Art and Darkness

Today I experienced a not-so-fun part of teaching. One of my former Access students came by; she is cool a young woman of 16 whom I adore. She swoops in several times a week to hone her speaking skills and watch hip-hop videos. But what she's most passionate about is American movies and regularly takes advantage of the American Center's vast, current DVD collection and in-house player. Today just for fun I asked her which movie we should watch during next Friday's movie screening and she went to browse. She pulled out a movie with an intriguing cover and asked if we could watch that one. I wrinkled my forehead and told her that the film she had chosen, "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas," was probably not a good choice for the class. I told her it was difficult to watch and that one of the boys on the cover died. When she looked back up at me she had a twinkle in her eye and asked "Teacher, can I watch it?". I shrugged, plugged in the DVD player and headset then busied myself with other library duties. She's watched tough movies at the American Center before. I figured she could handle it. It might even be good for her. One of my guiding principals is to introduce kids to things that they were wholly unfamiliar with. An hour or so passed and I forgot she was there- until I heard sniffling in the corner. I craned my head in time to see my student wiping her nose and slowly pulling off the headphones. Concerned, I gave her a hug and a wad of toilet paper which she accepted with a little smile. She seemed like she was recovering okay then looked at me over my computer and said "Teacher, is this story true?" I sighed pensively. I've never seen the movie but am familiar with the plot line. Taking a deep breath I said "Well, the people aren't really true. But the events, they are true." She looked disappointed.  From my experience here so far I thought all Mongolian children had at least a minimal knowledge of the basic outline of Western history. This girl had apparently never heard of Hitler. I pulled up a chair next to mine and patted it, "come'ere, I'll teach you." We went to Wikipedia and I talked her though the basic outline of pre-World War II Germany, why Hitler was so popular and how he took power. She interjected sad questions like "But why the Jewish People?" I stressed the point of racial purity, fear of 'other' and explained that homosexuals were also targets; I figured Roma people were a bridge too far. At points in our talk, which lased maybe ten minutes, her eyes welled up with fresh tears. It was salt water that pulled on my heartstrings and made me question myself. I fought tears of my own. I wanted to make it all better for her. I Google Image searched Holocaust Memorials and we talked about education and how almost every city has a memorial. But I knew there was no way to bandage this. She would go home and the little boy, the boy who was forced to wear the striped pajamas, would follow her. Did I do the right thing? Should I have let her watch this movie? Must all children be taught about this dark and hideous corners of history? Must they be harrowed by horrors like genocide? I destroyed a young girls innocence today. But I think she had to learn. If not in service to the six million who perished in Europe but all the others- people, children her age, who have been slaughtered at the hands of hate. I tried to draw a parallel for her, to make it both more real and abstract. I tried to explain that this is the reason why I get angry when students say they hate the Chinese. Because this is what hate can do. It wasn't important to show her the pictures of the shoes or the emaciated liberated, she got the message. I gave her a hefty comic book that had been sent to me by the Anne Frank Organization in America to help make things a little clearer. I hope it helps.

This kind of thing is normally my favorite part of the job: what I like to call "culture time". Depending on the topic at hand, the kids circle their wagons around my laptop and we Google Image or Wikipedia different things that are completely new to them. These things normally relate to a lesson. Once it was Janice Joplin (that one actually related to nothing- just the thought of children not knowing Janice scandalized me), another time botanical gardens and yet another time Jackson Pollock. I really love working with teenagers because they are nothing but little sponges, soaking up all goodness you lay before them. It's a lot of pressure to get things right, but I love being the woman for that job. The site of their little faces brimming with astonishment as they absorb yet another part of the world never fails to be fufilling. Yesterday is a good example. When overseeing peer editing on a project about different countries, I realize the girl who was studying Italy and her peer editor had never seen the Sistine Chapel. Or St. Peter's Basilica. So I conjured up photos online and beckoned the two girls to the computer. If I live a hundred years, I don't think I'll ever forget their gasps. It was magical, almost better than seeing the real thing. Hours I spend pulling teeth for participation from younger students, lesson planning until I want to vom and biting my tongue when I can't hear myself think over drunk librarians singing all vanish when I hear these little gasps. It's like their awe-filled exhalations gently puff out any frustration or anger trapped in the recesses of my life.

Frequently I come across teachers dilemmas. I don't think I was ever cut out to be a teacher, mentoring is what I love and what I've done before. I never really wanted to be a teacher, but the line between teacher and mentor blurs itself in cases like the ones above which is why I treasure them. As for teaching, having an audience I love but trying to spell the simplest words correctly or differentiate between adverbs and adjectives are things I have no zeal for. Hell, I don't know these things, why should my students? But every day I try to make the best of it and times like these, the mere minutes when I can sit down and really talk with a student, get them to open their minds to a new idea, make me proud to be an educator. But then burdens come with the thrills and as my student took her new found demons home with her, so too I took hers home with me as well.

Monthly Montage: Sweat in the City

Sorry it's been so long since I posted. I've been in the capitol getting trained for my position on the Peer Support Network (a handful of Peace Corps Volunteers who get reimbursed for phone credit used to talk to other Volunteers about issues they are struggling with here in Mongolia). In addition to the training there was bonding with friends, celebrating Thanksgiving with just about every PC Volunteer and staff member in the country and saturating in luxuries like cheese, spinach and draft beer. But now I'm back in Hovd and down to business. The November Monthly Montage is barely squeaking by in time but hopefully you'll like it. Sadly I just picked up a crazy debilitating computer virus so posting will be a little more difficult until I get this sorted. And the format is a little wack on the photos due to working on a strange computer. Thanks for your love and patience, ya'll!

Since I started the new school year I have been pretty faithful to my morning runs. There is really no reason to lounge around in bed these days and the feeling of getting better at something challenging has been rather intoxicating. There are so many fascinating things to see- something new and  bizarre every day. I took my camera out every day for a week and this is some of what I saw. This montage doesn't really cover all the strange and wonderful things that I've stumbled upon but hopefully will give you a good idea of one morning in Mongolia though the eyes of a novice runner.

Sentinels.

The gaps in the wall the Manchu built.

Ger District.

Waiting on reputedly good meat and seasonal yogurt outside someones hashaa.

Groups of men loitering while the women fight for spots
in the yogurt line in front of a hashaa door.

Snow day! This is the first street I come to after leaving my apartment.
At the end of this road I turn left, right or go strait depending on the pollution and my mood.

Early morning tracks.

Going out of town.

Typically my turning around point in my run.

Quite a sight for a city girl like myself.

Sunrise over thatch and loam.

Not quite a mini-van but it gets the family around.

The towns only heating plant from afar.

Smog and smoke.

Turning around to run back through the haze and into town.

Chillin.

A wary watcher.

He was rather fascinated but gave me the thumbs up after I snapped this shot.

The new mosque that is being built and a horseback commuter.

Off to school.

The neighborhood dumpster and a few of those who profit from it.

Waiting to collect meat for the winter from a truck recently arrived in town.

Bringin' home the bacon.

Happy customers!
Buying a whole, skinned sheep is very common.

The younger woman in this photo spied me taking photos of the line of people buying meat. She beckoned me inside her hashaa and into her ger. She then made me take pictures of her whole family. She was so stern yet friendly- how could I resist? It was tough trying to tell her why I didn't want milk tea and candy in the middle of my run. Her family seemed to be a traditional Kazakh one.

Inside my new friend's ger. Making milk tea, fresh meat and eme ('grandma') holding down the fort.

Ovoo ('grandpa') making milk tea. Notice the sweet Kazakh tapestries behind him.

A very sweet little girl. She was rather terrified of that calf but happy to pose.

A stern matriarch.

When I feel like off roading I run strait out into the field.

Clouds of ger smoke.

Free running!

Whose Dad makes the best granola in the world?
THIS KID!

A little taste of the best coffee shops in Atlanta to take to work.

What I lovingly refur to as my 'splashy bath'. Two kettles of boiling water, three or four ladles of cold water and 15 minutes later a squeaky clean Peace Corps Volunteer ready to start the day!

Hump-Day Pick-Me-Up

I know I'm a little slow on the up take but I've recently discovered how wonderful the show Glee must be. I don't have cable but I do have internet and while I cannot stream Glee I've gleaned from videos and Facebook that it's fun and super witty with the perfect dose of drama nerd for a former Theater major like myself. I was also completely convinced that this show is utterly awesome when I found this super sweet video on my lovely friend Janelle's Facebook page. Besides the dream-boats in neckties *swoon*, it's catchy and tells a little slice of what looks to be a pretty cute love story. Plus Katy Perry is totally my secret bubblegum pop indulgence these days. She's just so much fun and this song has quickly weaseled it's way into my life (I end up blaring it and dancing around my apartment about once a day). So enjoy! Happy Wednesday!

To Tie the Knot

Congratulations, Prince William and Kate Middleton! If you haven't seen or heard yet, the super cute couple is now engaged. Yippee! And while I'm still not quite sure if he has a personality, I'm a huge fan of her and her wardrobe and am pretty excited that the two of them worked out. Classy girls: 1! I was also pretty excited about this because recently I've been really into weddings- although I have no idea why. NOT for me, mind you. I couldn't possibly be farther from wanting to get married at this point in my life. The idea makes me a little terrified and I tend to break out in a mild sweat when I am asked almost daily by students when I am going to get married. Somehow it's kind of like extreme tightrope walking or urban warfare, something that I have absolutely no desire to do but is really cool to watch. Maybe it's the escapist fairytale of it all; the beauty of the day and the splendor of dedicating your life to another. Or maybe it's the fact that some of my friends and exes are starting to get married and I'm trying to make sense of it because I vaguely but don't fully understand what it is to make a commitment that big at the tender age of early twenties. Possibly it's because I recently realized how young I really am- I could change my life completely right now if I so chose. Ok, so maybe I'm a little long in the tooth for the Moscow Ballet Company, but there are so many avenues that are not yet closed to me. There comes a time when changing your life on a massive scale is not really an option and I haven't yet reached that point. Getting married takes you to or at least close to that level of stability quite quickly. Or perhaps my dalliance in wedding pictures could just be me fantasizing about a night that I could spend in a pretty (not white) dress with all my friends, a sick d.j. and an open bar. The fact that just about all my best college friends will be at a wedding this spring keeps coming back to haunt me and makes me soul crushingly and mind numbingly sad each time I think about it. That wedding is something I'd fly home for in a heartbeat but I cannot leave Mongolia because of the timing and my friends can't really change the date. But whatever it is, I've discovered that other people's weddings are just fun to look at. I've been checking up on the aforementioned blog Once Wed which a childhood friend expertly maintains. I've also read about this rad lady who decided to marry herself in China. Intriguing, no? As of now, I have absolutely no idea what my wedding will be like. It will be a party and there will be biscuits- I know that much. But otherwise, when I try to visualize anything wedding related for myself, everything just gets distorted. So for now it's fun to poke around at what other people have done and wait with bated breath to see what washes of elegance and exorbitant gowns the upcoming royal wedding will bring.

Mans Best Friend

I woke up to the sound of crying yesterday. Roused from surreal dreams that quickly became silhouettes, I peeked out of the curtains to see what creature was making such a piteous noise. The sound was gut wrenching; I could feel it reaching to the bottom of my very being and moving my sleep shrouded senses to fervent concern. Whatever was crying would never be the same. I peered at the landscape until I saw it: at the Norwegian Lutheran Mission next to my house a Mongolian worker was grasping a puppy roughly by the scruff of it's neck. He held a broom in the other hand which he used to hit the tiny animal as soon as he dropped it by the front gate. The puppy's struggles and cries were futile and painfully delicate against the mans blows. Though the puppy tried to get back to the building, its attempts were in vein. The puppy was forced through the small crack between the gate and the dusty earth beneath it. It stood at the gate for some time, its cries growing more desperate. The worker walked away. Then, like a child, the puppy became distracted and forgot it's former troubles. It happily trotted over to some crows picking at a plastic bag. The birds just looked at him, seemingly entertained by this fluff ball who didn't even clear their eye level. The puppy threw a glance back at his former residence padded off, in search of a new life.
It is easy anthropomorphize baby animals. And while the above antidote might seem like the picture-perfect beginning for a child's version of 'Oliver' I am afraid that the puppy's story will end more tragically than it began. Winter is coming and temperatures that don't even brush freezing for four months do not bode well for homeless puppies.

The dogs are restless. I can feel it- something in the air. Long before I watched the eviction and virtual death sentence of the puppy, I noticed it on my morning runs. The dogs uneasily roam the streets, no longer sitting by their hashaa gates Spinx-like. Similar to teenage boys here, the dogs roll around in ominous packs. Sometimes I wonder if Anthony Burgess or William Goldberg ever visited this country before they wrote their respective classics: A Clockwork Orange and Lord of the Flies. Pack mentality is so strong everywhere you look and dogs are no exception. After all, they are pack animals. But their dedication to sticking together is a small wonder- they know what's coming. When the temperature drops, so too will the number of animals left alive. The problem of dogs frozen on the streets gets so bad that there is a rumor that prisoners are set loose with guns every fall to rid the cities of their K-9 problem. I am pretty sure that was confirmed when walking to work last week I saw two police cars escorting a truck with three men in the flat bed, grinning like they were out on a field trip and clutching guns. The dogs who have managed to survive to adulthood seem to know what is in store; an ugly season.

Because of the inability to get pets spayed or neutered in the countryside, there are a great deal of feral dogs throughout Mongolia. But death knocks on the doorstep of even the domesticated. One of my cutest and sweetest students told me she killed her dog on accident when she left it outside last year. I tease her gently about it and we laugh because all four feet of her is so angelic but really it's rather sad. Though dogs die every winter, people still do what they can to prevent the problem of dog overpopulation. The most common method is to slit the throats of the newborns, giving only the strongest one or two male puppies the slightest chance at survival. But really, what else should they do? My friend Laura who lived in Bayan Olgii brought home a dog and her host family kindly took in it; a great and probably unprecedented act, as the dog was female. Within a year Ruthie had a litter and once Laura left for a business trip, her family killed all but one. She was heartbroken, especially as she watched Ruthie search frantically for her puppies. But Laura could hardly be angry; she knew it was a cultural norm and really the only birth control option. What else should they have done? Try to find homes, yes. But no one wanted the girl puppies, leaving the growing family with few options when it is a daily struggle to feed themselves.

I don't want to write about this is upset anyone. I know many people who balk and quail at the notion of any animal cruelty. My intention in airing out what happens here is to both expose a grizzly and silenced side of Mongolia in addition to providing a foil for the Western way of life. The value of life added to the comfort and certainty with which most Westerners live is so easily taken for granted. Both children and dogs will be cared for, provided the systems in place do not fail. And while those systems are far from perfect, here there are no systems. No safety net for abandoned puppies or  wary dogs.

Mongolian dogs are different animals from the ones in America. Even the dogs that Peace Corps Volunteers take in and raise always maintain a wild edge. In Mongolia, animals are everywhere- donkeys are set lose to eat trash,  battered cats slink around corners, cows amble through the town square and horses graze along side yaks on the outskirts of town. Dogs are not lumped into the 'people' category- here there they belong with the rest of the animals. Our dog trainer at home worked for a company called 'Pets are People, too,' that could not be further from the truth in this corner of the world. Far from the land of no kill shelters and Milk-Bones, I've learned a lot about animals. I know what a dieing sheep smells like, that a cow can survive on a diet of trash bags and dead leaves and the particular shine on the inside of an animals skin. I've leaned about dogs, too. The stance a dog takes when it's about to run at you, the way bending down to pick up a rock sends angry dogs running, what doggie gang-bangs and frozen dogs look like. But perhaps this crucial education and subsequent fear of dogs that I have acquired does not serve me so well in the rest of the world. Shopping for shoes in a posh part of Sydney, Australia the store owner's tiny poodle became indignant at my presence and began to yap. Flashbacks of being lunged at by the hashaa dog behind the library ripped through my mind. I screamed as if I were about to be torn to shreds and bolted from the store. My family was somewhat amused and mildly concerned I think, the shop attendant confused and mortified. It was then that I realized Fido has morphed in my mind from being a fun loving friend and Frisbee partner to one among the horrifying packs that race through the beginning scene of 'Waltz with Bashir'.


So though I wanted to cuddle the put upon puppy into my arms, feed it chicken from America and tell it everything would be alright, I forced myself to turn from the window as it trotted off. I'm not in the position to adopt a dog and letting mother nature take it's course is something I know I can't fight, as much as it hurts to admit. I know the little puppy's cries will haunt me and I will continue to wonder what has become of him. The loss, the destruction, of innocence is something that I continue to write about, as it is difficult to stomach and is markedly different here than at home. But somehow each encounter feels fresh, as I realize over and over again that I cannot save the world one treecat, trashboy or tiny puppy at a time.

Amazing Article Alert

As a follow-up to Whiplash, here is a really incredible article from the independent Mongolian newspaper 'UB Post' about the rampant racism and confused Nazism that plagues Mongolia today. What you read here is diluted here in the countryside but unfortunately not by much. Enjoy!

A Modern Day 'Weeper

My apartment trashboy visited me again today. At 10am he knocked on my door without pause until I dragged myself out of bed to answer the caller. And there he stood. At 12-years-old, he is vastly undersized for his age. He appears in the same baggy jeans and hooded sweater, apparel far too flimsy for the early Mongolian winter that is upon us. His fingernails are always grimy. Perpetually cinched in his filthy hands is a woven plastic sack which he slowly fills with trash from the apartments in my building. He hauls the sack upon his back, doubling over from the weight of so many glass bottles and bones. Then he trudges his little frame over to the trash pit near my apartment where the plastic bags and wrappers that don't blow away will be lit on fire as cows and dogs bicker over them. He does the work that impoverished women usually do. Seeing them is hard to stomach sometimes. He breaks my heart. It is easy to assume that he is a victim of truancy law violation. I ask him how many people in his family and he tell me he has two younger siblings. I wonder what fate lies in store for them. Will they also be trash children? Will they be doomed to chase down flyaway plastic and clean vomit from concrete stairwells while their peers play on swings and run amuck? And what will become of my little laboring friend? Will he ever lead a normal life? Or will he end his days as a trash collector, stooping until his death to gather the mess of others? Will his child be by his side then, clutching at trash with tiny hands? Whenever I think of him, William Blake's poem 'The Chimney Sweeper' comes to mind. Published as two different versions in Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, it treats on a small Victorian boy who is forced to sweep chimneys with his little fellows. The first stanza goes:

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

The rest of the poem goes on to talk about faith, God and the divine escape that is Heaven. But this first part catches me and when I look at the trashboy who walks the halls of my building, I see the plight of so many children reflected in him. The horse, trebling cry of 'weep! 'weep! (a child's lisping slang for 'sweep!' but also paralleling tears the boys shed for their plight) wouldn't seem foreign on his lips. He looks like he might sleep in soot. But there is really nothing to be done. No grandiose act of mine could ever release him from the shackles of child labor. I have given him food and a few of my myriad pairs of gloves. I have invited him in for tea. He has become bolder over the months that we've know each other and asks me for specific things now. Yesterday he wanted spices. I beckoned him into my kitchen where he opted for meat-specific spice packets that have been handed down from Volunteers past. I never would have used them. Today he asked for boots and I have him my old pair from last year that I wasn't ever planning on wearing again. They are for his mother. 

I wonder what he sees when he walks into my apartment. Usually warm (though today the heat has been turned off and my space heater killed itself by burning out its plug a few hours ago), the oasis of shelves laden with foreign food and two rooms for only one person must seem so extraordinarily decedent to him. The bunnies darted between his feet today and I don't think he quite knew what to make of it. He looks around so hesitantly at everything I poses. Being here has been a humbling experience; I look at the life I used to live with different, more appreciative eyes. The excess of America can even be overwhelming. But seeing my current life through the eyes of my little sweeper also gave me pause. I still exist in excess though I feel far more Spartan now than ever before. 

I don't know how my donations to him are being used. Perhaps his parents are pushing him to milk the dumb foreigner for more clothes and food. Maybe they are deeply grateful. I don't think it really matters. Honestly I don't know what else to do but to think about this dear boy in the same light as I do all teaching and aid work in general: do everything you can and hope desperately for the best.