Washington Post declares Ottawa “cool”

Stop the presses! This just in...

Ottawa is making headlines in Washington, D.C.'s largest and oldest newspaper, even winning out over Toronto when it comes to subcultural kudos. (We'll get to that.) 

A freshly published article in the Washington Post celebrates the Canadian capital for evolving from a “city that never wakes” to a place characterized by an “unselfconscious cool.”

That's right: A New-York based writer is calling Ottawa "cool."

Michael Kaminer, the Montreal-raised journalist behind the piece, remembers 70s era Ottawa for its “somnolent streets, dull dining and nonexistent night life.”

But a recent visit to the city has changed his mind, even inspiring him to rank Ottawa above Toronto when it comes to its indie aesthetic.

Torontonians may be miffed to hear his derision of our “hipster posturing” and, as Kaminer clarifies, that little Ottawa isn’t trying to be like Toronto anyway. 

(I guess he’s saying they're not interested in giving us the highest form of flattery, but maybe some of this instead.)

Kaminer also praises Ottawa's casual bilingualism, comparing it to Montreal’s more heavy-handed approach, as well as the capital's underestimated food scene and local artisans.

(Food wise: I have to give Ottawa props for being the home of Dunn's famous Deli. I know Shwartz-lovers in Montreal may come after me, but Dunn's totally has the best smoked meat ever.)

The writer concludes with the possibility that Ottawa’s major attractions—like Parliament, Rideau Hall and the National Gallery—may not be the city’s most appealing features anymore.

So, I'm interested in what you all think.

Has Kaminer been bribed in beavertails or is he onto something? 

I leave you with a stereotypically quintessential Ottawa shot as you ponder that one...

Fabiola Carletti is a Toronto Star radio room reporter and graduate student at the UBC School of Journalism. She recently graduated summa cum laude from York University, having earned an honours double major in Professional Writing and Communication Studies. Her digital footprints are all over the internet, but you can learn more about her by reading her blog, or chasing her around on twitter. 

Photo credits: Fabiola Carletti, Ottawa, ON summer 2009

Dispatches from Nepal: Music is everywhere

By Jayme Poisson

“Music feels like soul,” said my friend Kiran, who plays the sirangi in Nepali folk band Kutumba. “Music is what feelings sound like.” 

“One melody can make you feel sadness. Feel happiness. Feel anger. Feel sunset.” 

I took pause. “How can a single melody feel like sunset?” I asked him. 

“Just listen,” he said. And he took out his sirangi and played. 

It felt like sunset. The notes turned into a burning orange hue, drifting into the horizon. Tints of red and gold lighting up the sky. The marker of another day come and gone. 

It really did feel like sunset. 

Kiran thinks music is soul. I think music is a universal language. 

A powerful drum beat. A simple haunting solitary note. The sounds of hundreds singing in concert. It is this lovely and intoxicating thing that connects us, whether we hail from Toronto or Kathmandu. 

Friedrich Nietzsche said “without music, life would be a mistake.” 

Nietzsche was a wise man. 

In Nepal, music is everywhere. And with more than 50 different ethnicities in the country, there is an overwhelming number of sounds and songs to choose from that vary from region to region. 

While shooting a documentary about maternal health, music was not necessarily on the top of my shot list. But while traveling, the melodies found me. From children singing, to monks chanting. 

And with a camera in hand, it just had to be captured. Here are a few video clips of particularly heart-warming encounters with music in Nepal. They make me smile every time I watch them. I hope they make you smile too. 

Singing kids

We spent time with these wonderful children while filming in Jamunai Mathyapur, a small village in Nepal's Terai. I am told this is a very famous song in the region.

It's called 'Jila Top Lagela', loosely translated as "top of the district." The song is about a boy singing to a girl. He says that when she puts her lipstick on she is the most beautiful in the district. It’s sung in the Bhojpuri dialect. 

The poverty in Nepal’s Terai is nothing short of astounding. Food and water are in short supply. Most families live on less than $1 a day. These children had little in the way of material goods. But what they did have was music, and no one could take that away from them. 

Processions are a way of life

Many people have told me that Nepal is the land where Lord Shiva meets Lord Buddha.  A confluence of Hindus and Buddhists, joining together in worship. Processions and offerings are a daily way-of-life. 

Here, a group of Hindus are delivering an offering of rice, grain and flowers to the Gods. It is considered an act of devotion and self-surrender. 

We passed them while driving to a maternal health camp near Charikot in the district of Dolakha. They kindly invited us to participate in the procession.

Singing women

These women had come to receive or learn about treatment options at a temporary health camp set up in remote Timal, near Gorkha. We had finished shooting for the day, but scrambled to get the camera unpacked again after they broke out into song and dance. 

Before we shot this I asked Dr. Molly Verdegaal, a Dutch doctor who was running this camp, why she does this kind of work. At the time she answered, “because this work is my heart.” After these women had left for the day she came up to me and asked rhetorically, “did you see that? That, right there. That was my heart.” 

Music. Call it soul. Call it heart. Call it a universal language. Call it anything you want.

It is a great connector, and surely one of the most wonderful things humanity has to offer.

Jayme Poisson is a Master of Journalism student at Carleton University. She has just returned to Canada after trekking through Nepal during April and May while making a documentary about delivering maternal health services to remote and conflict-affected areas. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program.

Dispatches from Nepal: Homage to the God of rain

By Jayme Poisson

Attachments: View As Web Page

It's dusk in Kathmandu and the streets of Patan, an ancient city just outside the capital, have come alive with colour. Flickering candles line monuments and homes.

Women bustle to prepare feasts for family and friends. And children dance in the streets to the steady beat of drums. They sing and playfully splash each other with buckets of water.

It's Rato Machhendranath Jatra. And I have been lucky enough to have been swept up in the frenzy of this month-long festival.

In this festival, the wooden chariot of rain god Rato (Red) Macchendranath is pulled through the narrow lanes of Patan. The chariot is pulled by a huge crowd of enthusiastic devotees. It begins in Pulchowk and eventually reaches Jawalakhel about a month later for the final stages of celebration. At each of the stops, the locals perform puja of the Machhendranath.

There is surely nothing else like it. If it begs comparison, I would say the raucous procession is a bit like Mardi Gras. But with a unique Nepalese flair all its own.

"We're celebrating for there to be rain because it will bring the people of the valley happiness so that they can grow food that will follow them for one whole year," said Kiran Nepali, a local musician.

The annual festival is a hallmark of Newari culture here in Nepal. Hindus and Buddhists pay homage to the god, Rato Machhendranath, who is believed to control rainfall. The timing is apt with monsoon season approaching quickly.

Hundreds of men pull the chariot of Rato Machhendranath through the streets. As the five-storey high edifice snakes its way through the narrow winding roads, past temples, statues and shimmering golden water taps, the god himself is said to look down upon the people with pleasure. The wheels of the chariot are sprinkled with rice and vermilion powder, leaving a trail of red in its path.

Coincidentally (or perhaps not), since the festival began May 18, it has rained here every night.

"That's why it is raining!," said jewelry shop owner Shyam Shahi, a smile ear to ear. "Because of the festival."

Legend has it there was a severe drought in the Kathmandu Valley thousands of years ago. Rato Machhendranath traveled all the way from Assam, India to rid the valley of evil forces and bring rain to its crops.

While Kathmandu has gradually evolved from an agricultural mecca to a commercial hub, Rato Machhendranath Jatra isn't just about good harvests, but is also about preserving identity and family ties.

"The festival is to hold onto the culture," said Shahi. "As we have the festival there is the gathering of people. They organize a party and all the relatives get together. It's a reason to share the culture and the happiness with family."

For me, this festival is indicative of how I've felt about Nepal since the moment I arrived in this gem-of-a-destination. This country has taught me the value of understanding one's roots. The notion that looking back doesn't preclude moving forward. And that genuine faith can be a source of immeasurable strength.

"We still trust the gods. It's a faith in people that has been around for a long long time," said Nepali, astutely. "It's the culture. There's not much scientific about it but we do believe in the gods and that they bring good luck and that's just simple faith."

..........

Photo: A bird's eye view of the streets of Patan. Thousands of people await the arrival of Rato Machhendranath's chariot.

Jayme Poisson is a Master of Journalism student at Carleton University. She will be trekking through Nepal during May while making a documentary about delivering maternal health services to remote and conflict-affected areas. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program. She will be blogging regularly from the field.

Turkey diary: A stranger in a strange land

By Jasmeet Sidhu

A middle-aged man with a lit cigarette in his mouth, the owner of a 5-Euro a night hostel in the middle of central Turkey, led me up a set of stone stairs and opened up a door revealing a dim-lit room with six twin beds.

"This is where you sleep," he told me, closing the door and leaving me alone in the room where one of two flies buzzed over my head. I dumped my backpack, sat on the squeaky bed that would surely collapse under my weight, and asked myself the same question for the hundredth time: "How in the world could I possibly think this was a good idea?"

A hill overlooking the city of Göreme, as the sun sets on the mountains.

Let me back up for a bit. I've been in Turkey for the last couple of weeks, visiting the cities of Istanbul, Ankara and Diyarbakir with my Peace and Conflict studies class from the University of Toronto, on an academic trip to apply the concepts of our international security course to one of the most important and interesting countries in the 21st century. The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of meetings with NGOs, Turkish government officials, and sight-seeing, all with my 14 other classmates and Professor.

However, as the "academic" portion of the trip came to an end and my classmates quickly dispersed in various directions around the world to begin their summer vacations, I decided to stay put in Turkey for a bit. By myself. I was called both brave and foolish. I think I was a little bit of both.

Now, this might not be a big deal to you adventure-folks that routinely pack up your bags and land in various countries and cities around the world by yourself. But for me, this is the first time that I would be truly traveling by myself, in a country on the other side of the world.

For various reasons, namely being young, female, somewhat introverted and timid, and having had a bad experience with a mugging on a school trip to Namibia two summers ago, traveling by myself absolutely terrified me. I could have easily came back to Toronto and slid back into my comfortable life of reality-show watching before I officially started my internship at the Star in June.

However for some reason, I thought it might be a good idea to "stretch" myself, overcome fears from that one summer I was mugged, and try traveling by myself, for isn't that what intrepid would-be journalists are supposed to be able to handle?

The second that I departed from my classmates and set out to explore Turkey on my own, I suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. The city of Istanbul, which I had become quite familiar with in my time with my classmates, suddenly took on an almost terrifying quality. The noise, the hustle and bustle of the streets, cat-calls from vendors and stares from locals that I had disregarded before suddenly set off the depths of my fearful imagination that every brush of the shoulder with a stranger and every stare-down from a man across the street would lead to a mugging, rape, or scam.

During those first days alone I lamented, in my hotel room alone too scared to venture far, the unfairness of being a woman in our world, and the limitations and dangers that I would forever face no matter where I went in the world simply because I was born female.

I quickly moved out of the city of Istanbul to a small town in central Turkey, Göreme, located in Cappadocia, thinking that the small-town setting would help me alleviate my fears of being by myself and help me to face the challenges that traveling alone brings. It's been barely week since I've been on my own, and I feel that I've already traveled a month, considering the height of emotion and the long hours of solitude that traveling by yourself inevitably brings. 

The loneliness factor is not to be discounted, though I wasn't quite prepared for it. Especially as I wistfully gaze at couples and groups of friends all around me and feel like I'm the only one in the world who has decided to travel by myself, I am sometimes reminded of what I might be missing had I shared this experience with a friend or family member.

I remember thinking this exact thought as I sat on top of a hill overlooking the city of Göreme, and watched the sun set on the beautiful mountains the city is known for turning them into various shades of pink, purple and blue. It was a beautiful moment, but one enjoyed alone.

I am reminded of my solitude certainly every time I tire of taking landscape shots and try to insert myself into the photo by clumsily attempting a self-shot with my camera, only to have only my forehead appear in the picture (I'm occasionally saved of such terrible photographs by kind couples who pity me, such as the one taken by a Russian couple posted in this blog).
Eliminating the usual noise from my life, I realize how utter solitude is in itself, when I have no one to share my simplest thoughts with, can indeed be overwhelming.

Safety is always a factor. Having been traumatized in the past, and having my mother's vigilant warnings and her own fears over my head, I am constantly assessing the safety factor of my situation every 10 minutes or so. I find myself asking the questions, "How many other females are in this restaurant, on the street, in this cab?" "How many hours do I have until the sun sets?" "Does this guy believe my story of my fake friend or fake boyfriend who is back at the hotel to avoid suspicion and danger due to my solitary presence?"

This experience is making me come face to face with all the fears and anxieties that I have faced in my life, with no support or cushion of others to fall back on, like I have for most of my life. So far, I've found myself opening myself a bit, attempting new and experiences that I may not have done otherwise traveling in a group (such as horseback riding - who knew I so capable?).

I see myself trusting a little bit more, mainly out of sheer necessity, that not every man is a rapist, mugger or scammer. And indeed, I'm starting to find joy in the simple things, such as getting free entrance into a museum because I was by myself, or waking up every morning deciding how my day will go, with no one to consult, compromise or negotiate with.

Traveling alone is a strange and different experience. Especially as a young female, there are many risks and dangers to be had every step of the way from the moment you last depart your friends or family members. However, I hope by the end of it all I can view this experience as a positive one, and agree that I was both brave and foolish to do it, but better for it.

Jasmeet Sidhu is a graduate of Peace and Conflict Studies at the University of Toronto and is currently in Turkey for a month. She previously worked for the Star in the radio room last summer, and writes a blog for the Star on climate change, where she covered the UN Climate Change conference in Copenhagen. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program. Follow Jasmeet on Twitter.

Nepal dispatches: Faces

By Jayme Poisson

I have been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of this beautiful country over the past six weeks of traveling through Nepal, with one eye behind the camera lens.

Along the way I have been collecting pictures of the faces of Nepali women, men and children - some have become my friends, others were gracious enough to let me in for a fleeting moment.

 I hope you enjoy these faces of Nepal as much as I do.

Rampiyari Dahal, 29, is one of the main characters in a documentary in am shooting in Nepal.  She has had 'fallen womb' for the past eight years and recently had a hysterectomy at a government sponsored health camp in Dolakha. I asked her why she smiles all the time. She replied, quite earnestly, “because I am happy.” 

This little boy  from Dolakha loved the camera.

Dr. Binod Dangal, director at the Gaurishankar General Hospital in Dolakha, examines an x-ray of a young boy who broke his arm.

A woman at a health camp for women in Timal, near Ghorka.

While en route from Kathmandu to Dolakha we stopped on the side of the road

to chat with locals.  This women had a quiet beauty about her. 

In rural Nepal, back-breaking labour is part of daily life for everyone. 

Infant playing outside the Gaurishankar General Hospital.

Girl playing in a rusting ambulance outside the Gaurishankar General Hospital.

Boy playing with a toy gun in a village in Nepal’s Terai region,

near the border of India.

On the roadside on the outskirts of Kathmandu.

The baby looked like a little Buddha - a true old soul. 

This girl had more spunk in her baby finger

than most people have in their whole body.

Teenage girl at the health camp in Timal was a little shy at first.

Three-year-old in Timal.

Chandra has driven us to many places in Nepal. I always ask him if he is all right or "thik cha" as they say in Nepali and he always replies, "I am happy wherever I go."

 :::::

Jayme Poisson is a Master of Journalism student at Carleton University. She will be trekking through Nepal during May while making a documentary about delivering maternal health services to remote and conflict-affected areas. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program. She will be blogging regularly while in Nepal.

Nepal dispatches: 'I bow to you'

By Jayme Poisson

There is no mistaking, I am utterly smitten with Nepal. Having just returned from an eight-day trek through the majestic peaks of the Anapurna mountain range, I have become swept up in the beauty and reverence of this incredible place. But beyond the striking scenery and the rich bubbling history marked with temples and monuments, it’s how the Nepali people say “hello” that has me so enchanted.

“Namaste,” pronounced Nam-a-stay. It’s a word you hear so often in Nepal it becomes as common as the frenetic sounds of car horns or motor bikes.

 I remember this little boy had his hands clasped together for quite some time. I didn't realize he was waiting for me to turn around so that he could say "Namaste."

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Whether you're walking the streets of Kathmandu or trekking through the mighty Himalayas, the Nepali people always have time for a heartfelt “Namaste.”
Derived from Sanskrit, the salutation is used across the country by its ethnically diverse population. Loosely translated as “I bow to you”, small children, farmers or shop owners will place their hands, palms touching, in front of their heart. An ever so slight bow of the head comes in tandem. It is this one simple gesture that gives me butterflies. Amidst the difficult grind of daily life and the political uncertainties currently strong-arming the nation, for me, it speaks volumes about the amicability of the Nepali people.

We had barely made it out of the car during a recent trip to Dolokha before this woman welcomed us with a customary "Namaste."

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“It’s different from where you come from,” my friend Aruna, who has been helping me film here in Kathmandu joked with me recently. “Here in Nepal, we always have time to stop, to greet, to say hello.” It is a lesson I will take with me always - as a friend, a daughter, a journalist and also a perfect stranger. Palms touching, hands in-front-of-heart, the collective ability of the people to take a literal breath and acknowledge one another is the most beautiful thing I have seen during my time here in Nepal. Namaste. I bow to you. Isn't it just lovely?

I snapped this photo right before this woman greeted us with a kind "Namaste."

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Jayme Poisson is a Master of Journalism student at Carleton University. She will be trekking through Nepal during May while making a documentary about delivering maternal health services to remote and conflict-affected areas. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program. She will be blogging regularly from the field.

Turkey diary: In Diyarbakir the 'Kurdish question' is everywhere

By Jasmeet Sidhu

While in Istanbul and Ankara, it may be easy to avoid what is known as the "Kurdish question".

However, after landing in Diyarbakir in Turkey's east which is also close to the Iraq border, the so-called "question" is everywhere. Having only been recently introduced the topic and by no means an expert on the issue, the following are my initial thoughts based on my on-the-ground experience in Turkey on this highly complex and highly sensitive issue.


One of the main purposes of the trip to Turkey with my Peace and Conflict Studies class was to investigate the nation's relationship with the minority Kurdish population, and as my colleague and classmate Craig Ruttan commented, the relationship has been characterized by the language of terrorism, human rights, accommodation, and international border disputes.

Diyarbakir is considered the political and cultural heart of the Kurdish in Turkey, and what struck us immediately was how different the city was from Ankara and Istanbul. Older women adorned the hijab in greater numbers, the streets slightly dustier and the buildings more run down (with some having PKK graffiti on them). Although the argument that Turkey is "European" (whatever that means) is made plausible in the aforementioned two cities, one has a more difficult time applying that label here for those who don't necessarily identify with being "Turkish" and Turkey's ambition to join the EU.

Indeed, understanding what is the Kurdish issue and how one "deals with it" is necessarily asking a question about the Turkish identity and nation-state, where Turks are all children of the founding father Atatürk, rather than there be an existence of a "brotherhood" between Turks and Kurds.

Indeed, during our visit to Diyarbakir, we have heard from various Kurdish human rights organizations of the struggle to have their children learn Kurdish in school (which they are not allowed) and other basic language and educational rights. Everyone is to learn and speak Turkish, and morph into this homogeneous identity of being "Turkish". Back in Istanbul and Ankara, we primarily heard the issue being treated as one of terrorism, which means focusing on eliminating the PKK, the Kurdistan's Workers Party, and the threats which come from northern Iraq.

At the heart of the question from my perspective is, can a flexible idea of Turkish identity exist, allowing citizens to celebrate their citizenship without compromising their ethnic heritage? On more than several occasions (including by the President of the pro-Kurdish Peace & Democracy Party), the Kurdish question was compared to the French and Quebec in Canada, and reminded me of Stephen Harper's proclamation that Quebec was a nation within Canada.

It would seem that at this stage, Turkey is not willing to accept this bi-nationality within the country. What then? With the terrorist acts and violence having subdued in Turkey for the last several years, Turkey may be compelled to stick with the status quo and simply ignore the issue. However, ignoring the issue will not make it go away, and should be dealt with urgently - though as we've seen in Canada and in other places, the cases and minority rights are by no means ever fully solved.

Jasmeet Sidhu is a graduate of Peace and Conflict Studies at the University of Toronto and is currently in Turkey for a month. She previously worked for the Star in the radio room last summer, and writes a blog for the Star on climate change, where she covered the UN Climate Change conference in Copenhagen. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program. Follow Jasmeet on Twitter.

Turkey diary: Looking beyond the stereotypes

Photo: Turkey's founding father Atatürk's face is prominently displayed all over Turkey.

By Jasmeet Sidhu

On the third or fourth day of our journey here in Turkey, four of us met with reporters and the editors of Hürriyet newspaper, one of Turkey's largest circulating English-language papers. 

Having worked at the Toronto Star, I was very interested to learn about the inner-workings of a newspaper in Turkey. The offices are fairly modest, located in a several-story building outside downtown Istanbul, with a few tables and computers lined up in a ceiling-to-floor tiled room. Much to my surprise, the editor-in-chief of one of the Hürriyet's sub-papers, the Daily News & Economic Review, was actually an American ex-pat by the name of David Judson, who, having now lived in Turkey for several years, was fluent in Turkish.

In a conversation over Turkish tea and coffee (which is constantly offered to us everywhere we go, in line with the famous hospitality that the Turkish are known for), Judson greeted our questions with the knowledge of someone who has been both an outsider and arguably an insider, identifying the way that we, and many other outsiders, tend to look at Turkey. 

He described Turkey, particularly in the international news media, being trapped into "five narratives" - Honour killings, the Armenian genocide, the Kurdish issue, Secular Islam, and EU membership. It was certainly enlightening to hear this framing and pigeonholing of the country into these five issues, because they were indeed, the five issues that my classmates and I in the Peace and Conflict studies program had approached and around which designed our research trip here in Turkey.

It made me think about how we in the media may tend to pigeonhole or frame certain issues, a city, an event in Toronto along the same narratives that don't necessarily provide originality, creativity and a fresh angle to a story. Existing narratives are easy to fall back on, are easy for audiences to absorb and make sense in everyone's current framing of the world - yet we all do ourselves a disservice by not pushing the button to see the hundreds of other stories that could be told. 

   Photo: Meeting with a LGBTQ organization in Istanbul.

For example, in our meetings, both with the LGBTQ organization that we met in Istanbul, and with the Canadian embassy in Ankara, gay and lesbian rights issues were brought up, and the seriousness of abuse cases that may be occurring amongst Turkish citizens, especially with regards to the mandatory service in Turkey's military. There is also the story of Turkey's rising economic force, and from what we heard from academics and others, of Turkey's strong desire to be included in the BRIC countries (Brazil, Russia, India, China) as a rising economic power, rather than simply a strategic regional power that dominates many American news stories about the country. As well, often overlooked in discussions but that permeated every discussion we had in Turkey, was the idea that everyone is a minority - there is a deep sense amongst many in the country that they are not necessarily represented, tied to certain long historical memories of who has power and ownership over this storied land.

There were many, many other stories that emanated during our meetings and during our interactions with the Turkish people that I hope to be able to communicate to my fellow Canadians one way or the other, through this blog or through other means. But perhaps one of the biggest lessons that I will take away from this trip: to be consciously aware of how a certain country, person, event, issue is framed, and to be always aware that there is always another story to be told.

Jasmeet Sidhu is a graduate of Peace and Conflict Studies at the University of Toronto. She worked for the Star in the radio room last summer, and writes a blog for the Star on climate change, where she covered the UN Climate Change conference in Copenhagen. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program. Follow Jasmeet on Twitter.

Turkey diary: Starbucks, spice vendors and ancient mosques

By Jasmeet Sidhu

It's been about two weeks since I left Toronto for my month-long Turkey adventure, and believe it or not, I've only now been able to sit myself down at an internet cafe.

I've spent the first two weeks here in Turkey with my classmates and professor from the Peace and Conflict Studies program at the University of Toronto, traveling to Istanbul, Ankara and Diyarbakir in the east, meeting with members of NGOs, the Turkish government and other interesting personalities and figures that make up the very complex and intriguing landscape of this fascinating country. (See previous post here)

Before coming to Turkey, I didn't know what to expect. I had heard the cliches of the country, of it being both "modern" and "oriental", of the East blending with the West, but I had no idea how this would actually come to play in the day-to-day lives of the Turkish and in major metropolitan cities such as Istanbul and Ankara. And indeed, Turkey is a country nothing quite like I've ever experienced before.

Jam-packed streetcars hurry past thousand-year-old mosques, fruit and spice vendors sell their products along side a Starbucks, and the call to prayer blasts frequently from the many mosques in the city while residents enjoy a beer, Turkish tea or cigarettes in its wake after a hard day's work. Indeed, as one representative from a gay and lesbian rights activist group whom we met with commented, it's even hard for him to characterize what exactly Turkey is, even after living in the country for 20 years.

But perhaps, that is the beauty of the country itself. Having existed geographically on the traditional divide between the so-called Eastern and Western worlds, the country seems to be navigating itself to move beyond such dichotomous characterizations of its culture, its people, its way of life. Perhaps one can be "modern" and "traditional". Perhaps such labels are archaic and ethnocentric, and Turkey is leading a new path that transcends any one or thing that tries to label it.

One thing is for sure. This country has drawn me in, as I'm sure it has done before with the millions who have trekked through this land before. And I can't wait to find out more.

Jasmeet Sidhu is a graduate of Peace and Conflict Studies at the University of Toronto. She previously worked for the Star in the radio room last summer, and writes a blog for the Star on climate change, where she covered the UN Climate Change conference in Copenhagen. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program. Follow Jasmeet on Twitter.

Photo: Jasmeet Sidhu in front of the Aya Sophia in Istanbul, Turkey.

Nepal dispatches: The crushing weight of poverty

 
By Jayme Poisson

Journalists have the distinct privilege of being invited into the lives of others. To listen to their stories, whether they’re filled with joy or heartache.

We also have the humbling responsibility to convey these stories. To paint a picture that encompasses a thousand brush strokes to the best of our ability.

I would like to introduce you to Anita Sadaya and her three daughters.

Photo: Anita Sadaya

I met Anita this week while traveling through Nepal’s steamy Terrai region while filming a documentary in the country.

Anita doesn’t know her age. “Maybe 20,” she told me in her native Mitali dialect.

She lives in a small cement hut in Amahi - an impoverished village near the border of India. Every morning she wakes up and combs the nearby forest for firewood that she sells at the market.

Anita makes less than a dollar a day doing back-breaking labour. Not an uncommon occurrence in a country with an average annual income of less that $200 per year.

Anita is one of thousands of child brides here in Nepal. She was married around the age of thirteen and doesn’t remember much about her wedding. “It seems so long ago”, she said.

Her husband is absent most of the time, working in Kathmandu. Taking care of the home as well as her three young children - Unita, Junita and Prunita - falls squarely on her fragile shoulders. Photo: Anita's children, Junita (L) and Prunita

The children are visibly malnourished, dressed only in a ragged pair of shorts. Prunita, the one-year-old infant, weighs only eight pounds.

“There is no one to look after them. They just sit and cry and wait for me to come home,” said Anita when I asked what her children do when she is off at the market.

When we arrived at the village, five year old Junita had filled the space for her mother, who had made the long walk to collect grain from the mill.

With the infant on her hip, the small child tended to its barely audible cries by using a rubber cup as a distraction. Passing it back-and-forth, the scene resembled a tea party hosted by any imaginative toddler. Only there was no food or water to be seen here.  

Incredibly shy, Anita looks at the ground while speaking. You have to strain to hear her words. It’s a painful insecurity that surely comes from a lifetime of unimaginable hardships.

Anita is part of Nepal’s Dalit caste group, also known as “untouchables” in the country. Faced with discrimination and prejudice on a daily basis I asked her what it felt like. She told me she is used to being shunned by others.

“Some of the villagers will not share water with me,” she continued with a wisdom far beyond her years.  “But I say to them, ‘we all have the same blood running through us, so why can we not share water?’”

Anita has no time to grieve for her lot in life. She picks up her infant and begins to breast feed. Once she is finished she must make dinner for her girls before bed.

She stays up most nights. There is no door on her home, and with her husband gone, she is worried someone might come in and attack her in the dark.

“I want my children to go to school. For there to be food. And maybe for me to learn a skill,” she said.

These are all her hopes and dreams.

After our visit she walks me to the car, gives me a hug and thanks me profusely for listening.

My eyes brimming with tears, I know she doesn’t realize that I’m the one who should be most thankful.

It is her words, not mine, that have painted a picture with a thousand brush strokes. I am just lucky enough to have been invited into her life.   

We have the same blood running through us. So why can we not share water?

Note: Before leaving the village we made sure Anita had enough money to build a door for her home.


Jayme Poisson is a Master of Journalism student at Carleton University. She will be trekking through Nepal during April and May while making a documentary about delivering maternal health services to remote and conflict-affected areas. In mid-June she will join the Star's summer intern program. She will be blogging regularly from the field.