Evil Reporter Chick

Random thoughts in war and peace

31 Dec 2012
1 Comment

A New Year’s salute to amazing people not on any lists

Zhanna

I met Zhanna Dawson at her Atlanta home in April.

Today, we bid goodbye to 2012 and usher in a new year. It’s a time of cheer and remembrance.

We like lists. So we have the top 10s of everything from movies to gadgets to events. And there are lists of admirable people. Barack Obama was Time’s Man of the Year. Malala  Yousafzai topped other lists. As did Mohamed Morsy, the Egyptian president and Olympians who set records and won medals last summer in London.

Then there are all those people who perhaps made the news in remarkable moments and then faded to the background again. Their names are not on any Top 10 lists though it’s likely they went on in their acts of courage, brilliance and altruism.

There are countless people, of course, who deserve recognition. I am naming a few who I had the opportunity to write about in the last 12 months.

Dr. Kasem kept the Hippocratic Oath at a makeshift hospital in the besieged Syrian city of Al Quasyr. He knew every patient could be his last; that at any minute, a rocket could slam into the building at any moment. Instead, he kept moving the hospital from building to building and held steadfast to the medical oath he took that demands that he do all he can to save lives.

“If I will die when I help people, it is good for me,” he told CNN many months ago. “Because I am a doctor. I must help people, especially in this very catastrophic time. After the revolution, before the revolution, during the revolution, I will help people.”

I don’t have any way of knowing where Dr. Kasem is today. Whether he is even alive.

Back in February, I wrote about how the Tibetan New Year, Losar, was silent and dark in 2012. Tibetans decided to forgo festivities to honor all the monks and nuns who have self-immolated in protest of Chinese rule. Think about what that takes — to set yourself afire because of your love for homeland.

In the West, we seldom hear about what Chinese occupation is doing to Tibet, how an entire culture is eroding.

And I salute survivors of tragedy and trauma everywhere who  found ways to carry on living.

In 2012, I was lucky to have met Zhanna Arshanskaya Dawson, who survived the Holocaust in her native Ukraine by playing the piano for the Nazis.

She is in her mid-80s now, yet I was so taken by her verve for life. I could not stop listening to a recording of her playing Chopin. I could not stop hearing her stories of the war — how she felt when she played for survivors of Auschwitz.

She was was a triumph of spirit amid the worst of humanity.

Tonight, I will sip bubbly and make resolutions for the new year. And I will celebrate the lives of extraordinary people I have met and hope that their achievements always serve as a guide for my own aspirations.

Posted by Moni Basu in CNN, Courage and tagged
25 Dec 2012

Christmas in Prague. Joy!

praguexmas

Posted by Moni Basu in Uncategorized and tagged | Leave a Comment
24 Dec 2012
2 Comments

A brutal rape, then outrage. What next for women?

India-protestors-1200

When I was home in Kolkata several years ago, I climbed aboard a crowded public bus to go across town. The experience was far from pleasant.

It was hot and crowded. The bus was filled with the stench of body odor. I could feel the sweat of others on my bare arms as I clawed my way to the front door to get out at my stop.

But all of that could be borne in some way or the other. This was the price of getting from south Kolkata to its financial center in Dalhousie Square on a ticket that cost me all of 5 cents.

But there was another memory that came hurtling back in the last few days as I read the news of a 23-year-old woman attacked and raped by a gang of men on a moving bus.

Men on the bus pinched me and groped me and there was nothing I could do. My right arm was up, holding onto the grab bar for dear life as the rickety bus bumped its way over gaping pot holes.

I could not move in that packed bus. I could not hit them back. I was helpless.

But that was just the way it was. Not one person around me thought to do anything about it.

What happened to me happens to women all over India. Every day.

I’ve been stared at on the streets. Or heard catcalls and whistles.

In every instance, I was violated. But I was lucky.

Many times, the attacks are violent. In the December 16 rape of the Delhi woman, the circumstances were unimaginable. Her assailants gang-raped her and dumped her battered body off an expressway. Her injuries were so horrific that part of her intestines had to be removed in hospital.

The shocking nature of this crime galvanized Indians to take to the streets to express their outrage.

But I believe that anger was a long-time coming.  It stemmed from years and years of hearing about rapes and other forms of violence against women in which victims are blamed and perpetrators face little or no punishment.

I believe that Indians were finally finding a mass, united voice by which to say: We have to change the way we think about women and the way we treat them.

Kavita Krishnan, the secretary of the All India Progressive Women’s Association, got it right in a speech that was posted online:

There is barely a woman here who has not at some point fought for her dignity on the streets of Delhi, or in its buses. There is not one amongst us that has not found herself alone in such a situation. When we do this, we are told that we are inviting trouble; that we are asking for it.

The Indian government has promised stricter safety measures on buses. It can also, perhaps, make policy changes that will make reporting and convictions in cases of violence against women easier.

But ultimately, there has to be changes in the Indian mindset that affords women the dignity they deserve.

Here’s what journalist Shoma Chaudhury wrote on Teleheka.com:

Rape is already the most under-reported crime in India. But beneath that courses a whole other universe of violence that is not even acknowledged. It’s not just psychopathic men in a rogue white bus who can be rapists: it’s fathers, husbands, brothers, uncles, friends. Almost one in every two women would have a story — perhaps told, perhaps untold — of being groped, molested or raped in the confines of their own homes. If they dare speak of it at all, they are told to bury and bear it. Take it as a part of life. To name an uncle who has been molesting a minor niece would be to shame the family. And marital rape — that stretches the very imagination. It’s a mark of our bestial ideas about women that even judges often suggest that rape survivors marry their rapists to avoid the hell of life as a single woman rejected by society.

It’s clear, say Indian women’s rights activists, that passing laws is not enough.

Legislation might give a sense of change, said Ratna Kapur, a professor at Jindal Global Law School, when in fact, very little is being done. This is what she wrote in The Hindu newspaper:

To confront the hatred that is now manifesting itself in the most egregious ways is to move forward as a society. We need to think about how we can handle women’s equality in ways that are not perceived as threatening. That demands greater responsibility on the part of parents as well as society not to raise sons in a way in which they are indoctrinated with a sense of superiority and privilege. There is also a need on the part of young men to be actively involved in their schools and communities in advocating women’s equality rights.

I am horrified by what happened in New Delhi.

I am heartened that so many people hit the streets in outrage.

I can only hope that from this brutal crime will come the beginning of a safer future for women.

Posted by Moni Basu in gender bias, human rights, violence, Women and tagged ,
18 Dec 2012
4 Comments

A violent world

I visited my friend Archna yesterday. She, like so many others I know, was distraught over the Newtown shootings.

What was happening to the world?

We embarked on a conversation about many things.

Was the world more cruel in medieval times? No, Archna said. Back then at least you knew you were going to be killed. There were fights and public executions but were there 20-year-old bursting into schools and murdering young children?

Maybe there were.

Maybe we just live in a world of heightened awareness and non-stop information sharing. Mt employer, CNN, has been broadcasting live from Newtown since Friday.

What was the answer to preventing another massacre like this? School security guards should be fully armed, Archna said. I don’t know about that. Yes, she agreed. Perhaps that might lead to more bloodshed.

She doesn’t think stronger gun control is the answer. Look at the crazy guy who knifed 22 children in China?

Maybe the answer was better health care access so that mentally disturbed people could seek the help they need.

I could tell that she, like all of America, was grasping for solutions.

There is so much violence in the world, she said. I told her about massacres in Syria and Congo and other places, where young children die every day.

Why was the world letting Bashar al-Assad do this to his own people?

With all those questions, I left her at the new branch of her restaurant Bhojanic. We were both thinking the same thing, I believe. What gave us the right to be so happy, to lead such trouble-free lives in a world that contains so much sorrow?

Posted by Moni Basu in violence and tagged
12 Dec 2012
2 Comments

Sacred sounds

ShankarOne of the greatest musical talents of our time was silenced Tuesday. Ravi Shankar died at 92.

His was a name I grew up with, a name that made me proud to be Indian at a time when my country was known mostly for human misery.

I read the sad news of Shankar’s death Tuesday evening in The Hindu newspaper and thought back to a time when I was still in high school in Tallahassee, Florida. Ravi Shankar was touring the United States and he was coming to Florida State University’s music school for a performance.

There were only a handful of Indian families in Tallahassee then and not much for us in the way of our culture. It was a rare treat for us to be able to hear the pandit play the sitar.

My mother was especially excited. She sang Rabindra Sangeet and played the taanpura, an Indian string instrument that resembles the sitar but has no frets.

Then came a phone call from the organizers of the Shankar event at FSU. The maestro was sick of eating steak and potatoes and had requested a Bengali meal in Tallahassee. My mother was asked to do the honors.

It wasn’t easy to make authentic Bengali food at home in those days because no stores carried fenugreek or mustard oil. Most people didn’t even know what cilantro was back then.

My mother did the best she could with her stockpile of spices purchased from New York wholesalers. I remember she began cooking days ahead so she could present dinner in Indian fashion — at least seven or eight courses and then several desserts. The Bengalis are known for their “mishti.”

Listening to Ravi Shankar was magical that night. I didn’t understand Indian classical music very well then. In fact, I was not unlike most Westerners who equated Ravi Shankar’s name with George Harrison and the concert for Bangladesh.

The great tabla player Alla Rakha accompanied Shankar’s sitar that night. When they arrived at our humble split-level house for dinner, I was in awe. I couldn’t believe I was sitting at the same table with these musical giants.

Later, I came to appreciate Indian classic music much more. Now I own many of Ravi Shankar’s music as well as that of his daughter, Anoushka.

But my lack of knowledge didn’t matter that night in Florida. Shankar’s music was mellifluous. Like a luscious silk sari fluttering in the wind. Like rays of sun peaking through clouds. It was, as the pandit himself said, music that is sacred.

Read my appreciation of Ravi Shankar on CNN.

Posted by Moni Basu in Uncategorized and tagged
05 Dec 2012

Dob Utca

We arrived at our abode in Budapest on a shuttle that took us from the southeastern end of the city into its heart, the seventh district of Erzsebetvaros.

It wasn’t hard to tell how the economic and political landscape of this land had changed enormously from when it was blanketed by the Iron Curtain to modern times that have given way to European chain giants like Tesco and Ikea. I glanced at the giant warehouses along the highway and wondered if my homeland, India, would soon look like this. The Indian government is wrestling with whether to allow the establishment of foreign retailers.

Amid shabby, Soviet-style flat towers that house hundreds were remnants of a pre-Communism past — of quaint homes with smallish gardens dulled by winter’s drab.

As the shuttle sped foward, the scenery quickly changed. We were given hints of the grandeur to come in the city center. It was a dreary day, though not as cold as I had expected. I could tell that rain had fallen not too long ago, the dampness fresh on roads, the tram lines slick.

I tried to follow our route on the “Official Budapest City Map,” offered free at the airport, but quickly realized we were outside its realm. The map was crude — just detailed enough for people like us, tourists on a three-day quickie to Hungary’s capital.

Before we knew it, we had sped into the city, rushing by shops and restaurants and even bars doing brisk business at noon on a Sunday. We even passed the “Bangla Bufe,” spelled incorrectly in English but perhaps correctly in Hungarian. In any case, it was right in Bengali. It was tiny and I wondered what had brought Bengalis to Budapest.

I returned there later to find out hours of business but we never managed to get in a meal. Now I will always wonder about how a Bengali restaurant the size of my kitchen does in the heart of Budapest. The restaurant, I learned later, has a website which claims it is the first Bangladeshi eatery in Hungary.

The shuttle dropped us off at the Queen’s Court Hotel and Residences at Number 63, Dob Utca. I had booked the room through Hotwire and was prepared to be surprised — not in a pleasant way. To the contrary. The man behind the desk, who I was sure worked ungodly hours, took loving care of us and when we opened our room, we found a sitting area, a kitchen and a bathroom complete with a washing machine and dryer. I was happy to see the latter after more than a week of travel already in Turkey.

We put our things down and went off to explore, stopping for a bowl of goulash soup at place nearby. I was overjoyed at the good quality of Hungarian red wine and later that night, we stopped at a wine bar, DiVino, which curiously enough is situated across from the Basilica. Ha.

Yes, we did all the tourist stuff in Budapest — walked across the Chain Bridge, took the funicular up to Buda Castle, bought paprika paste at the old market and saw the ice skaters at Heroes Square.

But we also did the unexpected, including eating a lovely meal at Olimpia, a nouvelle Hungarian restaurant an walked around neighborhoods where few foreigners were in sight.

Most amazing of all, perhaps, was the Dohany Street Synagogue, the largest functioning in Europe and the fifth largest in the world. There is also a Jewish Museum and a Holocaust memorial adjacent to the synagogue.

More than 180,000 Jews lived in Budapest, many in Erzsebetvaros. About half perished under the Nazis. Many of those who died in Budapest’s Jewish ghetto are buried in mass graves, now covered with ivy and trees. Today, Budapest has the largest Jewish population in Europe — 80,000. Compare that to Prague, which only has about 3,000 Jews remaining. You will be able to read more about the Holocaust and the Czech Republic in an upcoming post on Terezin.

Budapest won my heart.

It was small yet big. Beautiful yet grimy. Happy yet sad. It was real. Gritty.

There was no shortness of melancholy there. But there was also plenty of joy.

It was the kind of city that beckons the past and looks forward to the future. The kind of city I love.

Posted by monibasu in Budapest | Leave a Comment
26 Nov 2012
3 Comments

Istanbul

My journey began with work — a seminar for journalists who cover international security and terrorism issues. I was one of the lucky ones chosen to attend the event in Istanbul. If you’ve never been to that city, go! It’s ancient and new, beautiful and plain, Muslim and not, East and West.

Istanbul’s striking landscape and architecture reflecting myriad empires is why most people visit, of course. Tourists yearn for a cruise along the Bosphorus and a visit to the old city, home to the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque.

I did all that, amazed by the wonders of history and geography. But it was all the new people I met that made my visit memorable. So many courageous and brilliant journalists and scholars determined to bring truth to the world. About the carnage in Syria, the revolutions of the Arab world, the militancy of Pakistan.

I appreciated their breadth of knowledge. I learned in their company and also laughed. We had a good time during our many meals together. I especially liked the food at Antiocha, a tiny restaurant near the Pera Palace Hotel. The staff was not prepared for 16 of us descending on them at once but waiter Nureth Kesig accommodated us as though we were royalty. Nearby, at Asmali Cavit, we were shown the fresh catch of the day: bonito from the Black Sea and blue fish from the Bosphorus.

I saved Saturday to visit my cousin’s daughter, Soma, her husband, Bishan and cutie pie daughter Aditi (check out pictures on my Facebook page).  They were kind enough to take me by ferry to the Asian side of Istanbul, which I probably would not have seen otherwise. It was much less touristy there. Soma and Bishan took me for lunch to Ciya, their favorite. The restaurant’s brochure boasts of a menu from “the kitchen memories of forgotten dishes, lost tastes and wiped-off cultures.” We had lamb kebaps, a variety of mezze and pilav. Delicious.

Thanks again, Shoma and Bishan for a lovely afternoon.

One especially poignant moment for me: My CNN colleague and friend Joe Duran took me to visit the house he inherited from Margaret Moth, the fearless camerawoman who blazed a trail for women in television journalism. She was shot in the face during the Bosnian war and, yet, did not let her injury deter her from returning to war zones.

Her house, a bit outside Istanbul, is like a museum of all her possessions — antique furniture, floor to wall shelves filled with books and closets full of Victorian dress collections. Joe and Margaret were the closes of friends and after she died, he began living in that house a few days a week. The rest of the time, he lives in an apartment much closer to the CNN bureau in bustling Taksim Square.

I felt Margaret’s spirit in the house. It was as unique as she was. Beautiful and dark in some places.

So much to reflect on from my trip to Istanbul. A woman I admire, family I love, a bevy of new friends and new knowledge about the world.

Posted by monibasu in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , ,
12 Oct 2012
4 Comments

The BIG 50

Suddenly, I noticed every wrinkle on my face.

I am turning 50 this week.

Whoa. Seriously? The big 50? Seems like yesterday that I was bragging about not being 40 yet.

Not that I am freaking out.

My 20s were maniacal. My 30s, wondrous in discovery. My 40s were terrific — sorry to be leaving them. But I am truly looking forward to the 50s. My friends who have all turned officially old before me tell me that this is the best decade yet.

OK, yes, I am freaking out.

It’s not that I feel old. But there are just way too many reminders now of how life is passing me by.

Yes, there are the wrinkles on my face that suddenly — after I was reminded I had only a few more days left in the 40s — turned wretchedly prominent in the bathroom mirror.

And every strand of gray hair stood up straight, begging for a good dose of dark, brown hue. Praise be to my stylist Jaime Booth, who for years, has been trusted upon to ensure that my hair, at least, won’t give me away. (I’ve already made my pre-birthday appointment).

Barbie turned 50 three years before me. How come she still looks good?

Then there are the back aches and knee pains and other physical ailments that just don’t bother younger people.

Time races by with me wanting to make the most of every minute because suddenly, I have contemplated my own mortality — way too much.

The worst, though, are the reminders from others. Those are the ones that hurt.

Like soldiers I interviewed who said I was attractive enough but old enough to be their mother. Ouch.

Many of my colleagues can say that, too, in the CNN Digital newsroom, where most are young and energetic and full of ideas that involve smart phones and social media. What would they think if they knew my first news story was banged out on a 1930s Remington typewriter? Have they even heard of rubber cement and hot type?

They complain when technology fails them and they are not connected every single second. I think of how I grew up in India without television, without phone service at times.

I remember how to write a letter and post it and wait eight months for a response to return from the other side of the Atlantic.

To them, everything about me is as antiquated my parents were to me. To them, anti-apartheid protests, big hair and then-grounbreaking “The Cosby Show” as old and distant as the 1940s were to me.

I also have a yin and yang relationship with the AARP card I got when my husband turned 50 seven years ago. I whip it out at hotels, car rental places and the movies. The discounts are grand but how come no one says: “Wow. You don’t look old enough to carry an AARP card!”

They used to say that. I swear.

A few weeks ago, I renewed my Georgia driver’s license. Thank you to the lady behind the counter who found it hard to believe I was born in 1962. I am forever indebted to your kindness. Or maybe, it was just blindness.

I also detest moments when I inadvertently date myself.

I remember the day Martin Luther King was killed. And lesser events like when Skylab fell. I couldn’t tell if a co-worker knew what I was talking about. She just gave me a vacant stare.

Or how about when I sat on rickety wooden bleachers at the Florida State Universitybasketball gym and saw Prince perform with Vanity 6? He was nothing then. Nothing.

That’s how old I am.

I’ve heard folks say: 50 is the new 40. I don’t think so.

50 is, well, still 50. For me, it’s the true start of middle age. And the bridge to old age.

But I am better armed for this new era of my life than I was for any other. I am an improved judge of people. I’ve learned when to trust and when to walk away. I also have the comfort of walking through life with a boatload of experience. Sure wouldn’t want to be that green and naive at navigation again.

I have a lot to look back on. But I still have a lot coming my way. And I am excited.

So call me old if you like.

I say: Happy 50th Birthday to me. Bring it on!

Posted by monibasu in Uncategorized and tagged ,
06 Sep 2012

Obama’s big night

I was thinking about the words of Joe Senato, who eight years ago at this time was an undecided voter from Berkley, Massachusetts.
After hearing the keynote speech delivered by a guy who was the odds-on favorite to win a U.S. Senate seat from Illinois, Senato was impressed.
“He is a prolific speaker,” Senato said. “But more importantly, he wasn’t like Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton. He wasn’t divisive. If he doesn’t get a place in a Kerry administration, well, he should.”
Well, there was no Kerry administration, of course.
But Barack Obama did reach the hallowed halls of the Capitol. And then, just four short years later, he was sitting in the Oval office.
Obama has a tough job tonight when he delivers a speech that I think is far more important than the one I heard at the 2004 Democratic National Convention in Boston. The one that caught the attention of Senato and an entire nation. The one that launched Obama Fever.
This year, so much more is riding on Obama. He’s up for a second term in an election that promises to be close.
One criticism — among many — of Obama is that he has been a president who divided the nation and drove home differences between Americans in terms of class, race, ethnicity. I heard that from a commentator talking about that during the convention this week and it made me think of what Senato had said.
Obama’s message eight years ago was this:
”There’s not a black America and a white Americaand a Latino America and Asian America, there’s the United States of America.”
His fellow Democrats saw a future president.
What will he say tonight that will win back those who lost faith in him?
We’ll have to wait and see.
But Obama’s got another problem after last night. He’s got to top Bill Clinton.
Now, that’s a tall order.
Posted by monibasu in Barack Obama and tagged , , | Leave a Comment
26 Aug 2012
2 Comments

Firenze

The Duomo — the main cathedral in Florence — seemed to glow at night.

Florence was warm in July. Very warm. But it didn’t matter. It was a relief to escape the tourist frenzy of Venice and arrive in this Tuscan city of amazing architecture and food. Today’s post marvels at the architecture.

Atop Duomo with all of Florence below us.

My brothers-in-law Jimmy and Peter and I climbed to the top of the Duomo, the main cathedral in central Florence.

There was no warning when we bought our entrance ticket as to how steep a climb it would be the top of the cuppola.

Everest, I thought at the time, might be easier. Ha. But it certainly was not a journey for the faint of heart.

More than 400 narrow winding steps later, we walked out into the fresh air, all of Florence below us. http://www.operaduomo.firenze.it/monumenti/mappa/duomo.asp

It was truly magnificent under a cloudless sky, the Tuscan hills beyond us.

Ponte Vecchio.

It was equally interesting to cross the Ponte Vecchio, the medieval stone arch bridge over the narrowest part of the Arno River.

A central Florence market.

Once the shops on the bridge were all occupied by butchers. These days, it’s a dazzling array of gold and jewelry shops, art dealers and stalls hawking souvenirs for tourists.

We strolled the Piazza della Signoria, the main plaza in Florence, teeming with larger-than-life statues including Michaelangelo’s David — the original is in the Galleria dell’Academia. http://www.florence-museum.com/?gclid=CPTJ8ePnhbICFQWCQgodtQsA5g

Every street and plaza in Florence offered visitors something to gaze at, something to wonder about. We stopped and peered into shops that sold incredible Florentine leather nd handcrafted paper.

And coming up in my next post: the food. Heaven to be in Tuscany, I think. Incredibly fresh food and bottles of Chianti.

Why did i return to Atlanta?

The main plaza.
Posted by monibasu in Italy and tagged , , ,

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