I awoke at 2:45am and lost my bookmark in whatever dream I may have been dreaming. Now it's 3:45 and I've given up on forcing myself back to sleep. I'll most likely regret this decision about twelve hours from now, but my remorse will be nothing that my Aeropress and some freshly ground espresso from North End can't fix.
I am back in Chittagong after a whirlwind five weeks in seven U.S. so this pre-sunrise insomnia can easily be blamed on the eleven-hour time difference and my thoroughly confused inner time-clock.
But the other factor that jolted me out of an apparently forgettable dream was a 2:50am siren, screaming over a load speaker adjacent to my building to wake up fasting families for their pre-dawn meal.
The holy month of Ramadan is drawing to a close in a few days, though I don't think we know for sure which day Eid ul-Fitr (the feast day marking the end of Ramadan) will occur. I believe the moon plays an integral role in this determination. So this week, Saturday, or Sunday, or maybe Monday, the 29 to 30 days of daylight fasting will end, and an epic party will ensue in every household.
(Note: I have no Eid ul-Fitr plans as of yet, so in case any Chittagonians are reading this, I am a huge fan of Shemai--the sweet milky goodness of that cardamom-infused vermicilli dessert traditionally served at this holiday in Bangladesh, and I promise I'm an easy guest.)
It's 4:00am and the second siren just called all full-bellied Khulshi-dwellers to wash their hands and prepare for about fifteen hours of fasting. Many will go back to sleep. But some of the men are now fitting their heads with their embroidered taqiyah caps and stepping out into the heavy, but somewhat cooler (85˚F) pre-dawn air to do namaz at the local mosque. An equally loud call to prayer - one of five per day - has followed the second siren.
I admire the visible existence of community during Ramadan. Everyone is waiting. Waiting together for newness. On Eid, devotees will pray before sunrise, then in following the Prophet's instructions, they will brush their teeth with a toothbrush and shower and wear new clothes and perfume. It is obligatory to show happiness on this day. There are many in this world who could use some obligatory genuine happiness. Bangladesh does this well, as I've been reminded several times in my three days back.
But there has also been a difficult side to my first week - this final week of Ramadan. The traffic and shopping are a nightmare -- probably no worse than Black Friday back home, but then again I'm in a city of over 5.5 million, and it seems everyone is shopping. But I can handle that. I can mostly avoid witnessing the American-like vice of chaotic overspending by hiding out in the peaceful safetly of my apartment. Rather, it's a virtue that I confess I have been resenting. The virtue of charity.
One of the main distinquishing features of Eid ul-Fitr is its emphasis on giving to the needy -- "as much charity as possible." As much as possible? Let's be honest -- I have eight more years to pay off college debt, so really, it's possible to pretty much empty my bank account, give away 80% of my earnings, and still eat my fill in this low cost-of-living environment. And it seems that every beggar in Chittagong has heard this little secret of my financial status. Everywhere I go, outstretched hands of skinny children, elderly adults, the blind, and crippled, and of healthy-looking men and women too, reach and grab and condemn me for my selfishness. But I can handle that. I console myself -- I'm a teacher. I donate to an NGO monthly with automatic withdrawal. Free handouts on the street perpetuate the cycle of poverty and unsustainable dependence. Blah blah blah...
What has been hardest is navigating the Eid baksheesh (gift money) for the people I know -- those who serve me daily in Bangladesh, whose faces and names I know. The guards at my office, the cleaners in my building, the cleaners that used to work in my building, the cleaner who works at my friend's building. These are people whom I know and relationships in which I delight, and so I have begun to convince myself that we are equal -- they help me practice Bangla, and I'm somehow involved in their employment -- let's not talk about money, that's uncomfortable for my Western sensibilities. But they're breaking my unwritten rule. They're asking for gifts, and it's making me uncomfortable. In my mind, there exists only one context in the world in which it's completely okay to ask for a gift or money -- and that's little Joey asking Dad for field-trip spending cash or a new gargoyle action figure.
When these non-offspring acquaintances of mine ask for monetary gifts -- or even worse -- inform me that they'll be needing a larger gift than I've given, my instinct is to say -- Well, now I don't want to give it. It's not out of the goodness of my big wonderful heart anymore. If you hadn't asked for it, I would have given it joyfully...
But would I have?
Probably not. I probably would have forgotten about the apu (elder sister) who quietly empties my garbage can each day and hand-mops my apartment block's stairway while I'm at work. She wouldn't have to drop hints about the upcoming holiday if she were working for families of the Bangladeshi religious majority rather than a building full of unaware expats. Although I am bothered by the assumption that my skin color automatically signals wealth, not a day goes by in Chittagong in which I don't feel exceedingly blessed by the comfort of my life.
So maybe today I should decide to appreciate the helpful reminders from those whom I'm sure I have forgotten as carelessly as I forgot the characters of my siren-interrupted dream. Perhaps I should be obligatorily happy in my giving and see if genuine joy arises.
The sun has risen now and this city will soon be hungry. Waiting for the iftar feast, for charitible gifts, and for newness and mandatory happiness. Eid Mubarek!
I am back in Chittagong after a whirlwind five weeks in seven U.S. so this pre-sunrise insomnia can easily be blamed on the eleven-hour time difference and my thoroughly confused inner time-clock.
But the other factor that jolted me out of an apparently forgettable dream was a 2:50am siren, screaming over a load speaker adjacent to my building to wake up fasting families for their pre-dawn meal.
The holy month of Ramadan is drawing to a close in a few days, though I don't think we know for sure which day Eid ul-Fitr (the feast day marking the end of Ramadan) will occur. I believe the moon plays an integral role in this determination. So this week, Saturday, or Sunday, or maybe Monday, the 29 to 30 days of daylight fasting will end, and an epic party will ensue in every household.
(Note: I have no Eid ul-Fitr plans as of yet, so in case any Chittagonians are reading this, I am a huge fan of Shemai--the sweet milky goodness of that cardamom-infused vermicilli dessert traditionally served at this holiday in Bangladesh, and I promise I'm an easy guest.)
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| Shemai |
It's 4:00am and the second siren just called all full-bellied Khulshi-dwellers to wash their hands and prepare for about fifteen hours of fasting. Many will go back to sleep. But some of the men are now fitting their heads with their embroidered taqiyah caps and stepping out into the heavy, but somewhat cooler (85˚F) pre-dawn air to do namaz at the local mosque. An equally loud call to prayer - one of five per day - has followed the second siren.
I admire the visible existence of community during Ramadan. Everyone is waiting. Waiting together for newness. On Eid, devotees will pray before sunrise, then in following the Prophet's instructions, they will brush their teeth with a toothbrush and shower and wear new clothes and perfume. It is obligatory to show happiness on this day. There are many in this world who could use some obligatory genuine happiness. Bangladesh does this well, as I've been reminded several times in my three days back.
But there has also been a difficult side to my first week - this final week of Ramadan. The traffic and shopping are a nightmare -- probably no worse than Black Friday back home, but then again I'm in a city of over 5.5 million, and it seems everyone is shopping. But I can handle that. I can mostly avoid witnessing the American-like vice of chaotic overspending by hiding out in the peaceful safetly of my apartment. Rather, it's a virtue that I confess I have been resenting. The virtue of charity.
One of the main distinquishing features of Eid ul-Fitr is its emphasis on giving to the needy -- "as much charity as possible." As much as possible? Let's be honest -- I have eight more years to pay off college debt, so really, it's possible to pretty much empty my bank account, give away 80% of my earnings, and still eat my fill in this low cost-of-living environment. And it seems that every beggar in Chittagong has heard this little secret of my financial status. Everywhere I go, outstretched hands of skinny children, elderly adults, the blind, and crippled, and of healthy-looking men and women too, reach and grab and condemn me for my selfishness. But I can handle that. I console myself -- I'm a teacher. I donate to an NGO monthly with automatic withdrawal. Free handouts on the street perpetuate the cycle of poverty and unsustainable dependence. Blah blah blah...
What has been hardest is navigating the Eid baksheesh (gift money) for the people I know -- those who serve me daily in Bangladesh, whose faces and names I know. The guards at my office, the cleaners in my building, the cleaners that used to work in my building, the cleaner who works at my friend's building. These are people whom I know and relationships in which I delight, and so I have begun to convince myself that we are equal -- they help me practice Bangla, and I'm somehow involved in their employment -- let's not talk about money, that's uncomfortable for my Western sensibilities. But they're breaking my unwritten rule. They're asking for gifts, and it's making me uncomfortable. In my mind, there exists only one context in the world in which it's completely okay to ask for a gift or money -- and that's little Joey asking Dad for field-trip spending cash or a new gargoyle action figure.
When these non-offspring acquaintances of mine ask for monetary gifts -- or even worse -- inform me that they'll be needing a larger gift than I've given, my instinct is to say -- Well, now I don't want to give it. It's not out of the goodness of my big wonderful heart anymore. If you hadn't asked for it, I would have given it joyfully...
But would I have?
Probably not. I probably would have forgotten about the apu (elder sister) who quietly empties my garbage can each day and hand-mops my apartment block's stairway while I'm at work. She wouldn't have to drop hints about the upcoming holiday if she were working for families of the Bangladeshi religious majority rather than a building full of unaware expats. Although I am bothered by the assumption that my skin color automatically signals wealth, not a day goes by in Chittagong in which I don't feel exceedingly blessed by the comfort of my life.
So maybe today I should decide to appreciate the helpful reminders from those whom I'm sure I have forgotten as carelessly as I forgot the characters of my siren-interrupted dream. Perhaps I should be obligatorily happy in my giving and see if genuine joy arises.
The sun has risen now and this city will soon be hungry. Waiting for the iftar feast, for charitible gifts, and for newness and mandatory happiness. Eid Mubarek!
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