bite, or combining their lunch and dinner into a footlong at Subway, you have a serious decision to make: what do you want to eat? For an authentic Durham experience, sometimes you have to leave the comfort of Food Points and immerse yourself into the real world of cash and debit cards. Yes, we’re talking about places situ-ated only a few feet from the edges of Duke University and extend only a driving distance into an area called Research Triangle. That extra cash your parents gave you can be well- spent at these fine dining options that are only a key and engine away or just a short trek from the Gothic Wonderland.

The International Triangle

16

Fall 2011

This summer I was part of the DukeEngage Haiti program and kept a blog to document my experience. We spent most of our time in Léogâne, working with an organization called Family Health Ministries that was planning to build a health center there. We surveyed the community to get a sense of the population of Haitians suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and to understand the needs of the community. The fol-lowing entries document my experience:

THE HAITIAN

EXPERIENCEby Nadine Michel

photo by NASA17

the country and pre-vents Haiti from de-veloping. If the people aren’t willing to work with what they have to gain profits and make a difference, then the country is never going to ad-vance. It made me sad to see this same mentality manifested in the little boy.

That was a little intense. But I’m excited to be here, and I can’t wait to see what happens next!

One Week Later

I guess I should take some time to explain the Post Traumic Stress Disorder (PTSD) Project we’re working on for Family Health Ministries. Basically, the orga-nization is preparing to build a Family Health Center in the Léogâne community. To raise more funds for the hospital, the organization needs to demon-strate that the population is suffering from mental health problems and dealing with other medical issues such as maternal mortality, contra-ception, and pregnancy. Our job is essentially to go out each weekday with transla-tors who know the commu-nity and interact with people living in the area that the hospital would be serv-ing. We then return and transcribe the interviews. From these interviews, we identify the most recur-rent issues and propose possible solutions.

The tent cities we visit often have leaders who we meet and talk to about the cities’ conditions. Some of these leaders have been receptive of us while others have been hostile and cynical. Some of the people we’ve talked to have expected money from us. In just the week, I’ve seen a lot of dif-ferent things, and I’m not sure how I feel about them.

When I walk into a camp and see every-one living in subhuman conditions, I take thirty minutes to ask them how they feel. The answers are not surprising: they’re miserable. Even worse, I haven’t done anything to appease their misery. I just take up their time and leave without giving them an immediate solution.

But there’s an alternative perspective to the surveys: I walk into a camp, see that people are suffering and try to find a way to understand how they are feeling as opposed to merely getting their answers to a set of survey questions. From their answers, I can see what needs to be prop-erly invested in their community and then focus on building a sustainable center that caters to their needs in the long term.

So which perspective is correct or, at the least, better? Am I being thoughtless when I

First Few Days

Everything looks much cleaner than it did when I was first here in October. Though tent cities are still up and many areas look miserable, there has been a lot of improve-ment. The streets of Port-au-Prince look cleaner, and the airport is certainly much calmer than before. It makes me happy to see that things are a little less chaotic.

Despite these positive changes, there are still some things about Haiti that bother me. It is especially hard for me to see children begging in the street. During one drive, a boy came up to the car and followed us through traffic for at least fifteen minutes, banging on the window to get our attention. Though there were plenty of other cars, he specifically came up to us because we were foreigners, and it was clear that he was expecting us to give him money. I feel like this mentality is reflected throughout

A typical tent city

The children in the tent cities literally

run up to you and don’t want to let go.

This girl fell asleep on Annie.

18

Fall 2011

come into a camp and ask for ideas without giving the people I interview money, or am I more careless in my ambition to build a hos-pital that I assume will meet their needs?

I’m still trying to work this out for myself, but I’m hoping that I’ll have a more solid answer by the end of these eleven weeks.

I talked to a woman who was concerned that her son had a neurological disorder, because after the earthquake, he began behaving oddly and had difficulty under-standing speech. When I began the inter-view with her, she wanted to know if we would be providing her son with medical care. It was incredibly frustrating to see her suffering yet have to tell her that she wasn’t going to receive any immediate help. This made explaining the purpose of our surveys even more difficult, as she was more interested in receiving monetary or medical aid.

I also spoke with a man who admitted that he struggled with suicidal thoughts and didn’t feel like he could keep going.

With him was his son, a two-year-old without a diaper, dragging himself around in the dirt. The man told us that his son has been sick so fre-quently that he hasn’t learned how to walk yet. He then flat-out asked us for money. Again, we regretfully told him that we weren’t paying people for the surveys. Later on, we were confronted by an angry tent leader who demanded to

know the purpose of our visit. When our translator and the tent leader began arguing, I became so frustrated that I just walked out of the tent city.

I know what you’re thinking—that at this point, conducting these interviews is just awful and depressing. That is partially true, but the highlights of a few inspiring interviews have made the survey-ing worthwhile. I spoke with a twenty-two-year-old male whose legs became im-mobile after the earthquake, yet he was more optimistic than everyone else about the future. He honestly didn’t expect anything from us and was just glad to tell his

story. I remember sitting there, talking to him as he sat in front of his wooden home that was just the size of a single dorm room in Edens. He smiled and told me that he never gives up and has hope because he knows God is going to take care of him. He actually understood the purpose of the surveys and thought it was it was a good idea to get a grasp of the population we want to serve before setting up the health care program. Definitely my high point for this week!

Get Away Weekend

We spent the last few days in the moun-tains, and I couldn’t believe how beautiful everything was. It was great to get a break from working so that we could relax and enjoy nature. As we journeyed through the different parts of Haiti, I felt like I was in a completely different country. High up in the mountains of what could have been Italy, we sat to watch the sunset. Clouds de-scended on us and we literally sat in a cloud. The people in the mountains were different as well, less impacted by the earthquake and therefore healthier and friendlier than those in the city. It wasn’t surprising, considering that the mountains have so many resources. There were crops everywhere, and the live-stock were well fed.

A Haitian sunset

A newborn wakes from a much needed sleep.

19

The mountain house we stayed in was owned by a man named Jean-Marc and his wife. When I met them I was expect-ing them to be…well, Haitians. Instead, I met two people of European ancestry who were born and raised in Haiti. It had never occurred to me that there could be white Haitians. In America, I would never have thought twice about it, as we’re such a melting pot that the idea isn’t absurd at all. For a country where the majority of the population is of African ancestry though, the few white Haitians must stand out. Meeting Jean-Marc made me redefine who I considered “Haitian” and made me realize how much reverse racism must oc-cur in Haiti. Jean-Marc’s heritage in Haiti stretches back seven generations, yet Ha-tians like him are seen as foreigners and outsiders even though they’ve grown up and gone to school in Haiti their entire lives. I definitely won’t be making assump-tions about anyone’s nationality based on their ethnicity again.

Back to Business

One of the most frequent questions I get is: What was your overall impression of

Haiti? I really dread this question because I don’t ever know how to approach it. So many different things happened to me while I was there that my answers are drastically different for each person. The people are joyful, bright and brilliant, yet paradoxically overwhelmed, frus-trated, and cyni-cal. While there are places in Haiti that are restless and dirty, other places still shine and show off the natural beauty of the coun-try’s landscape.

My impression is that Haiti has the natu-ral resources it needs but has a mindset that it needs to get rid of. The idea of hav-ing people sending you money from the United States on a regular basis doesn’t

exactly boost the coun-try’s economy. The or-ganizations that come to Haiti often just look for a quick fix, not a sustainable solution. We can’t improve the situation if we aren’t committed to educat-ing the Haitian popu-lation and encourag-ing them to step up for themselves. Only when Haiti learns to help itself can it truly recover.

I’ve been spend-ing the last few days watching the news and seeing the stories about

the turbulent U.S. economy. The Dow is down 500 points one day and then up 200 points the next. I watch as brokers and economists blame each other for the fluctuations, and it all just seems ridicu-lous. Everyone stresses over their 401K’s and retirement money while 925 million people go hungry everyday. Sometimes, I think we forget to put our lives into per-spective. I’m guilty of this myself. Just the other day I looked at my financial aid package and groaned because I needed to take out more loans. However, I’ll have instances in which I realize, “Wow, I’m pretty lucky; I can pay for my college tu-ition because my government gives me the chance to borrow money for my edu-cation.” I don’t think I would have seen it in the same light eleven weeks ago. Many people know that they are fortunate but live as if they are suffering. Life isn’t per-fect, but if we were concerned about the big things that matter (like people), then we wouldn’t get so overwhelmed by the details that don’t always work out.

This is Vanessa. She was washing dishes as we conducted interviews.

A small child taking her first steps.

background by Matt Hammall photos by author

Léogâne,Republic of

Haiti20

Fall 2011

AnnetteWhen you first came to America, what did you experience?

I recall the thrill and excitement of being in a new place, fascinated by just about every-thing about the new culture. Some things seemed confusing but I gradually got accustomed to living in the United States. However, as is the case when you are away from family, friends and the familiar, I also went through moments of feeling homesick while trying to adjust to life at Duke.

I also experienced an entirely new mode of learning, which was different from what I was used to. Professors were generally interested in having students voice their own opinions and to challenge class mate-rial, something that I had not experienced in Kenya.

What is it like being in America? What was the most difficult thing for you to adjust to?

As an international student at an Amer-ican college, I am constantly challenged to stretch out of my comfort zone to com-municate with others. It means learning to

Girls at Warby Joyce Okendo

respect and accept others even when you do not share the same beliefs or opinions.

I initially felt limited in my ability to com-municate and was sometimes frustrated by only being able to communicate in English. I am conversant in three languages and was used to explaining myself in at least two other informal contexts. Though I did not exactly experience a language barrier, there was initially a communication problem that gradually disappeared as I became accus-tomed to the American use of language and accent.

What is the difference between in-teracting with people in the United States versus in Kenya?

There is definitely a difference in con-versation primarily due to the varying conversation topics. It may seem trivial but the differences in pop culture, media, consumer products and brand names, famous people and current events in the two countries mean that the things I talk about with people from either region vary considerably. I have now gained enough exposure to both cultures that I can com-fortably interact with Americans, as well as international students from other parts of the world.

When you went back to Kenya, how did you feel?

Plugging back into society was not as challenging as I had imagined. Despite the inevitable changes at home, I had tried my best to keep up to date with Kenyan news and current events, and even music. There-fore, it did not take a long time for others to realize that I had not changed as much as they had expected, and I ended up having a wonderful stay.

On the other hand, being away for almost two years had dulled my memory of the daily life, sights, and sounds of my hometown, Nairobi, and I was more sensitive to things things going on in my surroundings.

When you went back to Kenya, what did you notice that was positive?

It was wonderful to notice that Kenyans were standing up to better their own lives, especially at the local level. Before, pas-sengers using public transportation would get on overcrowded buses and vans in a bid to get home during rush hours. When I went back, I actually rode on a few buses where passengers adamantly refused to al-low the conductor and driver to go above the passenger limit. On a wider scale, the northern region of the country was expe-riencing a season of drought and famine. In response to the disaster, an initiative dubbed “Kenyans for Kenya” raised quite an unexpected sum of donations from or-dinary Kenyans as well as private corpora-tions, triggering the involvement of inter-national organizations. It makes me proud to be part of a country whose citizens are no longer waiting on the government to initiate projects that are crucial to the lives of its people.

When you went back to Kenya, what did you notice that was negative?

The country’s economy was undergoing a trying time. The price of food had nearly tripled in the time I had been away. De-spite the rising cost of living, the average income had remained the same. Therefore, the Kenyan shilling was being stretched out further to cover basic necessities.

We are girls at war. We are at war with our identity, cultural expectations, and most of all, we are at war

with ourselves. Annette Kiplagat is an international student from Kenya pursuing her undergraduate

education in the United States, and I am a Kenyan immi-grant who has lived in the United States for thirteen

years. As Kenyan-born girls, Annette and I explore how we have come to define our identity after residing in the

United States. In the summer of 2011, we both visited Ke-nya. The following is a reflection upon our experiences

in America and Kenya and how being a part of these two cultures have truly made us girls at war.

21

JoyceWhen you first moved to America, what did you experience?

I was around six when I first moved to America, and I remember feeling excited and confused because everything was so new. Every second, I was experiencing something new, whether it was meet-ing our neighbors, riding a bike, learning how to read in English, or tasting Ameri-can candy for the first time. Amidst the high level of excitement and confusion, I began to realize that the people who lived in the small town I had just moved to all talked and behaved in the same way. I was different. I did not seem to fit in at first. I remember applying red crayon on

my lips in an attempt to mimic the grace and poise of one of my classmates. It is a memory I will never forget because it was the first time I felt the need to be like ev-eryone else. I did not want to be the out-sider; I wanted to make friends and break down this divide between the other kids and myself. By applying the red crayon, I thought people would realize just how similar we were. Even though I spoke English with a slight accent, did not all children laugh, cry, and play the same way? Weren’t there human emotions that transcended cultural divisions? Even though I didn’t know it at the time, I was at war with my identity. I was conflicted because I wanted to assimilate into this new culture, but at the same time, I want-ed to preserve the cultural background that made me unique.

What is it like being an immigrant in America? What is the most difficult thing?

Being an immigrant gives me a more cul-tured perspective of the world because I am able to understand people’s ranging views. As an immigrant in America, I have a dual identity. I have one foot in each culture, and it’s hard to completely submerge myself in only one. There is also the conflict of how I represent myself with my family mem-bers as opposed to my peers. When I’m at home, I interact with my parents in a some-what formal way to show a level of respect. When I was young, I sometimes didn’t see that same level of respect maintained in my friends’ households. Whenever I visited an American friend’s house, it always shocked me to see the children yelling at their par-ents. I came to learn that part of American culture is to reward those who speak their mind in opposition of authority, and I had trouble with that. I was at war with voicing my independent thoughts to my parents while still maintaining that same level of respect for their authority.

What is the difference between in-teracting with people in the United States versus people in Kenya?

In Kenya, people share a strong com-munal bond that is evident in their interac-tions. I remember when I visited, strangers would greet each other with “my sister” or “my brother.” Even during meals, one person couldn’t eat by themselves. Din-ner was not just about food, it was a com-munal event. Family from different towns,

photo by Joyce Okendo

photo by Franco Pecchio

“I remember applying red crayon on my

lips in an attempt to mimic the grace and

poise of one of my classmates.”

neighbors, and even friends from the local primary school would all gather together to eat, laugh, and talk nostalgically for hours about the past. There is a common history and struggle that binds people together. In contrast, America has an individual-ized culture. It almost seems like families and people are separate entities. Other than the direct family connection, there is nothing that binds one family to another. This was something my family and I par-ticularly struggled with. America can be an isolating country for immigrants. My fam-ily and I were initially conflicted as to how to develop relationships with people with-out intruding upon their personal lives. Over time, we found other Kenyans, and we were able to reestablish that communal bond we so longed for with other immi-grant families. Establishing those connec-tions was important in developing how we maintained our Kenyan identity within the American culture.

“...America has an in-dividualized culture.

It almost seems like families and people are separate enti-

ties.”

22

Fall 2011

When you went back to Kenya, how did you feel?

I felt this sense of peace. One night, when I was in the rural village, I remember looking out at the lake and seeing a long line of luminescent lanterns floating above the lake’s dark waters. I was transfixed. The light from each individual lantern was faint, but the light from the lanterns shone brighter than the stars. That illumination brought me a sense of peace, and I knew then what it meant to be a part of something greater.

When you went back to Kenya, what did you notice that was positive?

I think one of the biggest accomplish-ments is the distribution of electricity that

even reaches to a majority of rural villages. I also noticed that amidst high unemploy-ment, more people were looking for ways to start their own businesses. For example, in some villages, fish was the prevalent source of income, and some people were starting to develop ideas for fish farming. It was so encouraging to see that people still have hope even during trying economic times.

image by Xavi Garcia

When you went back to Kenya, what did you notice that was negative?

I noticed a socioeconomic disparity between the rich and the poor. When we were in one of the cities, I remember see-ing these two orphan boys who were pan-handling in the streets. From their soiled, ripped shirts to their protruding bones, we could tell these boys, who were only around ten and fourteen, were struggling to survive. I could not believe how the eco-nomic disparity had affected the popula-tion, even reaching down to the youth. It saddens me that in Kenya, some people work extremely hard to survive on bare essentials. The same people who are in desperate need of help are often the ones that are neglected and taken advantage of. Experiences like these bring up the question of cultural expectations. I am at war with trying to identify what my responsibility as a Kenyan immigrant is in the context of helping people who can’t help themselves.

We are girls at war, but we are not alone.

Our story is one of identity. Looking at both reflections, the struggles an inter-national student and a Kenyan immigrant face are similar. When initially experiencing American culture, we both felt the thrill of being in a new place and the confusion that accompanied assimilation into a new cul-ture. Our story has been shared by many, and serves to give a voice to the people who are at war with themselves.

The values we take from the cultures answer the question of who we are, and who we want to be. Through acceptance and open mindedness, we realize that our differences actually bring us together.

This is our story.

“We are girls at war, but we are not alone.”

“That illumination brought me a sense of peace, and i knew then

what it meant to be a part of something

greater.”

Republic of

Kenya2323

they were not an uncommon sight. Despite the gray weather and heavy traffic, the “mu-seum island” exuded quiet, solemn beauty.

For six weeks, students from Rutgers and Duke took classes at Technische Universität in subjects ranging from German language and history to creative writing and poetry. I took advanced German and Berlin Theater, two courses that were taught exclusively in German. I hoped that they would improve my German speaking, even in the short six weeks I was there.

Unfortunately, I had overestimated my German speaking skills. Upon arrival, I realized just how shaky my foundation of German was. When we landed at Tegel Airport in Berlin, I nervously retrieved my orange suitcase from the baggage claim area and followed the people from my flight. We went through several corridors, paying close attention to the arrows that directed us outside. Fortunately, the signs were written in both German and English. I put my faith in them until I finally saw the sun-light illuminated in the universal exit sign. As the door opened in front of me, I inhaled my first smell of Berlin, a strong scent of cigarette smoke. I had finally arrived.

I found a taxi driver, a stern-looking middle-aged man, smoking a Zigarette next to his taxi van. I had practiced the following line repeatedly on the airplane: “Hallo, kennen Sie wo diese Wohnung ist?” (Do you know where this apartment is?) When I approached him, though, I tried to remember the line I had practiced, but it was nowhere to be found. Since he did not speak any English, I could only take out the small yellow Post-It note with the address of the apartment, to which he replied, “Ah, Kreuzberg!”

“Genau!” (Exactly!)From that moment on, I decided genau

would be my Swiss army knife in Germany.

Nora was her name. She was my language partner and she was quite a character from

Gray clouds hung low in the sky. It had rained the day before, and the warmth of summer seemed to have left Berlin. I lay on the grass in front of the Berlin Cathedral. Its usual exterior seemed grayer than nor-mal against the gloomy backdrop. Next to me was a circular fountain, around which people dressed in autumn fashion sat and chatted. I had left my jacket in my room that morning and was now desperately pulling the sleeves of my flannel shirt down to my fingertips. I checked my watch. It was 6:30 p.m.—one hour until the concert. I pictured myself walking to the Konzerthaus, down the Karl-Liebknecht Straße and crossing a small bridge over the Spree River. I would turn left somewhere, hoping to find a well-dressed crowd of old people to follow to the concert.

I made my way to the bridge and then walked down a bit more. Cars and buses passed by me. Tourists were busily taking pictures on the bridge. Considering this was Museumsinsel, the center of the city,

the beginning. We arranged to meet twice a week, with one day spent conversing strictly in German, and the other in English. At the first meeting, she took me to a restaurant that served blutwurst (blood sausage).

“Blutwurst,” she explained. “It’s good. For your Gesundheit (health). And it’s delicious.”

“What animal is it from?”“Pigs.” That answer did not make me feel

any less queasy. I imagined a metallic iron taste, like the taste of my nosebleeds .

“Do you want to try it?”“Okay, why not?”The blutwurst was served with mashed

potatoes and vegetables on a white plate. I took my first bite slowly and deliberately, a napkin in my left hand just in case I needed to spit it out. It was a bit salty, but otherwise tasted like a sausage that had been sitting in water for too long. It was actually pretty tasty. Noticing the change of expression on my face, she smiled and ordered one more beer.

“It’s good, yes?”“Genau.”

Our classes took place in a university building about fifty minutes from our apart-ment. The route included a ten-minute walk to the nearest U-bahn Station: Kottbuser Tor. From that station, there were exactly eleven stops to the Bismarkstrasse. Having begun its operation more than one hundred years ago, the subway system in Berlin is one of the oldest in Europe. Some stations have a distinctly industrial-age vibe about them. Others, like the main station, Berlin Hauptbahnhof, are the epitome of modern glass architecture. During our stay, the two subway lines that operated on those elev-en stops were going through renovations. Chained fences with signs directed pas-sengers through the stations, which gave a very unorganized and un-German feel. I had expected spotless floors and shiny walls.

Unfortunately, the subway cars did not have air-conditioning. Rushed morning jogs

Memories from Berlin “Hier bin ich Mensch, hier darf ich’s sein.”Here I am a person; here, I’m allowed to be. —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (Faust 1)

Molecule Man—a sulpture on Spree River, which divided East and West Berlin

photo by Bernt Rostad

photo by rizkapb

by Justin Ko

24

Fall 2011

to the station followed by rides in un-air-conditioned cars meant that I needed to stand right in front of a window to catch the breeze. But it turned out well: through the windows I was able to see the sur-prisingly flat cityscape of Berlin. I could see the horizon, shed with buildings and roads, stretching across like a long rubber band. Buildings that were closer zoomed by in a blur. Every morning, we would pass by probably one of the largest build-ings I have ever seen. It was undergoing construction, but through the cracks be-tween white tarp and scaffolding, I caught a glimpse of its beautiful light brown brick adorned with large Roman columns on the exterior. Unfortunately, since the subway took only about twenty seconds to trek across the building, I never found out what that building was called.

There were also smaller buildings, most of which were marked with graffiti. Vari-ous colored streaks of spray paint, both darkened and lightened by age, gave the buildings an abandoned yet human feel. Some graffiti, I remember, were obvious forms of vandalism or unfinished work. Other forms were artistic: one image on an apartment building next to Kottbusser Tor declared, “Aber es ist doch Kunst!” (But it’s art!).

On the days I couldn’t snatch a window seat, I suffered some hot and miserable train rides. I stared longingly at the win-dows and envied the people next to them, their hair fluttering in the wind. As my T-shirt began to stick to my back with sweat, I found myself shifting uncomfortably and wondered how these Berliners could seem unfazed by the temperature. My sweat threshold had long been crossed, and I had few options to cope with my discomfort:1) Stop all movement. Look straight down.

If you don’t see them, they don’t see you.

2) Sweat but pretend not to care. Make small talk, such as, “Oh, isn’t today warm?” or “Goodness! What is wrong with me today, burning up like this!” while making the universal hand mo-tion of slight confusion or disinterest.

3) Answer an imaginary phone call. My temporary cellphone in Berlin had a ‘fake call’ function which, once acti-vated, would make the phone ring in ten seconds. I could then pick up and pretend to be occupied with this im-portant fake call.

In those moments of such discomfort and indecision, I would become painfully self-conscious and nervous. I was a for-eigner in this land.

The study abroad program also included trips to other cities in Germany. Located near the southern border of Germany, Munich was a six-hour bus ride from Berlin. The

ride was pleasant as the bus lightly cruised along the wide, clean and endless Auto-bahn with sleek German cars like Mer-cedes and BMW driving past. Finally, the bus entered the city of Munich and managed to navigate its massive body through the old narrow city streets. There were times when it seemed that the bus would almost run over a traffic sign here or a bicycle there, but thankfully, they were only close shaves.

Perhaps the most famous building in the city is the Neues Rathaus (New Town Hall) in Marienplatz. We followed an American expatriate tour guide to the town hall, where we stood outside on the crowded square to watch the Glockenspiele. Slow bells played as automatic wooden dolls appeared on the steeple of the building. They slowly glided across to depict a joust-ing tournament.

After the two-hour tour, a couple of guys and I decided to eat lunch at the fresh pro-duce market next to the town hall. Midday was the busiest time. People bought small food items such as bread, cheese, or sausages and sat at the tables with one-liter beers, enjoying the afternoon with their friends and family. Since there were no completely open tables, we decided to split up and join strangers. I needed a beer before I could gather enough courage to talk to strangers in German. I scanned for an empty seat and found one next to an old man who was a bit overdressed for the warm summer day in Munich.

“Hallo, ist hier frei?” (Is this seat free?)“Yes, it’s free.”It was strange that he responded in English.

How did he know I spoke English? Wasn’t it safer to assume that I spoke Chinese or some Asian language according to my appearance? How did I butcher the simple four-word

question to lead to a response in English? After all, there was no way to hide my iden-tity as a foreigner due to my accent. I took a seat next to him and started to stammer something in German, now fully conscious of my American accent. He was a kind old man, patiently waiting for me to finish my sentences before responding. I first cov-ered the general topics: weather, history of the city hall, Bundesliga. After each topic, he and I would take gulps of beer, yelling “Prost!” (Cheers!)

Soon enough, I finished my beer and was feeling a bit light-headed. Somehow, we ended up discussing the prospect of Dirk Nowitzki winning his NBA championship. I often had to pause often to ask words for “redemption,” “failure,” “pride,” and more, but that did not matter. It was hard to believe that the conversation was actually happening—that we were actually having a conversation in German. Soon, my friend came to ask me if I wanted to leave:

“No, not yet.”

Over the course of a month in Berlin, my encounters with Nora grew more and more frequent. As it turned out, Nora used to be a Berlin tour guide. She arranged meetings at new random locations, from which we would walk for a couple of miles as she pointed out different buildings and, in German, explained the history behind them. On one occasion, we met in front of the Allierten Museum, which commemo-rates the history of the Allied Forces in World War II. The museum was in a fairly secluded location near the western edge of the city. Through the tall black metal fences I saw old airplanes and tanks parked out-side the building, bearing American and British army insignia. All seemed freshly painted and almost operational. It had not

photo by Alaskan DudeThe view of Berlin Hauptbahnhof, an epitome of modern glass architecture.

photo by ben124

25

Aesthetics from BerlinWhen I ventured to Berlin, Germany two summers ago as part of the Duke Summer in Berlin program, I was struck by the proliferation of cultural and historical icons in the urban landscape. In a city that has been the focal point of the two most massive wars in modern history, every structure has a story. People are born, live, and die in these structures, and the stories associated with them become integrated into people’s daily lives. A brief walk down any street in the city will bring one in contact with bullet holes from forgotten battles, wall fragments from washed away memories, or memorials for those whose lives were unjustly erased. In such walks, I would often wonder how frequently the Berlin residents reflect upon such icons: Do these structures shape their lives, or do they recede into the noisy cityscape?

In my own attempt to understand Berlin’s rich history and cultural atmosphere, I created a series of collages that manipulate these icons (in addition to other images and selections of text). What truth may lie in these pieces is subjective, but each one contemplates existence in Berlin.

by Jonathan Lee

been too long ago since they had rolled through western Europe, fighting against one of the most ruthless dictators in his-tory. Their cannons and mounted machine guns had likely left physical scars across Germany. Yet, much like Stonehenge and Roman sculptures, here they were right in front of me, distant historical relics placed directly at my feet.

I walked towards the museum gates and found Nora waiting for me there. “Sollen wir ins gehen?” (Should we go inside?), I asked

“Nein, es ist geschlossen.” (It’s closed). The museum did not open on Wednes-

days. Disappointed, we left the relics be-hind and proceeded to the nearest U-bahn station. In broken German, I shared with her my thoughts about the seeming remote-ness of World War II from the present. Af-ter spending a significant amount of time to find the words for the “Iron Curtain,” “nuclear weapons,” and “bombers,” I won-dered if she understood anything I said. She nodded her head and walked in silence for a few minutes, then slowly changed the topic to describe the story of her childhood.

“Do you know,” she said, “the history of Litaune (Lithuania)? Litaune was a kom-munismus country when I was a child.”

She went on to describe memories from her childhood, school, basketball, and the day when the country declared its in-dependence from the Soviet Union. Sud-denly, here was a person in my generation personally connected to what I considered distant history. In that deep moment, she asked,

“Do you like American movies, Justin?”“Ja, genau.”“Then, let’s go see a movie.”

Munich City Hall in Marienplatz

photo by Alaskan Dude

Berlin,Federal Republic of

Germany

photo by compujeramy

all images by author

26

Fall 2011

him by his real name. He was twenty-one and born and raised in Pago Pago, Samoa. He was about 6’ 2’’, incredibly handsome, and wore his hair in a ponytail. His music teacher back home told him that the pro-gram was amazing, so much so that he and his friends decided to pursue it. It came as a surprise to me to see such altruistic peo-ple pursuing a career in which they have to be incredibly self-promoting to succeed.

The program consisted of a heavy dance schedule with singing and acting lessons in between. In the mornings we would wake up sore and tired from the rou-tines of the day before. Without a spoken word, one of the Samoans would sit be-hind another and deliver an intricate and seemingly gratifying back, neck, and face massage. I inquired as to where their polished technique came from. Lolegi informed me that each Samoan has their

own special massage that was passed down from his or her ancestors. Each generation changes and shapes the tech-nique along the way. In Samoa, elders frequently give back, neck, and facial massages to their children. It wasn’t long before other participants in the program began to take advantage of this special service. The Samoans never seemed to mind—they had a patience that I have yet to see in American culture. I was lucky enough to have received a few of these massages, which I crave to this day. Not only did they give me relaxing massages, the Samoans provided me with a price-less friendship. I will never forget when they sang “Manuia Le Aso Fanau” (Hap-

In a nation like the United States where individualistic goals supersede all else, people may easily lose touch of life’s true values. The fragmented family units, self-absorbed careers, and secular lifestyles common in the U.S are foreign to the people of America Samoa. In this vibrant nation where as many as twenty people live under the same roof and sleep on the same ground, the importance of family and community is very evident. America Samoa had not appeared on my mental radar until I attended the renowned three-week summer intensive Broadway Theatre Project (BTP) in Tallahassee, Florida in the summer of 2009. I went in without the slightest idea that not only would I be receiving an education in theater but in culture as well. That summer, I learned about vocal technique, Bob Fosse, charac-ter development, and America Samoa. One of these things do not belong, but truth be told, the knowledge of American Samoan culture made the most lasting impact on me after my three-week education.

On the first day of BTP, I met a number of kids from the States with immense talent and interesting backgrounds. None were as interesting as a group of American Samoans that stuck out like sore thumbs in a pre-dominantly Caucasian camp. There were eight of them and they traveled together, but in no way did this make them exclu-sive. They instantly befriended me and put up with my persistent questions, stemming from a fascination with their lives and cul-ture. Within the friend group, I was closest with Lolegi (pronounced Lo-lang-gee). He went by Lawrence, but I insisted on calling

ALOFA

by Rebecca Gil

py Birthday) to me in perfect six part har-mony. It has now become a tradition of mine to sing the song to friends on their birthdays.

For the final showcase, Ruth and Latarah, two of my closest girlfriends, performed a captivating traditional Samoan dance called Taualuga. The way they articulated their feet and hips gave the illusion that they were floating in space. Despite ardent trials, I could never quite execute the step. When it came time to perform they wore dresses made of matting from Padunas leaves and

an ornate headdress. It was incredibly in-tricate and I still wonder how they ever bal-anced that huge head piece while dancing.

America Samoa can be defined by a single word: alofa, love, a word that for me has the brightest of connotations. It is often said by polylinguals that words from some languag-es just fit better. For me, alofa encompasses the warm, jubilant, and liberating feeling of universal love better than any other word. Never had I met such loving and altruistic people before. My Samoan friends had die-heart pride for their culture yet eagerly ac-cepted ours. It is from them that I learned to put my family first, embrace strangers, and open my heart. At the end of our three weeks together, I left them with tears in my eyes and a promise to one day return for a visit to their homeland.

AmericanSamoa,United Statesof America

phot

o by

Pau

l Len

z

all photos by author unless otherwise specified27

What allows children to recover from tragedy? To go from crying

about being hungry to racing the kids who live next door? To ingeniously create cars from plastic bottles and string instead of being sad because they have no Fisher Price™ toys?

These questions tossed and turned in my mind this summer during my

stay in Léogâne, Haiti. In the course of my time there, I conducted community-based research and walked around with my Nikon, documenting the community. I met a variety of people, but the children I encountered struck a special chord of assurance and resilience. They had such bright, inviting eyes and dazzling smiles that illuminated their youthful faces. As soon as I began taking their pictures, an infectious joy erupted and warmed my heart. Their musical peals of laughter made me grin as they crowded around me after each picture I took, searching for a glimpse of their faces on my cam-era. They lived in conditions I wish they could escape but carried on throughout their day as many other children would: laughing and crying, playing and singing, hoping and dreaming.

Into Their

Eyesby Elisabeth E.N. Michel

all photos by author 28

Fall 2011

The first group of kids I photographed lived in a tent city. I first noticed them

as they ran amok throughout the tent city, seemingly oblivious to their bare, muddy feet and worn, tattered clothes. While their guardians sat in the cool shade of a mango tree, the kids raced each other through the tent city, careful not to bump into the myriad of tents squeezed tightly next to each other. In the background, a man yelled about them, angrily demanding to know what reason they had to gallivant through the area. But they carried on, his comments blowing away like chaff on a windy day.

Another day, a five-year old orphan taught me a game that described the

perils of cholera. She furrowed her eyebrows when I messed up but remained patient until I successfully learned how to avoid contracting the disease. A few hours later, I sat attentively in a rocking chair while a four-year-old orphan with sickle cell anemia told me a tale about a motorcycle accident. A master storyteller, he employed every part of his body—every part except his legs, weakened by the strain of sickle cell.

29

During one of my last afternoons in Léogâne, I met a family whose

youngest member was two years old. The family members were gathered in front of their makeshift tin home, angling their bodies to make use of every inch of shade their bread-fruit tree offered. At one point, the energetic two-year-old pranced from person to person, paused to remove her sandals, and then resumed her frolicking. Her alert mother immediately shouted, “Get over here and put something on your feet!” Without hesi-tation and full of spunk, the little one ran a few more steps and slipped her tiny feet into her mother’s size six sandals.

Children are not incapable of under-standing their situations. These Haitian

kids knew that they had sickle cell, that they were sleeping in fields, or that they were liv-ing parent-less, but their circumstances did not appear to inhibit them from carrying on with their lives as…kids. They kept moving, with life exuding from their eyes. When I looked into their faces, I saw inno-cence, trust and faith. I saw the resilience of a nation that has continuously endured hardships, an undying beauty present even amidst dire situations. I saw flames of hope still ignited and fully ablaze. When I looked into their eyes, I saw strength.

“When I looked into their eyes, I saw strength.”

Léogâne,Republic of

Haiti30

Fall 2011

It’s your world.

Take flight.

Book your flight at our new site:dukegroups.duke.edu/passport

read | write | edit | design