Monday 28 February 2011

A Kolkata Orphanage

It’s very nearly a year since I returned from India. I can’t believe it’s that long!

Here’s a piece I wrote for the Calcutta Hope website about my time volunteering there:-
http://www.calcuttahope.org/


I first went to the SEED Boys’ home on a short reconnaissance mission as I navigated the complicated Kolkata NGOs scene trying to work out where I could possibly be of use. Other than just living there with the boys it was hard to see how there would be a role for me in the orphanage. A month later as I got ready to leave the centre of Kolkata where I had been volunteering in the office of another NGO, I experienced serious doubts about whether I should even go – what was the point, I do not speak Bengali, what can I possibly offer them, how can I be useful?

A German volunteer friend who was staying in the same hostel listened to my questions and suggested that I do go and “teach them how to play”. Growing up on the streets and railway platforms of Kolkata, scavenging, working or begging from a young age, these children had been deprived of the right of all children to play. Her words moved me and I realised that I just could not predict what I would be able to give and what the boys in turn would give me during my time there. I got on the bus towards the home in Andul with an open heart and mind.

After a few days there I had managed to find a way to slot into their routine. Each day started at 6am with a short meditation, multi-denominational prayer (Vishnu, Jesus and Muhammad were all hailed) and a stirring rendition of the Indian national anthem. After a biscuit and tea to start the day, the boys got their books out and completed homework or revised the previous week’s lessons. The older boys helped the younger and I gave them a hand with any English work. After a couple of hours they congregated together again for the first meal, following which the older boys left to get the bus to school. I stayed behind and then walked with the younger children to the local school and nursery.

They really enjoyed taking ‘uncle’, as all adult men are referred to, along to school to be introduced to their friends and teachers. I managed to persuade one teacher to let me run an English lesson for the whole school. The boys were so proud that I could come to school and teach their favourite game, the hokey kokey, a great way to teach basic English to their friends at school.

Often I would walk with three of the boys to nursery. Laxman and Tarun, (estimated to be between 4 and 5) were the newest residents in the home. They had been found at Howrah station and taken to the home by the railway police. They were really happy, playful children. The third boy, Saddam Ali had a different story. At nine years old, he was attending nursery because after years spent at the station he knew so little. It was such a sad sight to watch Saddam, who had until then been responsibly holding Laxman and Tarun hands as they walked along the road, arriving at the nursery and taking his seat on the floor in the circle of young children half his age and size. I found out that he just needed to learn Bengali and English letters and then he could catch up and join his peers at school. I was determined to help.

Each day the younger boys returned home after a few hours at school and nursery. After a short nap, they followed me to a field around the back of their home and I played with them for a couple of hours. They really exhausted my repertoire of games, always eager to learn more. Stuck in the mud, ninja destruction and duck duck goose, were distinct favourites. It was wonderful to play with them and be able to connect and have fun together without needing to speak the same language. In those moments I was reminded how much children have a wonderful ability to communicate regardless of language.

I was surprised by how much of their time was geared towards studying and schoolwork: next on the daily agenda was another stint of homework and revision. On the first two days I found Saddam Ali sitting with the English or Bengali alphabet in front of him, saying the letters by rote and moving his finger along. Yet when I pointed to one individual letter he could not tell me what it was. So I resolved to spend that time working with him every day.

I started at the beginning with ‘A’, making a flash card of its lower and upper case. The next day I found out that he enjoyed drawing, and so I got him to work creating a full set of ABC flashcards, complete with a picture of an apple, ball, cow etc. Each day we would make the next set of cards and I organised games that had them running around the room fetching letters and matching them to pictures. They had a great time. I was delighted that Bijoy uncle, their main day to day carer, liked the method so much. He told me that it had not occurred to him that children could learn through games. He assured me that he would try to use these educational games with them in the future.

I was so impressed by Bijoy’s leadership of and commitment to the boys under his care. He is the same age as me and basically the father to forty plus boys. He sleeps in the same room as them, will not eat until all of them have and by never favouring one over another, has a magical way of settling any disputes between the boys.

Every two weeks he ran an intensely moving reflective session with the children. He placed a candle in the middle of the circle and after a chant together invited everyone in the circle to share a reflection on how they were feeling. On the two times I saw this ceremony take place, the boys listened attentively and shared some really difficult points, reflecting on their previous lives living rough and being treated badly. Some spoke with tears in their eyes about their friends who were still living that life. These sessions were clearly painful and cathartic for them and a reminder to me that despite the smiles and enjoyment, these children had lead really tough lives.

A key part of the ethos at the Boys Home is that the children make decisions themselves. Each week there was a meeting that Bijoy led, where all the children were invited to suggest events, make changes to the schedule and join smaller committees to run one-off events. They also discussed misbehaviour and decided punishments together.

I later heard, using one of the older children to translate, that Saddam Ali had in fact previously lived in another orphanage. He said that he had not liked it and had twice run away. He told me that what he loved about being in this home was that decisions were made by the boys themselves, he felt empowered there and would never dream of leaving it.

I was lucky to be there when one of the events that they had been planning for weeks took place – the Saraswati puja – the festival to the goddess of knowledge and education. I extended my time in their home so that I could stay for the full festivities. I put my books in the pile with theirs beside the statue of Saraswati that the boys had stayed up all night beautifying. A local Brahmin (priest) came in and invoked her to help all of with our learning.

It was towards the end of the feast of Saraswati that I left the home to continue my travels. By then I had reached the end of the alphabet with Saddam and he knew every letter well; I had also taught the 5 – 8 year olds every game I knew. I had taught many of them to juggle and had run educational games at the school. It was a difficult goodbye. I knew that they had really appreciated my presence there and that I had been able to offer them something. I had never anticipated how much I would receive from them. They allowed me to experience a real window into life in West Bengal and what’s more, learn about the power of children to overcome and grow beyond abuse, loneliness and hunger, fighting back to claim their childhood of play, fun and learning. Calcutta Hope, through their sponsorship of this Boys’ Home, allows them to do this.

http://www.calcuttahope.org/

Daniel Lichman

Sunday 25 July 2010

What did the goat say to the chicken?

I am now half way through my time away working at this Jewish environmentalist farm in Connecticut. As I swam in the lake following our weekly pre-Shabbt mikveh dunk, I realised that I had done something new on every day of this week. The fun farm work that springs to mind is working an a sweltering shed roof hanging 3428 sticks of recently harvested garlic to dry out, tasting the first of the farm's tomatoes whilst trellising the plants and turning the latest blueberry harvest into jam. I was excited to discover an unknown talent this week: holding a goat's mouth open and pushing a large pill deep into her throat with a stick.

To give you more of an idea about what I'm learning here I'll go on to explain a few aspects of life here. Firstly about the organic farming I'm learning about here, secondly about the lifecycle of goats and dairy farming and finally the experience of living and working in this unusual setting.


The buzz word to describe the kind of farming done here is permaculture, where an agricultural system is designed to mimic the relationships found in natural ecology. A sign of a successful application of permaculture is where each part of the system is able to have multiple functions. A great example of this is the chickens that we keep. They provide us with two dozen eggs a day. They also eat and in the process airate the compost, allowing it to decompose faster. There was one rooster living with them, primarily to scare off predators, apparently without success: fifteen hens, the rooster himself and countless eggs have disappeared over the last month. None have disappeared in the last week, since we spent a day hacking at all the weeds around the coop, removing the cover for the elusive predator.

We have four other roosters on site, who are being used for a very different purpose – as a rooster tractor. They live in a wooden frame, large enough for them to move around happily and small enough for us to move it regularly. It is relocated every two days to a different area of the orchard for them to weed. The other purpose they will serve is when they are literally served, as dinner, next week. As a permaculture system two uses is not enough when there could be even more. The death of the roosters will be used as a timely educational resource; we will learn about shechitah from an alumnus of the programme who is now working as a schochet, before we witness the slaughter and no doubt all alter our career path, rushing to find out how to become slaughterers.

The choice of crops on each bed is in a carefully crafted rotation system with, for example, a crop of peas fixing the nitrogen needed for next year's cabbage. Similarly winter cover crops of rye and barley are used to stop soil erosion when the fields flood in the winter. In the spring they are then ploughed in to the soil, decomposing within the soil and further enriching it. Surrounding the fields and at the end of some of the beds are crops of unharvested flowering plants which are there to attract more pollinators to the area. They are joined by the bees in the hive at the centre of the farm who ensure the timely pollination of the courgette, cucumber and aubergine flowers and provide us with honey.

We've been learning about the rationale behind all of these methods during some of our evening classes on permaculture design. While we are weeding, hoeing or harvesting in the fields or seeding in the greenhouse the farm manager and apprentices always explain why they made the choices they have. The goats, unable as they are to make their own decisions, have certainly taught us all about the potential impact of ours.


For a long time I have pointed out that the choice to be a vegetarian for ethical reasons is not entirely consistent because the production of milk and eggs is so tied in to the production of meat. The process of weaning the kids from their mothers showed this clearly.

The goats are a valuable part of the agricultural system here at Adamah: they provide a good quality fertiliser in the manure and the possibility of creating and selling the value added products made from their milk including feta, chevre and goatgurd (yogurt). In order to produce milk they must have kids annually. Once a year a 'buck' is hired from a neighbouring farm and spends a day servicing the female goats. The does then give birth in the spring; they produce milk, nurse their young and begin providing the dairy with a steady source of milk. By the end of June the kids no longer require their mothers' nutrition. They are ready to be weaned.

We all took the weaning process very seriously, aware that this was a big day for the goats and inevitably projecting human emotions of forced familial separation onto the animals. All the male goats were removed and weighed one by one and placed into the back of the truck. At first it was easy for Aitan, the goatkeeper, to catch them. By the last two they seemed to know what was going on, requiring two people and a rugby tackle to catch the kids. One got away and rushed to his mother for a last goodbye. Once they were all in the truck we all cycled on ahead ready to great them on the other side of the farm in the newly set aside “boystown”. There the kids were unloaded, welcomed ceremoniously by us and ran off together, gracefully, beautifully to explore their new green pasture. The male goats will stay there and grow. In the autumn they will be sold and then slaughtered for meat. The next day the dairy's milk production more than doubled. The cheese and goatgurd making process really began. For a dairy to be economically viable the male goats must be killed each year.

The next day my fellow British Adamahnik, Poppy, was working in boystown. She counted the goats: there were only 5 of the 13 were there. She quickly cycled back to site and alerted the staff. The goat search began. They were eventually found back beside the swimming pool on the way to find their mothers. Through scent, the sun or just a remarkable sense of direction, they had escaped under the fence, reached the road, walked down Beebe Hill, crossed Johnson Road, entered the retreat centre passed the “Slow down” sign and had found themselves on the lawn. All available hands were called in and everyone rushed to grab and pick up a goat and secure them beside the swimming pool, the nearest enclosed area. One kid managed to escape this and managed to make it all the way back to the barnyard and their mothers. With the reluctance to leave and the desperation to go back to their mothers, it was impossible not to project painful human emotions on to these animals.

For many in the group this was difficult: we were forcing these animals to go against their instinct. Yet most people thought that it was reassuring to be a part of this process at a small-scale farm. We can see that the goats are being treated respectfully and given plenty of green pasture; this would certainly not be the case at industrial farms.

The does will be milked until January and then left for the process to begin again in the spring. Witnessing the weaning process was a great opportunity to think more about what it means to domesticate and breed animals for our purposes and to see the economic necessity of the link between dairy and meat farming.


Living here and being an Adamah fellow keeps us busy every minute of the day. Though few of us thought we would get used to it, the start of the day at 6am with morning prayer/meditation is really valued. It wakes us up whilst providing a positive communal start to the day and a chance to build meditation into daily routine. After a break for breakfast and chores, such as milking and opening the chicken coop, we work in the fields, dairy or pickling centre until midday. A two hour break for lunch is followed by another work session. After dinner we have our classes on a Jewish, food and/or agricultural theme.

The packed schedule during the week, with so little spare time has helped make the shabbatot here so wonderful. Beginning with a mikvah dunk in the stream behind the field and followed by a harvesting of whichever vegetables we decide to cook that evening, shabbat here has been full of great singing, food and time spent without work in our wonderful group.

We have also been lucky enough to have been taught by some well known teachers and authors. Meeting and listening to Rabbi Everett Gendler and his wife Mary, a 1960s civil rights activist, who is credited with having introduced Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel and Martin Luther King, was a real honour. We also had a session with a group of Christians, Muslims and Jews who were working on an inter-faith farming and activist training project in upstate New York. One of their organisers is Rabbi Lynn Gottleib, one of the first female rabbis who has been working on giving non-violent action a more thorough Jewish dimension with the notion of being 'shomer shalom', a keeper of peace. At another seminar we were taught by Rabbi Arthur Waskow, an outspoken social activist leader who broke down in tears as he talked to us about the oil spill in the gulf. It was exciting for me to meet people whose books and articles I have read.

Just by living in this setting we are getting exposure to interesting and cutting edge Jewish practice and thinking. The Isabella Freedman Retreat Centre has a constant flow of guests, events and teachers. It was a really interesting experience to participate in the Tisha B'Av services here with visiting Rabbis Nadia and Victor Gross. Throughout August there are Jewish spirituality retreats and hopefully, if there is any time off from farming, opportunities for learning.

The work of Adamah as a leadership training programme is funded by Hazon, the Jewish food charity. Motivated by Jewish environmentalist values and by providing educational resources about Judaism and food, they use the institutions of the Jewish community to promote ethical food consumption. Next week we are being taught by their (British!) founder, Nigel Savage. Our summer will with all of us participating Hazon's biggest annual event, their sponsored bike ride ending at the JCC in Manhattan.


This is how my American Jewish farming adventure is going so far. Even though I have not decided to exchange any current plans for a career in farming, this programme is so valuable for my life as someone that eats. And is giving me many more experiences along the way...

Sunday 13 June 2010

Daniel the farmer

As I briskly removed the bucket from underneath Sheba the goat, just in time to avoid her stamping in it for the fourth time this morning and having to pour another pail of dirty milk down the sink, I overcome my frustration by reminding myself of why I chose to come here and experience life as a farmer for these three months this summer.



I had heard about the Adamah Jewish farming fellowship some time ago and thought it sounded interesting. It was my experiences in India that made me sure that I wanted to participate on it.



There I was reminded of the centrality of agriculture to the lives of most people on the planet; buying food in a supermarket had allowed me to forget this process (excluding the melons and parmelos that I had packed into boxes on Kibbutz!) Everywhere I traveled in Nepal and India I could see a different stage of the agricultural process. I’ll never forget arriving on the morning train into Kolkata and looking out of the window at the packed sea of farmers carrying onions, cabbages, cauliflower, oranges and everything else you can imagine in gigantic baskets on their heads to sell in the city. As I looked out of the window and saw people (mostly women) working on the land as I travelled by train across India Irealised how little I knew about the process of farming, at home and abroad.



I was in Nepal during the rice harvest. I have eaten and enjoyed rice all of my life but realized that I had no idea what rice looked like as a plant and in the paddy field. The process gone through to produce the polished rice eaten in South Asia astounded me. First the head of the rice is harvested, and beaten to remove the rice kernels; the rest of the paddy plant is then used to make hay for the livestock. The rice is sieved again to remove any dust before being left out in the sun to dry. It is then boiled to take off the husks prior to being spread out again to try in the sun. Only after all of this is it ready to be used to feed the family or put into sacks to sell.



In Kolkata I was reminded how little I know about another aspect of food production, animal slaughter, despite having eaten meat for most of my life. I found the slaughter house in Kolkata’s Newmarket and was disgusted and fascinated by the production of meat. I spent a whole morning watching and filming the slaughter of chickens and butchering of goats. (More on that another time!)



All of these experiences left me with a sense of alienation from the food I eat. I am not sure that I can explain this as an entirely logical rationale behind wanting to work on a farm but it was a really strong feeling. I applied to do the Adamah programme and had my interview from an internet café in Kolkata and here I am.



The big draw of coming to the US to have this farming experience was my desire to gain a better understanding of Judaism in America. Having been a part of the Moishe House network by living in the London house, I was aware of the many varied and innovative spiritual, ritual and social action Jewish initiatives going on across the pond.



Adamah takes place at the Isabella Freedman retreat centre (in Connecticut, about two hours drive from New York city), a centre of Jewish Renewal programmes and retreats. Already since I have been here there has been a LGBT spiritual retreat (Nehirim), a camp for adults with mental illness and this last Shabbat saw the retreat of the Jewish Multi-racial Network. The rest of the summer will see a whole series of spiritual retreats that I’m looking forward to sampling.



My original intention was to experience these and see what and how I could bring these ideas back to the UK. This is a much more difficult task than I thought: so much of it just isn’t British! I did not realize until I came here that the expressions ‘happy-clappy’ and ‘touchy-feely’ are truly descriptive. I was pleasantly surprised to have found myself out of my own comfort zone several times already and am enjoying getting used to how Judaism is practiced here. I’m spending a lot of time thinking about how to translate things into English, it’s a challenge!



I will try to post more updates about my experiences here. Between full days in the fields planting, weeding, thinning and hoeing and the evening learning and training sessions, there is not much time so we’ll see how I do. The Adamah blog will also have updates about what we’re up to. Please do be in touch with me while I’m here, I’d love to hear how everyone is doing at home!



I’m happy to say that I finish my goat milking duty this week, bring on the chickens!

Monday 14 December 2009

Chanukah in Kolkata

Exile

An Israeli traveler, who I met here in one of the traveler cafes here in Kolkata/Calcutta, told me that the Jewish community here still ran a Erev Shabbat service in one of the synagogues. She tried to go but could not find the building in this packed city. That Friday I decided to go check it out. I left at 3pm to give me enough time to get there. I trusted her dubious internet source.

I walked north from BBD Bag square, quite shocked at seeing the grand Victorian architecture that I am so familiar with in London surrounded by the rush and madness of an Indian city. So many people. I have never seen so many people. I arrived on Old China Bazar Road and made towards what was once the Jewish area of town. Every inch of space on this road was taken up by a market stall, selling everything from combs to colanders; any remaining room was full of people. Each step had to be carefully navigated and each small opening between people quickly utilized.

I walked round the block that Magen David synagogue was supposed to be on. I asked several people the way. They all knew how to direct me there. It was clearly a well known landmark but it remained aloof. Eventually I was directed through a tiny gap between two market stalls to the gate of the synagogue. There I looked up and saw the huge red brick, ornate building whose design was dominated by a church-style steeple. The entrance was hidden by the market and the front was obscured from the main road – formerly called Synagogue Street – by a huge concrete monstrosity. I looked at it and wished that planning permission had come to India. The synagogue was large and splendid; the community here must have been pretty prosperous.

In the courtyard I met the Muslim caretaker. I was not allowed to enter. Apparently all visitors needed a letter of permission from a certain Nahoum, who owns a bakery in Kolkata’s Newmarket. I was informed that no services took place and that there were only 30 Jews left in the city. Oh, perhaps they still run a service at the other synagogue round the corner, I thought naively. I listened to the directions and taking a deep breath dived back into the throng.

I found myself on the wrong side of the dual carriageway. I was sweating, thirsty and tired from being on this crazy street. Suddenly I would find myself face to face with a rickshaw, hooted at by a taxi or growled at angrily after bumping into a man carrying a ton of goods on his head.

With the walk taking triple the time it should have done, I found myself on the same block as Beth El synagogue. I caught a glimpse of the shul at the end of an alley of market stalls. It was blocked. I went round and arrived at the gate. Exhausted and emotional, I pushed open the gate and entered the Shabbat peace of its courtyard, away from the busy week of the street.

On the left of the large but slightly plainer shul there was a grandfatherly looking old man sitting under a shelter finishing off some street food out of a leaf bowl. I rushed up to him nearly crying: was he perhaps one of the last Jews of Kolkata…

“Are you Jewish?”

“No.”

“Can I go inside?”

“No; letter, Nahoum, letter.”

I could not hold it in any longer; I walked sullenly to the entrance foyer, sat on a step and cried. I cried for the beauty of the buildings now empty. I cried for the prayers that no longer fill their halls. I cried for the generations that lived here, the memory of who is hidden, unseen from the street. I cried for the Shabbat arriving at that moment but with no one to greet her. I cried for the loss to India of one colour in her diverse tapestry. I was angry at the Indians on the street for not knowing and caring and at the community for leaving.

Only I wasn’t allowed to cry. The caretaker came along and gestured me to move to the bench on the far side. I went.

“Where are you from?

Uk.

“Why you cry?

“Because there are no people here. Do you live in Calcutta?

“Tomorrow 10 o’clock you go to Nahoum.

“Did you know any Jews here?

“All Jews left. To Israel. You go to Israel?

“No.

“Why not? Jews go to Israel.”

“This one doesn’t.”

“Only 12 Jews. Old men.”

“What you do in UK? How much do you earn? 5,000?”

“No.”

“10,000?”

“NO. Go away, I want to sit here on my own.”

“Tomorrow you go to Mr Nahoum. Now you go.”

He gestured with a trace of aggression towards the gate. I got up and walked at morosely. He locked it behind me.

I sat on the floor and cried some more. Really I was crying for myself: I missed Shabbat with family, in the house or on an RSY event. In a city of 15 million people, sitting there on the road, exiled from the courtyard, I felt like the only Jew in the world.

In that moment I realized that I finally understood the emotion of Tisha B’Av, of the loss of the glorious past, of practices no longer observed, of being shut out. When I saw empty shuls in Poland I had not felt quite like this. I had been there with a group of other Jews who seeing the Jewish past were also living a Jewish present and creating its future. Here in Kolkata, from where the community had left voluntarily hoping for a better life in Israel, the UK or the US, it was seeing these empty buildings and feeling loss, loneliness and a sense that something was now incomplete and missing that caused this emotion.

I opened my siddur and began to sing Kabbalat Shabbat to myself. Midway through a 10 year old boy asked why I talk to myself. Soon a small crowd gathered round.

“You cant sit in the road.”

“Why? May people sit on the road in Kolkata.”

“You can’t sit in the road.”

“I want to.”

“What you read?”

“It is Hebrew. You see this building? This is a synagogue where Jews pray. Like mosque. Today is special day, like Muslim Friday.”

“You don’t sit in the street!”

“I want to pray here. Did you know Jews lived here? Thousands of Jews for three hundred years?”

“You have a rupee? Two rupees?”

The old man returned and stood on the inside of the gate. A conversation in Bengali ensued. I returned to the psalms.

“I mean no dispresect but you cannot sit on the floor. I respect you and what you do but you cannot sit in the road.”

“Ok.”

“Two rupees? One rupee?”

I got up, said goodbye and walked down the street into the madness singing Lecha Dodi. At least I was there to greet her.

Operation Chanukah

Chanukah was going to work; I was not prepared to take any risk. So I skipped volunteering (sorry!) and put Operation Chanukah into action. The plan was as follows:

1 Locate fellow Jews.

  • Go to Internet café and look at the list of names on the door, checking for Jewish sounding or Israeli names
  • Go to all the traveler cafes and look for Jews/Israelis

2 Go to Nahoum’s bakery.

  • Try to meet Nahoum himself
  • Leave a note there with my number for anyone that goes in and asks for the letter

3 Go to shul

  • Get there at 3pm to be sure to intercept Shalom Israel.

1

  • Negative. No Jews found in the Internet café. Internet café owner convinced that I am a stalker.
  • Success. I went to Blue Sky Café and immediately chanced upon an Israeli. I informed him of Operation Chanukah asking if he wanted to be my accomplice. Gal readily agreed.

We went round the corner from there to sit at one of the many chai stalls on Sudder Street. And there, what do you know, we found ourselves sitting next to an Israeli couple.

“Are you Israeli?” I asked, over excitedly.

“Errr… Yes” she replied uncertainly.

“Great! I should tell you about my mission! I plan to find the last Jews in Kolkata and celebrate Chanukah with them….” I quickly paused for breath. “Wait, you know that Chanukah starts today!?”

She looked at her boyfriend, he looked away from me. Disinterest shone in their eyes.

“Come on guys it’s Chanukah!” They looked bored. Her expression asked “Who is this guy? There’s Chabad in Kolkata?”

I had been thwarted by my own exuberance. I’ve been warned of this.

Gal returned, exchanged a few words with them in Hebrew and as we walked away he sighed, “Israelis”.

2

  • Look Daniel, I don’t know what you were thinking, this guy is 84 and probably dying!
  • We got our pre-written letter of permission from one of the staff at the bakery and left a note about Chanukah celebrations for any other travelers who might come along.

Accompanied by Christmas music and decorations we bought some macaroons at Nahoum and Sons bakery and sat with chai in Newmarket.

I promise that it was not only me who initiated the conversation; it was just as much Gal’s idea! We talked about Israel, politics and all. We were sitting only three metres away from where I had sat with Eduardo, an intelligent photographer from Spain who had spent a year working for an NGO in the West Bank, only two days before and had had a pretty disturbing conversation about the situation. Several hours later I understood why Gal had voted for Netanyahu. Reflecting on those two conversations, days apart on the steps in a square in India I realized that I could go anywhere in the world and would not be able to get away from thinking, talking and feeling strongly about Israel/Palestine.

3

After my failed visit the week before I had done my research. There is an article online about Shalom Israel – the youngest Jew in Kolkata. He lives on the grounds of the Jewish cemetery where he is the undertaker, superintendent and all round mensch to the remaining community. Every Shabbat he goes to each of the synagogues to light the Shabbat candles. I had missed him last week; I was not taking a risk this time.

I got to Magen David synagogue at 3pm and went inside. It has a huge, stunning interior of pillars and arches with Hebrew inscriptions across them, an ornate ark, a grand bimah in the centre and an elegant sprinkling of colour all over. It was clean, well maintained and empty, cleared of chairs. There was a framed letter on the wall from the American Jewish community thanking the synagogue for looking after US Jewish soldiers serving in Asia during the war. The three caretakers followed me around everywhere.

The interior of Beth El synagogue, only a five minute walk away, was older, simpler and much less ornate, but inviting and homely.

There I met Shalom. He was a gentle, warm, smiley, cuddly man and could answer all our questions about the community.

I hadn’t noticed but directly next door to Magen David synagogue is another shul (not open to the public) called Neve Shalom. During the planning of Magen David, there was a broyges and half the group split away to build a separate shul. They split the site in half and so two synagogues came to be built next door to each other. The wealthy people stayed with Magen David and Neve Shalom became the poor man’s shul. No one remembers what the disagreement was about.

The planners of Magen David employed a British architect from London who was famed for his churches. No one checked the plans and the building was completed true to his style, complete with a tall grand steeple.

There are in fact 26 Jews left, the rest of the community migrated over the years.

Gal and I listened attentively to Shalom and took a look in the ark at the two remaining Sifrei Torah in their traditional Baghdadi solid silver cases.

It was Chanukah. There in this large, empty synagogue hall a British, an Israeli and an Indian Jew stood together, sang the Chanukah blessings and the shechechianu; we remembered the wondrous and heroic acts done for our ancestors in those times at this season and we lit the chanukiah together. As we sang Maoz Tzur I looked at these candles as their light shone out to fill the large, glorious room. I felt like I was one of the Macabees, entering the Temple from exile and rededicating the space. The three of us there that Chanukah Shabbat, were marking out the synagogue as holy through light; we were honouring the history and heritage of this once great community; and for the first time in my life not just celebrating Chanukah but truly experiencing its essence.

The mission had been accomplished. Happy Chanukah!

Sunday 6 December 2009

It's been too long

At the start of this trip I fully intended to blog frequently and give everyone the option of keeping up to date with my adventures. It’s taken a long time to get round to doing it. Now, a month and a week into my trip, I am writing my first entry.


I guess the main reason why I have been lax is because, and here I must confess, I never read people’s travel blogs. Generally I find them pretty boring (sorry!) and so I guess saw no reason why mine would be any more interesting. Obviously now I am here I can’t see any reason why anyone wouldn’t want to read about what I’ve been up to! No, seriously, I’m beginning to realize now how much I miss everyone and really want to stay in touch, so perhaps this is the best way to communicate with you all.


Over the next few weeks I’ll do some backtracking and add in some of the funnier anecdotes or some shocking detail on the events from earlier in the trip. I’ll start now though with a brief summary of what I’ve been up to until now.


The first thing I did was join an organized group in Kathmandu to do the Everest Base Camp trek. I was in a group with some fantastic, diverse people from all over the world. The trek was wonderful, but pretty hard. It started with a flight from Kathmandu to Lukla airport - where one start of the runway is 60m higher than the end. It was pretty scary on the way back. The landscape changed significantly as we went up and I saw the most amazing views. I don’t expect to see anything that beautiful again. The mountains were stunning.


The difficult part was the freezing cold in the evenings and as we climbed to above 5000m, hiking with only 40% oxygen. I was at the back of the group most of the time - really should have done some training beforehand. Along the way we past many Buddhist Stupas and were lucky to be at a Buddhist monastery during a major festival. The last leg of the journey to Base Camp was along glacier, which was pretty cool.


After a few days in Kathmandu I went west to Pokhara, a touristy town on the edge of a beautiful lake. There I hired a mountain bike for a couple of days to see the surrounding area. I got completely lost several times and almost fell down a mountain. The highlight of that was when I cycled pretty high up through rural, hilltop areas where tourists were a novelty, there the people were so friendly and all the children in a school playground stopped to gawp and wave as I cycled past.


From Pokhara I took the bus to the jungle at Chitwan National Park. It was great seeing and riding an elephant, but beyond that the most exciting animal I saw on both a canoe and walking safari was a wild chicken. The tigers, rhinos and panthers clearly have something against me. After two nights there I took a bus from there across Nepal to the border with India. After a grim evening in the border town I crossed over into India, taking a jeep up to Darjeeling


Aside from the tea, the highlight in this area was going to visit the village of Barranumber (three jeep rides from Darjeeling) where I stayed with a local family. My friend Tom had volunteered there a few months ago and his host family warmly welcomed me. Although it is in India, the people there are ethnic Gurkhas and speak Nepali. After having spent a few weeks in Nepal it was great to experience the culture first hand.


I took my first sleeper train from there to Kolkata (Calcutta) and went to meet the organizations that I am volunteering with next day. I’m due to stay here until the middle or end of January. More on my experiences here, shortly – I’ve got a lot to say about it!


Along the way I have met loads of travelers and Indians and haven’t actually spent much time alone. They’ve mostly been pretty nice and interesting people and definitely a highlight of the experience.


I have been thinking a lot about everyone at home and miss you! Keep in touch.


daniel