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My final artifact is a recording of me and Sabrina conversing in shuddho Bangla! The translation is in the video as we speak. We're talking about my summer in Bangladesh and it is in interview style! There was one point that I said a word that was not in shuddho Bangla so my speaking is not perfect just yet. 

Artifact 4 movie

For my last artifact, I just made a short video of myself saying a few introductory sentences in Hebrew. I just said "ma nishma" which means what's up? Then I said "mashlomcha Rachel" which means my name is Rachel. Then I said "me efo at New Hampshire" which means I am from new hampshire.

This is a drawing that I made one day of an army base and I labeled it with some of the words that I knew that were military related. It seems silly, but as I have said, learning about the military is one of my favorite activities and I thought this was fun!

This second artifact is a list of numbers that I wrote down when I was re-learning how to say the numbers. It was helpful for me to have transliteration as well as the Hebrew spelling so I could read it as well as actually know how to say it in English.

I don't know why this posted upside down! I can't change it! Anyways, this is my first artifact. It is my writing out the alphabet in Hebrew. The top row right under the English reads right to left, and then the second row right to left, and so on. There are 22 letters in the Hebrew alphabet.

Body language in Turkish culture

Nonverbal language is very important in every culture. Interestingly, sometimes the same body language gestures can have different meanings in different cultures and sometimes what we find strange and unacceptable, other cultures find common and acceptable. What I found interesting is that in Turkish culture, people like to stare at one another more than people from other countries are used to do that. When such behavior occurs, people visiting Turkey should not be afraid and think it is rude because this is just one of common body language gestures in Turkey.

Another body language very common in Turkey as well as in my home country, Bosnia and Herzegovina, is when you hold your palm up and bring fingers towards the thumb. This means that you are telling someone that something is good. For example this is common for food, when Turks like a meal they are eating they make this gesture, non verbally saying that they like the food. This is also used for clothes and it commonly used to say that a person is attractive.

Another interesting body language that Turkish people use but people from other countries usually perceive as strange is kissing and touching with close friends. It is very common to see two men, or two women walking with their arms around each other, and sometimes they even hold their hands. Even though Westerners would think that such gesture implies sexuality, this gesture in Turkey does not tell anything about people’s sexuality but it just means that they are close friends. When people introduce themselves to one another then a handshake between those two people is usually enough and most common in such situations. It is also common to kiss each other on each cheek when meeting. This can happen between two men, two women or a man and a woman. For example, in my culture it is common for girls and women to kiss each other when meeting but it is unacceptable for men to kiss each other. This would immediately imply their sexuality. That is why I found this Turkish gesture very different.  

Another gesture that is also common in some other cultures in kissing somebody’s hand. Younger people usually kiss older people’s hand as a way to show respect. The more traditional the family is, the more important and common this gesture is. Children and young adults usually kiss their grandparents’ hands.

One of the most common gestures in Turkey is clicking your tongue and raising your eyebrows. This gesture means a “no”. Turkish people use it daily. When I was in Turkey, whenever Turkish people wanted to say no, they would use this gesture. What I found interesting is that my Turkish friends who I speak English with, they use this gesture even when speaking in English. They say no but click their tongue and raise their eyebrows. For example when somebody asks them if they want a cup of coffee, instead of saying just no, they would use this gesture. Also, when they shake their head, it means that they are confused.  On Turkish streets it is common to hear sellers telling buyers “Gel, gel” which means come, come! This is usually accompanied by waving hand downwards. I heard this daily when I was in Turkey walking down the street; all the sellers in shops were saying “Gel, gel” and were waving. My friend explained it to me that that is how they try to attract their customers.

There are also several gestures that should be avoided when in Turkey. For example, the OK hand gesture is usually a bad and offensive gesture in Turkey. When you show this sign to someone in Turkey, it means that you are accusing that person of being a homosexual. Even though this sign is usually a positive sign in other countries, in Turkey however it has a bad connotation and thus it should be avoided. Another gesture that should be avoided is pointing your finger at someone. This is rude in almost every culture as people feel uncomfortable being pointed at, so it was not very shocking for me when I found out that this gesture should be avoided in Turkey as well.  

In my culture, in Bosnia and Herzegovina, just like in Turkey it is very rude to blow your nose loudly in public. However, when I came to the United States I was really surprised and shocked when I realized that blowing your nose loudly is not considered bad manners and that everyone does it. It was hard for me to get used to that because we back home never do that in public.

I also found it interesting that placing your thumb between your index finger and middle finger and showing it to someone in Turkey is considered offensive. This has a bad meaning and should be avoided. In Turkey it has the same meaning as showing the middle finger to someone.

Among all those gestures, I also found out that it is also very rude and disrespectful to put one leg over the other when sitting with family. This is disrespectful because the sole of the foot is considered unclean and should not be pointed towards people especially the family.

I believe that before visiting a country, it is necessary to get familiar with its culture. We may put ourselves in an uncomfortable situation if we are not familiar with body language gestures. Some gestures that have positive meaning in our culture may have a negative meaning in other cultures. I would always say that the OK sign means something positive, however, in Turkey it has a bad meaning. In this post I have mentioned several gestures that are most common in Turkish culture and those that should be avoided. Next time I go to Turkey, I will definitely be careful about my non-verbal expressions.    

This is my final reflection on my independent Hindi studies. 

Hindi Final Reflection

My goals this semester were:

1. Perfecting shuddho bhasa (formal Bangla)

2. Getting past basics of writing, being able to write longer complicated sentences using more conjuncts.

3. Increasing my speed/familiarity with reading.

Looking back on these goals, I think I successfully completed all the following, which is super! However, I think I met goals a little below the mark, meaning that I did not meet my desires as well as I would have liked to meet them. I wanted to increase my reading to the point that I would not stumble as often as I do, but I haven't gotten there yet.

As for conjuncts, I did learn some, but there are SO many that it's hard to figure out how to get more out of the way. Sabrina and I decided that it would probably better to confront them as I came across them rather than seeking them out because there are various exceptions connected with them that it would complicate my learning more than help.

I realized that writing is my strongest asset in Bangla; I feel the most comfortable with writing and am the best at spelling and recognizing which letters to use except occasionally. Especially in comparison to reading, my speed is faster with writing. 

Regardless, I am pleased with my progress because I have met the basics. Now that these are cemented, I can focus on fine tuning my learning next semester- which will be more challenging because it probably means dedicating more time to it. I think this semester helped me figure out best what I want to do more with Bangla now in terms of how to learn more and get better at it. Excited for next semester, but I will be working on it over winter break! 

The use of phones among the youth is very similar to the use of phones in the Western world. Yes, it is used for social media, music, and more, but there is a twist in the story. Bangladesh cell phone service is cheap and accessible, so much that oftentimes people hold many mobile sims for one phone and person. This means that one person can have multiple phone numbers with different companies. Since this is all without contract and by a monthly or usage basis, there is no fear of fees or over-expenditure...usually. What do they possibly do with so many numbers? ROMANCE GALORE. This is what I learned during my stay in Bangladesh in the of summer 2013. The youth, regardless of their age, but usually beginning at the teens, will use their multiple mobile numbers in order to carry on multiple romantic relationships simultaneously. I think it's a hilarious usage of cell phones, especially when Bangladesh has advanced so far in cell phone technology and telecommunications. It's also an interesting way to look at it because by having multiple relationships, it shows their perspective and values of relationships. I don't know if there is something deeper in the meaning of why young people do this, but I would certainly love to learn more about it so I could understand it! 

Aside from the youth, older folks tend to have multiple sims as well, but usually limit it to two. I think they have multiple for service/connection purposes, as opposed to an ulterior motive.

Week 1

• Greetings
• Days of the week
• Colors
• Pronunciations
• Culture talk with language partner

Week 2

• Food
• Drinks
• Family members
• Pronunciations
• Culture talk with language partner

Week 3

• Household items
• Pronunciations
• **anything left over from previous weeks
• Culture talk with language partner

Week 4

• Places
• Locations
• Professions
• Pronunciations
• Culture talk with language partner

Week 5

• How to tell time
• Numbers
• Pronunciation
• Culture talk with language partner

Week 6

• Animals
• **anything left over from previous weeks
• Pronunciations
• Culture talk with language partner

Week 7

• Women issues in India
• Related vocabulary
• Pronunciations

Week 8

• India's politics (Basic)
• Related vocabulary
• Pronunciations

Week 9

• India's geography
• Related vocabulary
• Pronunciations

Week 10

• Review all lessons and make sure remember everything
• Watch Hindi movie (no subtitles)
• Talk about movi - Related vocabulary
• Pronunciations

For 105, I was to write a final reflection on my entire self-taught experience this semester. I believe this is exactly what was required for 110 as well. I have attached below the reflection I turned in for 105 as well because my experience was the same for both 105 and 110. If there is some information missing please let me know, and I will provide it. The only information missing from the attached reflection is commentary about the learning plan. So here it is: Looking back after the semester, I would say that I managed to do most of the items on my list. However, I will definitely need to go back and continue to practice all of the vocab words and sentences and phrases that I learned. With practice, it should become easier to say when trying to speak conversationally, whereas right now, I still have to really think about it. 

Thank you! 

Hindi Final Reflection

This is an audio recording of my explaining how I make the vegetable and fruit juice that I drink everyday. 

Juice Making

This is an audio recording of me talking about my Thanksgiving break. I went on a trip to Hot Springs, VA with some friends. 

Thanksgiving Break

This is an audio recording of my giving a movie review of Bollywood film - Yeh Jawanee Hai Deewanee. 

Yeh Jawanee Hai Deewanee

For my Gender and Work class, we had to pick a topic related to gender and work for our research project. I chose hijras, the third sex from South Asia. I focused more closely on the hijras of Bangladesh and wrote a short story on it.

Since it relates to to Bangladesh culture, I'm sharing it here:

When Prachi left her basti[1] in the morning, her intention was to visit Shobha, her younger sister, in Gazipur. It was with extraordinary pride that Prachi had informed her friends in the basti that her sister had received a full governmental scholarship to attend the Gazipur College of Dhaka. Such scholarships were not at all common in Bangladesh, especially for poor students with no connections to the government or people of high status. Not only did Shobha’s scholarship promise her a successful future, but it also meant that she would now be living in a dormitory away from home. For Prachi, this meant she now had the opportunity to see her precious sister for the first time in six years, ever since she decided to leave her family. Upon that decision, their father had forbidden Prachi from ever returning and had even beaten her when she tried to visit her mother and Shobha. For six years, their only means of communication was through secret letters.

When she left her room and entered the scorching midday heat, the lively noises and smells of Dhaka met her. The incessant sounds of buses and cars honking, tempos[2] tooting, rickshaw bells ringing, and humans shouting and conversing buzzed in her ears while the hot air breathed upon her skin as she walked to the local bus stop. She walked with a jaunty gait that she had developed over the years, swinging her hips from side to side, twirling her sari’s aachal[3], and singing to herself just loud enough for passersby to hear. She sang in unrestricted joy to see her sister. Her mere presence turned heads and elicited whispers and the street shopkeepers eyed her warily as she neared their stalls as she passed them.

She dressed in the traditional sari and had the long hair typical of Bangladeshi women, and although her mannerisms were hyper-feminine, her features were masculine. Her plantain green sari with yellow printed flowers was bright and colorful. She did not wear it modestly as expected of respectable women when out in the streets; instead of the achal covering her midriff it displayed the curves of her waist sensually. Heavy colorful eye shadow decorated her eyelids matching the blushing red apples of her cheeks and her bold bright lips. With her hip jutting out to one side, she continued her tune, defiantly meeting each gaze that passed her over so openly that it made the other party squirm from her stare. Sometimes she puckered her lips out to a passing man or exclaimed loudly, “Ya Allah”[4] and batted herself with her hand in a display of the hot weather or sighed loudly complaining to no one in particular about it. Her actions were exaggerated—in part for own amusement, but mainly to attract attention.

***

When Prachi was born, the midwife that delivered her did not know how to declare her gender. “Ki bolbu, babhi?” she had said to her mother. What do I say? She could not determine Prachi’s sex because of her genitals’ ambiguity. “It’s a boy,” the midwife finally surmised after much scrutiny, “it looks most like a male. Allah has given you a son.”

***

Past the passing rickshaws, Prachi watched the far distance to catch sight of a tempo that could take her to Gazipur; a two hour journey that would normally take 45 minutes if it were not for the distinctive congested traffic of Dhaka. As a yellow tarp-roofed tempo spurted towards her line of vision and stopped in the midst of the traffic, she sashayed her way to the driver.

“Bhai, jaga deben?” Will you give me a spot?

Avoiding her gaze, the driver muttered, “You can stand on the edge, if you’re willing. There are no more seats left inside.”

She exclaimed her thanks noisily and confidently stepped onto the back edge of the tempo and took hold of the roof, smirking at the evident discomfort of the other passengers. There was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere; a mother held her child closer and tugged her veil to hide her face from Prachi and everyone seemed to lean away from her. Everyone purposefully avoided meeting her eyes. Though she had gotten accustomed to such responses, the hurt that accompanied them had yet to recede. She swallowed it, instead channeling that pain into her bold and raucous behavior. “How is everyone, today, eh?” She sang out, bobbing her head from side to side, grinning ear to ear. The averted eyes and frozen body language remained the same and they ignored her. She twisted her mouth to one side and sniffed haughtily, expressing that she too rejected them as they rejected her. She turned her head to look out of the tempo and noticed a little boy. She automatically whistled at him and commented on his young beauty. “Look at your robust round face; it’s full of life and spirit. Come close to me! You would look beautiful in a sari!” The boy in the grocery stall shifted uncomfortably and checked his two sides to see if she was speaking to someone else.

She called out again, “Yes, I’m talking to you, sweetie. Give a kiss, please?” She puckered her lips imitating kisses and tittered in between the mock kisses.

“Don’t harass the child.” A man seated inside the tempo resentfully spoke to her, visibly annoyed by her remarks to the child.

Prachi became delighted from the man’s acknowledgement and flirtatiously touched his shoulder, giggling, “Why shouldn’t I? Should I do it to you instead?” Then she winked. More than before, the silence in the tempo resounded upon the delivery of her words.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” he said coldly, looking straight ahead rather than at Prachi. She giggled again, deriving pleasure from his uneasy mannerisms. She enjoyed his irritation and decided to test his limits.

“What if I do?” She stared at him, a mischievous smile spreading across her face, unmindful of what she was getting herself into. She was not thinking about repercussions—she had nothing to lose. She had no reputation to think about in society and she had lost the support of her family. The only people she had in her life were her friends at the basti, friends that were all like her, ones that faced the same types of discrimination and ostracism. The man remained silent and she could see him resisting her attempts to anger him. She nudged him again, knowing that he found her touch repulsive and shameful.

He instantaneously flinched and his voice began to raise, “Don’t touch me, bitch.”

The tempo driver at this point noticed the contention between Prachi and the man and warned them, “Ey! Kisu shuru korbi na.” Don’t start anything.

“Bhai, I’m not doing anything. I just want to be friendly, but I don’t think this sexy gentleman here likes that. Maybe he wants more.” She laughed and grazed her fingers across his cheek.

“EY KUTHA, AR EKBAR KOR AR DEKH KI HOBE!” Bitch, do it one more time and see what happens.

In retaliation, she turned and attempted to sit on his lap, “I know you want it, men like you want us, but hide it in when out in the open!”

In a matter of seconds, the man violently shoved Prachi off his lap and she lurched forward towards the woman who immediately clutched her child and turned her gaze down, ignoring the imminent fight. Prachi twisted around to face the man and slapped him at full force. He held on to the bars of the tempo to steady himself and kicked her repeatedly, aiming to kick her out of the vehicle. She countered his attacks and each time she almost fell off the tempo she recovered, holding on to the roof for balance. The man continued the brawl by grabbing her by the hair and kicking her once more as Prachi clawed his face and threw punches. Her achaal had already fallen off her shoulder and her masculine body became visible to the spectators now gathered around the tempo. No one offered to help extricate the two even when blood became a part of the scene; nevertheless, they watched the fight unfolding. The man won at the end, as Prachi fell out of the tempo with his final kick, and, as if on cue, traffic began moving again and the tempo with it. The last words to her were “Spawn of swine[5], its whores like you that ruin society; die,” followed by a glob of spit targeted at her. Hot angry tears stung her wounds and she wiped the blood off her mouth with the back of her hand. She said nothing.

Prachi’s birth name was Shalom. She was born as the first son of Rajul Hassan and Meena Hassan, two poor villagers who lived in an overcrowded village in the outskirts of Dhaka. Rajul Hassan was a farm laborer and the news of a son comforted his worn out heart. A son meant an extra hand outside of the home, a companion for him. But Shalom did not turn out to be the son Hassan desired. Even as Shalom grew older, he continued to hide behind his mother’s aachal. He was deplorable in masculine tasks that required strength and he had little desire to leave his mother’s side to work alongside men outside of the home. The heavy work required of men in the fields took a toll on him and he favored women’s chores. He was physically unable to keep up with the men as boys his age could and he had overt feminine tendencies. To the disappointment of his father, he dropped out in his sixth year of school, completing only his primary education. He cried about the distress he felt among boys who teased him for not playing football[6] with them, when instead he enjoyed playing with girls. Eventually, both groups excluded him from their games altogether. These predicaments did not end after leaving school, but carried on through his neighbors and relatives. People questioned his lack of masculinity and called him a woman trapped in a man’s body, constantly jabbing him with sexual jokes. Once, a relative jokingly attempted to see his genitals by pulling down his pants, something Shalom’s mother hastily ended. These incidents left irreparable scars on Shalom’s mind as he struggled to please those around him. He searched for acceptance, but found none except in his mother and his younger sister, Shobha. His confusion with himself consistently made him miserable as he was never able to express himself freely without judgment. After years of disapproval, Rajul Hassan decided to tolerate his son only if he remained out of sight and did not display peculiar behavior in the open.  Shalom was able to live in peaceful conditions in the company of his beloved mother and sister for several months before an accident left his father incapacitated.

As the second male of the household, Shalom was expected to step up into his father’s position as the breadwinner. While Rajul Hassan recuperated at home, Shalom tentatively ventured outside of Dhaka in search of work. After some difficulty, he secured a job as a rickshaw driver, under the employment of a rickshaw dealer, and worked all day and some nights. He encountered all odd sorts of people working as a rickshaw puller, but there was one group that held his attention. The group consisted of women with unnaturally masculine features heavily made up in cosmetics and bright clothing. They were raucous and bold, but seemed joyous amongst themselves. One time he witnessed them harassing a garments shopkeeper to the point that he gave away clothing to get them to leave.[7] Shalom couldn’t explain his fascination with them; he wondered about who they were and why they did not feel shame in their public behavior. Eventually he asked a customer about them as he took him to his destination.

“Bhai[8], these masculine females…who are they?”

“You’ve never seen a hijra before? Allah’s creation, neither man nor female.”

Neither man nor female. Those words replayed in Shalom’s head at all times and his curiosity was ignited—he wanted to know more. For the first time in his life, Shalom felt like he might belong somewhere. He just wasn’t sure if he liked it.

***

“I know you’re like us,” Nandini said, “I see it. I’m never wrong in recognizing another hijra.” Shalom met Nandini, an elderly hijra, in the bazaar. He watched CNGs[9] and other vehicles reject her each time she approached one, before he dragged his rickshaw to her and offered to give her a ride. After they had arrived at the hijra basti that was her home, she paid him heavily, and was now appraising him. Shalom fidgeted uncomfortably, staring at his feet, not knowing what to say. When a long pause went by, he said, “How can I know?”
“You already know. You’re afraid, it’s etched all over your face and I see it in the way you look at me. You’re afraid of being ostracized by people the way we are, but you’ve already experienced it, haven’t you? The difference is that with us, you’ll have friends and a community that will accept you. You’ll be happier with us, you’ll be comfortable in your skin. No more pretense being a man.”

Moved by her words, Shalom felt his throat closing as he held back tears.

That night, Shalom rode his rented rickshaw back the owner’s warehouse. When he arrived, the streets were sparse with people, and stores were closing for the night. He entered the warehouse and headed straight for the owner’s office, but seeing it empty, he began searching for the warehouse keeper.

“Oi, ki koreesh?” What are you doing? A voice boomed from behind him and Shalom saw that it was the new warehouse security guard.

“I’m returning the rickshaw,” he replied. The guard eyed him up and down and Shalom felt goose bumps rise in the back of his neck.

“I’ve heard about you, the effeminate boy. You hijra?” The guard spoke roughly, but his underlying tone suggested interest.

Shalom trembled and shook his head, “Na, bhai,” No, brother.

“Really? Show me and I’ll believe you,” the guard took a step forward and Shalom darted to the back exit of the warehouse and ran. He knew of a bus stop nearby and did not stop until he reached it. He purchased the earliest bus ticket to his village when he arrived. He craved nothing more than the comfort of his mother’s lap.

***

The morning he arrived in his village, his mother and sister met him with excitement and surprise. Even his father seemed pleased to see him—after all, Shalom was finally fulfilling his role as the only son of the family. The positive welcome did not last long. Shalom’s curiosity about the hijra burned inside of him and he still wondered whether or not he belonged with them. He wanted to know what it felt like to be one of them.

Shalom had watched Shobha apply makeup time and time again. So much that when he picked up her kajal[10] the motions of applying it came naturally. He darkened his eyes from the top, the cheap pencil producing ragged lines across his eyelids. He grimaced at the sight of the mess he made and rubbed it off, opting to merely apply it to his waterline. He eyed the red lipstick as he rubbed heavy rouge on his dark skin. Shalom picked up the lipstick and applied the creamy red over his lips. He could taste the lipstick in his mouth. Rubbing his lips together, the color tinted his lips evenly and he puckered them in the mirror. He didn’t know how long he had been watching himself in the mirror, holding back giddy smiles, before he heard the sound of the door’s latch opening. He turned and met Shobha’s shocked face. She stared at him for seconds before speaking.

“Bhaiyya… what’s happening?” she asked, her voice rising unintentionally. Shalom panicked and rushed to lock the door to secure their privacy.

His face welled with tears and he quivered as he searched for words, “Shobha, please, Shobha, listen.”

She repeated, “What’s happening?” followed with a succession of questions, “why are you wearing lipstick? Why do you have kajal on? What are you doing?”

He fell to the floor and wiped the makeup off as much as he could while hushing her, “Shobha please, quiet…someone will hear, please quiet…” The room fell silent filled only with Shalom’s heaving sobs. After some time, Shobha kneeled beside him, her soft hand light resting light upon his back.

“Ma Baba-ke bole na,” Don’t tell mom and dad.

But he did tell them. When he asked, "What do you know about hijras?” His father froze and his mother seemed to go into a panic, “Why, Shalom? What do you know about them? Why are you asking?”

Shobha fumbled to cover up his question, but to no avail.

Shalom continued, “I met some, in Dhaka. One hijra said I’m one of them.”

“Shalom, silence. You’re speaking nonsense!” His father bellowed.

He remained quiet for a bit before answering his father, “Baba[11], I think they were right.” “Shalom, be quiet,” his mother warned. It did not matter anymore if Shalom remained quiet or not, the damage was done. Wordlessly, Shalom’s father rose, and pulled him up from the ground by the ear. He slapped him on both cheeks and asked him if he thought he was hijra. His head hung, he nodded slowly, tears dripping down his nose.  Rajul Hassan wasted no time in gathering his son’s belongings and throwing them outside. He proceeded to forbid his wife and daughter from ever meeting him or letting him return to their house, much less ever mention his name again. “I have no son,” Rajul decreed, “he is dead to me. He died in Dhaka.”

***

Shalom returned to Nandini’s basti. The hijra community was as accepting as Nandini had described it to be, and they celebrated his advent through song and dance. Since Shalom was born a hermaphrodite, his genitals were in between that of a male’s and a female’s. Unlike some hijras who choose to undergo the emasculation process[12], Shalom chose to keep his body as it was. The rest of the initiation process was the same—he changed his name to Prachi, a female name, and took on feminine pronouns. She also became Nandini’s chela[13]and Nandini her guru. This meant that she would live with Nandini in her house in the basti and remain underneath her care. Prachi was taught the ways of the hijra and quickly learned how to fend for herself in a society that shunned her kind. The lack of employment opportunities available was unsurprising to Prachi, but it did not make the financial situation any easier. She participated in the hijragiri practices of badhai and cholla or birit manga[14] with the hijra community, but such practices were not as widespread as before, and it barely raked in adequate profit.

“There was a time where a hijra had more respect in society,” Nandini informed Prachi

“Did you know hijras like us during the Mughal period had high places in court? Everything changed with British colonization.” Nandini had the highest amount of education among all the hijras in the basti. No one knew why; it was one of her many mysterious elements. On most days, Prachi would sit beside Nandini, transfixed by her knowledge of world news and personal stories. Nandini had an avid interest in politics and current events and loved to tell stories to boot. Prachi was one of the very few hijras that enjoyed hearing them.

“Hijragiri is not the same anymore as it was in my days. You can’t make ends meet with the meager amounts people give. No one wants us as entertainment anymore.”

“Why don’t they?” Prachi asked.

“Why should they? They have technology and the internet for free entertainment. We can’t even demand money from dukhandaars[15]anymore. The markets have tougher security, we’re not allowed past the fancy new malls now. If we try, the police beat us.”

Nandini was firmly against sex work as she believed in a hijra’s asexuality, “Allah created us without a sexual desire. That sexual energy translates into our spiritual nature. We have the power to curse or bless others...” Not all the hijras shared that same view. Many of the hijras in the basti engaged in sex work, especially on days where cholla or badhai work went very badly. It was rumored that one of the hijras had contracted AIDs from a client, but she did not know which. She will probably die faster because of the lack of medical treatments available to her. As hijra she has no rights to medical health care. It was those kind of issues that riled Nandini. Nandini belonged to an NGO that worked to improve hijra conditions and establish their privileges. She always felt very strongly about the lack of hijra rights. She would always say, “Our country is the most behind on this subcontinent!” She would talk about the improving statuses of hijras in India and Pakistan, at least comparably to that of Bangladesh’s. “There are hijra politicians in India! Did you know that, Prachi?”  From Nandini’s understanding, there could be no social change or advancement for hijras without national recognition. Hijras were not counted in the country’s population census because they did not have a gender category to identify them. “We’re not recognized as citizens of Bangladesh, though we were born here and will most likely die here.” Until change came from the government, hijras would continue eking out their living through the dying traditional work of hijragiri or sex work. Almost no employer wanted to hire them because of the stigma they face in society. Some even considered them disabled peoples, unable to work as any other normal person.

***

Gazipur College of Dhaka overlooked a lake and rested on rural land. Outside the gates there was a bazaar with an abundant vegetable and fish market. The scene was vibrant and pulsed with villagers and students mingling among each other. Prachi surreptitiously walked through the bustle with her head ducked and covered with a veil. She didn’t want to draw negative attention towards her sister; it was one thing for her to be insulted, but another for her precious Shobha. She traveled the remainder of his journey by rickshaw and foot. She slipped past the guards of the college gate and gained entry into the girls’ dormitory that her sister resided in. In her last letter, she had disclosed a description of her building and her room number.

 When she found Shobha’s room, she rapped on the door and waited, her heart beating in her ears from excitement. The door opened to reveal Shobha, six year older, and Prachi dropped her veil. Shobha burst into tears and they both embraced, crying in each other’s arms. Upon the release of their embrace, Shobha ushered Prachi into her room and grinned. She was emanating with happiness. She grabbed the Daily Amardesh newspaper lying on her desk and showed Prachi the front page. “Dekho.” Look.  It read:

“Government recognizes the third sex.”

“Government recognizes the third sex.”[1]

Video of my listing 10 items in hindi along with their color. 

Shiksha Artifact 1

In Bangladesh, the stigma of divorce is very gendered. Women receive the blame for it regardless of the whole story when the news is received by society because within the culture it is the woman's responsibility and burden to carry the marriage.

Me and Sabrina had a lengthy conversation about this one day when we were talking about my summer experience in Bangladesh. This came up because one of my cousins had just gone through a divorce from an abusive man who had abandoned her soon after their marriage. I had witnessed how society treated her and how secretive the news of her divorce was kept. It was to the point that she barely went out except to go to college. She remained in her house pigeon-holed and unable to express her feelings fully to anyone because she was so oppressed. It was horrible to see her in that state, especially because she could not break free from the restrains that society had put on her. Even though none of the situations were her fault and she had done her absolute best to save the marriage, she felt responsible and badly for the end result. In America, if women go through a divorce to end an abusive or unhealthy relationship, they usually feel empowered for their decision and are proud and respected for that decision. My cousin experienced the opposite in which she felt defeated and at fault. Though only 25 years old, she already thinks her life is over and that she has nothing but her education left to her name. She has no hopes or desires to marry again and does not think that anyone will marry her because she has already been married once and cannot offer purity. If she were a man, the situation would be different. There would not be as much societal pressure on her for the divorce and she could still walk freely among society without feeling scorn or blame from others. As Bangladeshi culture is very gendered, men normally receive better treatment for such situations. Although there is so much more to this, I don't want to go on forever about it. 

On the upside, however, women are acquiring more rights. In the past, women did not even have the option to file for divorce under the clause that my cousin was able. From what my relatives explained to me, the law granted her divorce without her ex-husband's "approval" because she was abused and abandoned in the relationship. I think women have more rights legally, but socially are constrained by cultural beliefs of right and wrong. 

My Powerpoint for my cultural presentation on arranged marriages in India. 

Indian Arranged Marriages

This week was Thanksgiving week so when we came back we just had a review for the test. There wasn't anything new- we just went over what should be on the test in terms of what I'm comfortable with and what I should be able to do at this point. We decided to have the following:

-Conversing in shuddho Bangla (formal Bangla)

-Writing/diction portion

-Vocabulary

-Conjuncts 

-Reading a passage 

This is a vocabulary list to help with conjuncts. As we did readings, Sabrina kept a vocabulary of words that I did not know, but also compiled in it words that I knew with conjuncts. It was a neat worksheet because I had to show which two letters created the conjunct that I had to use. It was good practice as it showed me which ones I was using and be dissecting the letters the repetition helped me remember the conjuncts better. I'll be keeping this sheet for reference...hopefully one day I'll look back on this and think that it's a breeze and be able to do it much faster than originally! There are more worksheets like this and I think we will continue it. 

This artifact is the very first diction me and Sabrina did. In this particular diction, she was narrating an event that was happening at the moment and I wrote it in Bangla. The story was about Katherine, my friend, and a fly that was following her around and her reaction. 

This was the first time I had done diction so I was impressed with how much I was able to do. Sabrina helped me along the way for some letters that I did not know how to write or words I made mistakes in spelling correctly. The more I did it, the easier it became. I also enjoyed how pretty it came out! The pink must've helped, haha. I have become better in writing with the vowel signs so I am happy with that progress. 

There weren't any conjuncts in this diction, but I need to work on that so in the next diction perhaps I'll ask Sabrina to do a diction with conjuncts in it so I can practice that.