Leaping over language barriers

This article was first published on Aquila Style.

Adventures in picking up a new language doesn’t have much to do with meeting new people.

Image: Pixabay

At this moment, I live unwillingly in the Netherlands. I didn’t move here because I loved the language or the culture. After three and a half years, I can understand most of what people are saying, but since I haven’t had (read: couldn’t afford) any formal lessons and I’m not particularly fond of the language, the Dutch language requires the activation of a whole other part of my brain.

I’ve nothing against learning new languages. Or European languages for that matter. I stuck through French lessons in middle school before I finally realised how I actually loved speaking it when I participated in an immersion programme in a sleepy French town (and later, studied there for a year). I still speak decent French and try to not lose my skills by watching French films. And because I already speak English by virtue of being born and bred in a former British colony, I think two imperialist languages are enough for me, thank you.

The thing about speaking Dutch in the Netherlands is that… you don’t have to. Most people in the big cities speak decent English, which is enough to get by if all you want is to buy groceries at the supermarket, or find your way with public transport.

But there’s a double standard when it comes to speaking the local lingo. If you’re a Caucasian or European, you’re not expected to speak Dutch. Laws that allow free movement in the European Union also mean that for Europeans, learning Dutch is merely voluntary. However, for me as a non-European permanent resident, I have to take a language exam in the next two years or risk a severe fine.

Here, there are two types of people who are usually assumed to be unequivocally Dutch: White or Brown (thanks to colonial history). Because my appearance is typically Javanese or Indonesian, I’m often mistaken as being Dutch. Many Dutch people also have grandmothers or great-grandmothers who came over from the former colonies. These women often attempted to integrate totally by adopting the local language and ways of life.

At one point in time, I figured I’d similarly integrate by forcing myself to speak and listen to Dutch. I decided to start in a prenatal yoga group that I had just joined. I figured that I would do okay since I could understand most words relating to movement and parts of the body. Plus, it was a good opportunity to learn the relevant vocabulary for labour and delivery.

It turned out to be a very lonely 10 weeks. Even though I tried my best to speak a little bit of Dutch each lesson to the yoga instructor and to the other participants, I never got around to actually striking up a semblance of a friendship with the other mothers. Perhaps it was our age difference: Almost all the other women were well into their 30s, and some in their 40s. Perhaps we lived in different places: They live in the suburbs and I live in the city. Or perhaps I was just the only non-White person in the whole group.

I had a very different experience in a postnatal Pilates class I’m currently attending. It’s a small and cosy studio not too far from where I live, run by an English woman and attended by many English-speaking people (even though most of the instructors are Dutch). I take two different classes, and both instructors willingly carry out their lessons in a mix of Dutch and English to make sure I can understand.

I’ve also met some kindred souls in this class – a total change from awkward attempts at conversation in my previous yoga class. Whether it’s because women are more sympathetic when they can bond over how bad their hospital experience was, or whether it’s just a friendlier group of women, I haven’t needed to speak Dutch at all. (Besides, my go-to excuse is that my brain is too sleep-deprived caring for a baby to string together a sentence.)

I realised then that it’s not about the language we speak, but about our willingness to know the other. Now when someone speaks to me in Dutch, I don’t feel obligated to reply in the same language to prove I’m a “good” migrant. I’m perfectly happy to speak what is most comfortable to me because what is more important is our effort to communicate, not the language we communicate in.

In Their Own Words: The Ups and Downs of Fasting Abroad

This post was originally published in Aquila Style, 18 Jul 2013.
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Whether by choice or compulsion, sometimes we spend Ramadan away from family. Four Singaporean Muslim women speak to Sya Taha on their experiences fasting overseas.

For most of my life, I have spent Ramadan in my native Singapore. Since my family members have differing schedules, Ramadan was one of the rare periods in the year where we were able to eat together at least once a day.

While many Singaporeans try to spend Ramadan and Eid together, some may have to fast in other countries due to work assignments. Nadia, 27, a young Chinese woman, has experienced fasting a few days each in Hong Kong and Sweden:

The wonderful thing about fasting overseas is the high level of energy and enthusiasm I feel throughout the day, despite the lack of food or drink. Somehow the experience of being in a foreign land assuages any hunger or thirst or lethargy I may otherwise feel.

The variety of women who observe Ramadan abroad mirrors the diverse experiences they have. Syah, 24, a young Malay woman who did her undergraduate degree in Canada, saw her experiences change over the four years she spent in Vancouver:

It was very different from the first year I was here until now. The first year, I was pretty much alone in the dorms. It was winter so the hours were shorter. The dorms had a cafeteria which had this system of giving food from the previous day as the morning meal for those who fasted. But for sahur, I would just eat some cereal since there wasn’t a kitchen. My roommate was really nice and would often eat her dinner when I broke fast so I wouldn’t have to eat alone.

Syah started out rather isolated from Vancouver’s Muslim community, its ethnic segregation making it hard for her to connect. Now engaged to marry a white Canadian Muslim man, she says the difficulties largely persist, despite having eased somewhat:

Now, I’m a bit more connected to the Muslim community for Ramadan since I’ve made Muslim friends. Even so, I still pretty much fast alone otherwise, just with my fiancé because the Muslim community is still pretty rigid in terms of who they accept, [especially] us as an interracial couple. The Muslim community here in Vancouver is very divided along racial lines and there tends to be racial exclusivity in mosques, events, and so on.

On the other, young Malay women who have studied and lived in countries that have similar cultures and customs find a Muslim community that is welcoming. The presence of similar foods also makes for a more comforting Ramadan spent away from home.

Masaini, 29, did her undergraduate degree in Bandar Seri Begawan, the capital of the small nation of Brunei on the island of Borneo. With more than 60 percent of Brunei’s population being Muslim, she found comfort in the similar foods that were available during iftar such as air kathira (a sweet milk drink with coloured syrup and basil seeds), and rice porridge with meat. Despite the similar Malay culture, Masaini found something different in Brunei:

My fondest memory was the Islamic atmosphere and ambience. I could feel the strong spiritual aura that is not present in Singapore.

Likewise, Liyana, 28, who spent Ramadan in Kuala Lumpur while she studied there, enjoyed the widespread availability of air kathira, halal-certified food and the company of Muslim students from the Middle East and African countries like Eritrea:

My friends and I always enjoyed the luxury to choose where to break our fast. The mosque in our campus always surprised us with different types of food every single day. There would always be a pool of students, both local Malaysians and internationals, who swamped the mosque area in the evening, filling up the seats while waiting for the adzan to break their fast. That was when I got the chance to get to know other students whom I had not met before.

Liyana has fond memories of the generosity of student associations in her university who sponsored food for iftars, and warmheartedly recalled discovering a surprising benefactor behind one of these iftars:

My friends and I were on our way to the campus bazaar to buy food for iftar when we were stopped by an Arab man who encouraged us to break our fast at the campus canteen. He told us to sit down while he continued to prepare the food. I saw huge portions of food being served: rice with lamb, salads, desserts and drinks. We were also given a Qur’an each. Exhilarated, I asked the man if he knew who had sponsored this iftar. He told me it was the courtesy of an anonymous Palestinian man. I was stunned and touched at the same time, to think of how much most Palestinians had gone through but that this had never stopped them from radiating blessings in the lives of others. It was a great reminder to myself.

Despite not looking like a typical Muslim, especially with her Chinese appearance, Nadia also points to experiencing the kindness of strangers when fasting overseas:

One of the things I’ve noticed about being a foreigner in a strange land during the fasting month is how warm and welcoming local Muslims always are towards their fellow Muslims who are travelling and fasting away from home. At times I’d even receive offers to break the fast with these locals, indulge in their local cuisines and join in congregational salat with them in a show of shared solidarity for a fellow fasting Muslim. Such occasions are both memorable and precious. I’m very much aware that I may not have been privy to such offers or opportunities had it not been for my status as a Muslim, and the occasion of the fasting month.

Thanks to such overwhelmingly positive experiences, even after all these years, Liyana sometimes longs to spend Ramadan again in her former university, where she had the chance to befriend many women from all over the world:

One of those moments that I truly miss during Ramadan is getting to know women from various countries and cultures in my campus mosque. Most of the married women would bring their children to the mosque, and they would get request any sister in the mosque who was free to help take care of their children while they were doing the tarawih prayer. Every sister would help each other. It was a place for Muslim women to befriend other Muslim women – each had her own story on how she ended up in Malaysia. It was a wonderful gathering of women.

Overall, the experience of fasting overseas was a learning experience for these young Muslim women. Despite the cultural similarities or differences of the places they found themselves fasting, they were able to derive social and spiritual benefits from being with another of God’s many nations and tribes (49:13). While it can be comforting to spend Ramadan together with our family, spending it outside our native countries also brings an array of benefits.

Boccia: Assisting precision

This post first appeared on Poskod.sg on 22 Jun 2013.
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Two years ago, I came back from a school trip to my sister announcing, “You can be my sports assistant? [Our domestic worker] Yuli cannot get a visa.”

I said yes, because it was almost impossible to find someone else who could leave with just two weeks’ notice. I had just graduated and had four months before leaving for further studies. I also had the privilege of a passport that allowed me to travel freely to Europe without being suspected of having links to terrorism, or intentions of overstaying for undocumented work. Before we went to the Boccia World Championships 2010 in Lisbon, Portugal, I had two weeks to learn the skills of being a boccia assistant.

The only catch: I had never seen my sister play boccia, and I had no clue about the game and what I would have to do.

I thought it would be easy; all I had to do was run around and pick up stray balls. Assemble and take apart her equipment. But what about her personal care: showering, getting dressed, preparing her food, packing her things? It had usually been our mother, and more recently our domestic worker who were almost wholly responsible for these tasks.

I only knew how to take out her books or pencil box when we were in Sunday school together, tap her EZ-link card when we took the bus or MRT together, or find wheel-chair friendly routes or entrances into cinemas.

Game of balls

Boccia is a target game played in mixed-gender singles or in teams (pairs or threes). The aim is to get the most number of your own blue or red balls closest to the white target ball, known as the jack. Each ball that is closer to the jack than the next closest ball of the opponent, at the end of four rounds, determines the number of points and thus the winner.

There are four categories for the game, with the first two reserved for athletes with cerebral palsy. The last two categories are reserved for athletes with a variety of conditions that result in limited control of their upper bodies, such as muscular dystrophy or spinal muscular atrophy. Before each competition, athletes are classified into one of the four categories based on their ability to throw or catch the hand-sized, soft, leather balls.
My sister falls into the third category called BC3, where athletes are allowed to use assistive devices such as ramps to roll the ball from various heights and angles, and head or mouth pointers to hold the ball. As an assistant, I was allowed to handle her ramp and balls during the game, although I had to strictly keep my back to the court, keep my eyes away from the play, ensure I was within the 2.5m x 1m playing box, and not talk or communicate to her during the game.

I had mixed feelings about waiting so long in between plays. On one hand, there was only so much I could see of the other games happening behind our court with a wheelchair in my way; on the other, continuous plays from the other team meant that our opponents were unable to get their ball any closer to the jack than my sister’s ball – she was winning! (At least, in that round.)

I amused myself by watching the game going on in the opposite court, looking at the linesman who penalises players whose wheels or devices are out of the box during their turn, or observing how the opponent sets up his devices and releases his ball.

Caregiving

While I had helped carry my sister to and from her chair, bed, and shower, it had always been with my mother or helper. I had never done it with anyone else, and I had certainly not been left to do everything else myself. When packing various clothes and personal items, I was confident that with my light-travel skills, we would be able to fit everything into one suitcase.

I was so wrong. There were so many items indispensable to her personal and psychological comfort as a para-athlete. Part of sports psychology called for reproducing her daily routine as much as possible in a new environment. This included the same types of soap, shampoo, deodorant, talcum powder and toothpaste; the same cereal drink for breakfast and daily vitamins (and sometimes the contraceptive pill to prevent the hassle of menstruation when traveling). There were bed liners and emergency diapers for the plane ride, in case we didn’t have enough time during the stopover for a toilet break (using the tiny plane toilet was impossible). We also packed lightweight cutlery that she could lift, and a pack of straws for drinks.

After a full day of being with her, I still had to get up once or twice during the night to turn her in bed (to prevent bedsores). Together our morning routine took almost two hours, and we had to factor in that time when getting up for breakfast and early practice. Exhausting!

Most of us go about our daily activities without even thinking about how we brush our teeth or put on our clothes. But for many para-athletes, they need assistance with every little part of their bodies’ actions – some even need constant towels because they cannot swallow their own saliva.

Competition

When we arrived at the competition hall, there was the business of unpacking the athletes’ ramps, which had been carefully disassembled and packed in bubble wrap. Weighing about five kilos, the ramp had to be stabilised with a five more kilos of hand weights during play. Her ramp had two additional pieces to make it longer, when needed to push the ball to almost nine metres away. These pieces were removed each time she took aim, and attached only during play.

My sister tells me to shift or turn the ramp left or right, forwards or backwards, “a little bit” or “a lot”. Then I pick up the ball she chooses and I place it along the ramp. She is the final one to touch the ball, and she releases it accordingly. Then, I adjust the ramp (turn it left and right to change its position from the last throw) and wait for her next instruction.

Competitions were always friendly, and I got to meet different kinds of athlete-assistant pairings: child-father, brother-sister, husband-wife (but no wife-husband yet), athlete-coach. For some countries with well-developed disability institutions: hired assistants paid per day. I was especially intrigued by a married couple who both had cerebral palsy. While the man had more mobility than the wife, both required a significant amount of help from a third party – reconceptualising the idea of marriage for me.

Communication

For those who do not personally know anyone with disabilities, the media is often the biggest influence. For example, television sitcoms that feature a mentally-challenged person usually feature an actor who imitates the spasms and movements similar to cerebral palsy. However, many people with this condition are highly functional and can pursue higher education, with the right facilities. Unfortunately, many people tend to assume that someone with physical disabilities also has mental ones.

I had never met anyone with cerebral palsy before helping out with boccia, and I was never aware of how much this condition could vary. For example, while the other athlete on our team could speak (and so often apologised if she hit us accidentally during her involuntary spasms), many others used customised sign language.

I communicated with one Colombian player for the first time on Facebook chat – he used discreet sign language with his coach, but he could type on a special keyboard (our communication barrier then shifted to my limited proficiency in Spanish). I also met a young man from the United States who drove his chair with the help of sensors around his headrest.

Connections

Since my first initiation into the world of boccia and caregiving, I’ve assisted my sister in two more international competitions in Belfast and Porto. It is heartwarming to see the same coaches, caregivers, and assistants with the same athletes, time after time.

For someone who uses her body and mind as creative expressions and doesn’t think twice about controlling locomotor movements, spending time with my sister as her assistant makes me realise that while I cannot live her life, I could very well do with understanding and remembering this.

Ethnic Makeup: Good migrant, bad migrant.

This post was originally written for Poskod.sg, published on 13 Apr 2013.
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"Meet the whole world at The Hague Market"

Judging a book

My first experience with Holland was a tin of condensed milk of the “Dutch Lady” brand. Many of you might have grown up with it as well: a fair-skinned milkmaid wearing a blue and white traditional dress, holding a pail of milk, freshly expressed from the black and white cows behind her, munching on green grass, with windmills in the far horizon. Today, tourist advertisements for Holland emphasise the Keukenhof tulips and windmills. In particular, the tourist video playing on loop at the Dutch Consulate will endlessly repeat that “The Dutch are among the tallest people in the world.”

Don’t blame me for thinking that Holland was full of tall, white, milk-drinking people frolicking among tulips and/or windmills.

On the other hand, Singapore has consistently portrayed itself to be a country of immigrants (to the point of ignoring the indigenous population) who can keep on receiving foreigners as long as they fit into certain ideas of class and race. While Holland has yet to admit that it is indeed a multicultural country, Singapore has created four ‘races’ or socio-politically constructed categories, often referred to as CMIO (Chinese/Malay/Indian/Other), which Kat has beautifully unpacked previously, and which Chua Beng Huat criticises for being a ‘neutral empire’ in creating ‘racial’ divisions and managing ‘racial harmony’, peace and equality.[i]

What’s sure is that the constant “gloat[ing] of Chinese hegemony” means that people I meet in Holland either think Singapore is part of China, or they insist I’m not Singaporean because my skin is “so brown!” (excuse me—olive or sawo matang, please).

"Tea"

When I was studying in France, I was often told that I looked Polynesian, with some people even comparing me to their relatives who lived on Wallis and Futuna islands (a French territory in the South Pacific). Because I spoke fluent French, many people I met simply assumed that I was born in France. People try to make sense of strangers by connecting them to their country’s heritage; in this case, the Polynesian territories of France.

So it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise that I would be constantly taken as Indonesian.I’ve been told repeatedly by Indonesian friends that I have a typical Javanese appearance (which helped me to blend in with my Indonesian domestic workers respondents when I was researching for my thesis). I have been told once that I look like I’m “from the East Indies”, the biggest Dutch colony, (which says something about the relationship of contemporary Dutch society with their colonial past).

I accept that in Singapore I am often mistaken for a domestic worker when I’m hanging around my Pasir Ris heartlands. I used to be offended before I knew better, but now I see it as a form of solidarity with them. Before I went to study in Holland, I expected to be simply taken as an Indonesian in Holland but as I found out, it was a little more complicated than that.

"Friends for life"

Good migrant, bad migrant

The majority of the Indo people in Holland arrived in a series of migrations called the ‘repatriation’, after the Second World War, when most Eurasians of mixed Dutch (and other European) and indigenous ancestry left what was then the Dutch East Indies. The Dutchman’s (my husband, but that’s another story) grandmother (born in a town close to my own grandparents in East Java) was one of these migrants.

Many Dutch people my age have some ancestor from what is now Indonesia, and might possibly have grown up or lived for some time in Indonesia themselves. During the Japanese occupation of 1942-45, many were put into Japanese concentration camps aimed at eliminating European presence. Later, when they arrived in Holland, they may have also suffered some sort of discrimination or feelings of a loss of belonging because of their mixed ancestry.

"Healthy/You'll find it at The Hague Market"

My father-in-law is proud to tell me that his mother “completely integrated” by learning Dutch; only speaking Javanese occasionally with her brothers and sisters. Hans van Amersfoort posits that the Indos’ familiarity with Dutch language and culture before coming to Holland, and also their Dutch citizenship, helped them to “seamlessly assimilate” into contemporary Dutch society.[ii]  As a result, migrants today from Indonesia who move to Holland for studies or marriage are more likely to be accepted—at least at face value—as authentically ‘Dutch’.

The fact that white Dutch people will talk to me in Dutch automatically is a sign that my Javanese appearance has some cultural capital. Other appearances that ensure a positive welcome are being white, or Chinese.

"Present/You'll find it at The Hague Market"

"Fashion/You'll find it at The Hague Market"

A group of ‘good’ migrants are those of Chinese-Surinamese descent, or those who look Chinese, no matter the country of origin. Formerly a Dutch colony, Suriname saw a lot of Surinamese migration to the Netherlands after its independence in 1975. Just like Singapore, Suriname is also made up of several ethnic groups (besides their indigenous Amerindians) which include Chinese, Hindustani, and Javanese: their ancestors originally came over as contract plantation labourers from China, India, and Java respectively. In addition, Surinamese migrants to the Netherlands also include Maroons (descendants of West African slaves) and Creoles (mixed West African-European ancestry).

"Party/Meet the whole world at The Hague Market"

Singapore also has categories for its temporary labour force, based on their countries of origin: ‘expats’ or high-skilled workers, and ‘foreign workers’ or low-wage transient workers such as male construction workers from mostly Bangladesh, and female live-in migrant domestic workers from mostly Indonesia and The Philippines (this group forming the bulk of all foreigners in Singapore).

To put it rather crudely, thanks to its history of colonisation, Holland has a population that is mixed: white, black, yellow, brown, and every shade in between. But in right-wing political discourse, migrants are racially profiled according to their socio-economic status, conflated with their religion or ethnicity. Another right-wing discourse is that these newer migrants from Turkey and Morocco (1960s onwards) are ‘parasites’, ‘Islamic terrorists’ or ‘criminele allochtonen’ (from a foreign soil, with the tendency to be involved in crime). Now, which ethnic group in Singapore faces the same conflation of socioeconomic status and ethnicity?

A Singaporean in Holland

If you look Chinese, you won’t have a problem. Even though the Chinese-Dutch community can remain insular, politically speaking they do not pose a problem because they can be rather well-off and/or own significant businesses. More recent migrants from China come via networks that are already existing in various Dutch cities. A girlfriend (Chinese born in Holland, grew up in Shanghai and now studying in Amsterdam) explained the familial closeness of these networks, i.e., “all the Chinese people in Amsterdam know if I’m dating a white guy”.

Preserved herring, a Dutch delicacy

If you look Indian, you might be mistaken for a Hindustani. The reception to this community is ambivalent: they own most of the tropische winkels (neighbourhood stores that sell ‘exotic’ produce, spices, dried fish, etc.), but they cannot escape the racialised policing of public places that target young, dark-skinned men. A close girlfriend (Hindustani Surinamese born and living in Holland) laments that working in a Dutch government bureau meant constantly explaining where her parents were from and making sure that she was using enough fancy Dutch vocabulary to prove her fluency.

If look Malay, you might be mistaken for an Indo or an Indonesian, both of which are two completely non-threatening groups. (This is shown by the seemingly class-based political classification of Indonesian migrants as ‘Western’ foreigners, alongside the Americans and Japanese.) I am often mistaken for being (honorary white) Dutch, with the expectations that I should be able to speak Dutch. And if I cannot (yet), I must assimilate by learning it. I can never be an expat, who are never expected to assimilate.

If you look nothing like the above categories, congratulations. A friend of mine (white Canadian woman married to an Indian man) was even told by a Dutch girl before moving to Holland that she would have “no problems integrating” because she was white, while her husband would have some problems. Yet they were moving to Holland because he got a job here!

"Meet the whole world at The Hague Market"

Migration and Islamophobia

When I first came to Holland, I was surprised to hear from an Egyptian-Dutch friend that she thought Holland was “one of the most Islamophobic countries in Europe”. I saw plenty of women wearing headscarves in the streets and trams and I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Later on I realised that while Indonesian-looking Muslim women in their neat instant-hijab did not attract any attention, Turkish- or Moroccan-looking Muslim women sometimes got dirty looks. Increase the degree of nastiness in this order: whether she’s wearing a long skirt or jeans, a long dress, or a face-covering.

In solidarity with other Muslim women, I immediately took up arms—psychologically. I was ready to explain to politically liberal, young white Dutch people that Muslims are not just those who wear a beard or a headscarf. When one such young man asked me whether I had faced any negative prejudice for being Muslim, I admitted that because I didn’t wear a headscarf, and because I look Indo(nesian), not many people would assume I was Muslim. “Ah, then to us you’re not really Muslim!” His reply revealed just how ethnic appearances and religion had been easily conflated, in addition to socioeconomic status.

According to Liz Fekete, before 9/11, the Dutch government was more concerned with the economic integration of migrants with a Moroccan or Turkish background.[iii]  These communities had migrated to the Netherlands from the 1960s as contract workers (and thus not expected by the government to stay), and were currently experiencing high levels of unemployment and poverty after decades of marginalisation. At the time, Dutch security measures primarily focused on asylum-seekers and migrants. However, after 9/11, security services took the view that Islam per se constituted a ‘threat’, and very quickly Muslim migrants or asylum-seekers all became threats by default.

"Fruit/You'll find it at the Hague Market"

Ethnic makeup

I was once called a ‘Chinees kontje’ in the street; this racialised slur only reveals a lack of knowledge about the different ethnic communities within Holland, and greater issues of migration patterns in general. Simply because I “don’t look like a Muslim”, I don’t face the full force of Islamophobia, even though it is a personal and social wound.

Somewhere on the hierarchies of race, religion and migrant status, my privileges shift in comparison to what I might have in Singapore, where they remain rather static. I didn’t think twice about being politically categorised in Singapore, but Holland has its own set of categories.

And then I think, amidst global processes, what does it mean to be Malay? Or Chinese, or Indian, or Other?

Notes
[i] Chua Beng Huat, “Multiculturalism in Singapore: an Instrument of Social Control,” Race and Class 44, no. 3 (2003), 58-77.
[ii] Hans van Amersfoort, “Immigration as a colonial inheritance: post-colonial immigrants in the Netherlands, 1945-2002,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, Commission for Racial Equality, 2006.
[iii] Liz Fekete, A Suitable Enemy: Racism, Migration, and Islamophobia in Europe, (London/New York: Pluto Press, 2009), 43-73.

Eid mubarak!

In celebration of the culturally-confusing way I spent Eid this year, here are some ways to say Eid:

The Malay way, which I grew up with (and which practically all Singaporeans, whether Muslim or not, say it) is Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri, Maaf Zahir dan Batin which literally means Happy Day of Celebration of Eid, I seek forgiveness sincerely from you. That's because we have a Eid morning, post-prayer and pre-breakfast ritual of asking to be forgiven from the old and the young, together with tearful kisses and hugs.

For me, always awkward. Haha!

The Dutch way is Gelukkig Suikerfeest, which literally means Happy Sugar Party! Very culturally-specific no? But I guess Eid cookies are the staple of Eid anywhere in the world.

Moroccan cookies

This year, Eid was a tiny affair. The Dutchman and I went (I cycled! In a long skirt!) to the Indonesian mosque (the mosques are largely segregated by ethnic groups because of the linguistic abilities of the imam and administration) and we had another Dutch muslimah with us as well! It's always really nice to be able to sit with someone in the mosque.

By the grace of God, we managed to find a space in the main prayer hall with other ladies (still behind a barrier of course, but at least a low one!) just in time before they closed off the area to prevent overcrowding. Some administrative announcements for zakat fitra were made in both Bahasa Indonesia and Dutch (again, very nice!) although the Eid sermon was a typical long and droning one in only Bahasa.

Dutchmuslimah was also very surprised at the number of Dutch men present, and the good-looking offspring of their families. I was quite surprised at the number of ladies walking around in knee-length skirts! In general, Indonesian mosques are more tolerant of uncovered hair in the mosque, but this was new :)

To complete the Dutchness of this 'sugar feast', we had tea/coffee and cake/quiche at a cosy little cafe in town.

Hmm, maybe apple pie next year! Have a blessed Eid everyone, and let's enjoy the return to our fitrah and the beautiful gifts that Ramadan has given to us to enjoy and keep close to us for all of our days.

Summer hydrangeas!

Ramadan reflection #3: The shortest terawih.

Last week the Dutchman and I were really happy to be invited to break our fast with our friends in Leiden (It gets so lonely in the W-straat you know?) Their parents are Moroccan and along with their other sisters, were still in Morocco for vacation (and Ramadan), because face it, the Ramadan atmosphere here can't begin to compare with Morocco (or even Singapore, sob).

Although the hegemony of a supermarket Albert Heijn is surprisingly tactful of the existence of this holy month. Or maybe it's just because 90% of their evening shifts are covered by youth of Moroccan descent. :)

It was my first iftar Moroccan-style, with dates (of course!) harira soup, popiah/loempia, and hard-boiled eggs. I didn't know it was typical until the Dutchman showed me the Ramadan-journaal on Dutch TV -- they were eating the same things. Haha!

At about 11.30pm we set off to the nearby Al-Hijra mosque, squirreled away in a small road and just like the first European mosque I ever saw in France, it looked just like an apartment from the outside. I still fondly remember that mosque in Bordeaux (and the nice director who let me sit in his chair!), being only 16 and (already) searching for mosques in Bordeaux and in Paris. Which turned out to be educational for my host family as well.


Sitting in the women's section on the ground floor (rumour has it that the men's section is beside and above, but since I never saw it I can't definitively tell you so, haha) at the back, we had what I thought was a couple of minutes before terawih would start. I looked around at the women: one was reading the Quran, some of the older ones were sitting on chairs, and some were giving out murtabak-like pancakes and plastic cups of water.

At that moment, I missed going to the mosque for terawih prayers. Back in Singapore, a few years ago I would faithfully cycle to Al-Istighfar mosque on most nights of Ramadan to endure an hour and a half of sweaty and crowded prayer, makciks telling me to sit closer, cover my feet, pin my headscarf, etc.

But I loved being in a space that I was familiar with, sometimes meeting people I knew (or vaguely knew -- friends of parents or some distant relatives) or sometimes seeing kids dashing across the carpeted floor and falling helter-skelter, unhurt. Even though you had to get there early to get a good spot in the carpeted area within a good distance of a fan (a must in non-airconditioned mosques) or else you'd have to kneel and prostrate on plastic woven tikar (mats) on the hard tiled corridor. Ouch!

I didn't understand most of what was being said in Arabic and Moroccan dialect by a man over the PA system. I turned over to my friend and asked her.

"He's asking for money to build the new mosque. Last night he talked for one and a half hours, I really hope it's not going to be the same tonight," she answered warily.

It was already midnight and it was surreal to be in a mosque! I once stayed overnight for qiyam ul-lail (night prayer) with fellow volunteers in a mosque in Singapore and that felt more like a sleepover than a spiritual experience. It was the same this time around: the novelty of being in a mosque so late at night completely overcame the absurdity of this man talking for one and a half hours, asking for funds.

Finally at 1.00am, after a round of coffee and some gentle coaxing from the imam, this man got off the microphone and the imam started the prayer. He led only 4 raka'at (units of prayer) because it was already late and we left the mosque at 1.30am, passing people on the streets on their way back from Saturday night partying.

For the longest time I ever spent in a mosque, that was the shortest terawih ever!
--
P/S: If you'd like to donate to the construction of a new Al-Hijra Mosque in Leiden, the Netherlands, visit their website!
Dutch donors, you can transfer directly to ABN-AMRO 42.16.50.249 t.n.v.: Stichting Moslimgroep te Leiden.
Overseas donors, IBAN: NL70ABNA0421650249BIC: ABNANL2A or contact me by leaving a comment below if you wish to transfer to a Singaporean bank account.

Ramadan reflection #2: Physical considerations.

Another of my Ramadan resolutions was to eat better and exercise a bit more beyond riding my bicycle around -- a resolution that is really aimed at post-Ramadan. I agree with the notion that our bodies are entrusted to us, and we have to keep it working as well as possible, and for as long as possible.

Too often this is overlooked, as we traditionally gorge ourselves after sunset. It's not uncommon for people to gain weight during Ramadan, from the combination of a slower metabolism and the making up for missed calories at the end of the day.

In Singapore, the knowledge of maintaining a healthy body is considered 'secular' knowledge, and nothing to do with our relationship with God. Along with environmental-awareness, this is not considered an important topic to teach our children and youth in religious classes. Religious teachers are also not great role models (at least not visually, if you know what I mean).

So keeping in mind a previous analysis about the ethics of halal, my first step towards this resolution was eating less meat.

Besides, we only have about only 5 hours in a day to eat, so what would help with our digestion and getting up for sahur (pre-dawn meal) with enough appetite?

I wish it were this...my mum's
amazing cooking.
But no.

This is what we ate for dinner this week (sahur was muesli with yoghurt and flaxseed everyday. Except one day when we both forgot to set our alarms -- the tragedy!):

Lentils

Redred (near the fork)

Sweet potato

Day 1: Brown rice, curried lentils, boiled beets, white fish with onions and chili

Day 2: Brown rice, stir-fry broccoli, redred (black-eyed peas with anchovies and tomatoes. Thanks Ellen!), peach and plum

Day 3: Wholegrain pasta with tomatoes, basil and chili; leftover redred; red spinach (Amaranthus blitum) soup with sweet potato; rhubarb cake

Day 4: Brown rice, leftovers: redred, spinach soup, lentils, broccoli; pineapple hangop (the one reason to love this country)

Nasi lemak

Sambal with aubergine

Fried rice

Day 5: Nasi lemak: coconut rice, egg, cucumbers, sambal ikan bilis with aubergine; kangkong (Ipomoea aquatica -- yeah I'm a sucker for Latin names!)


Day 6: Fried rice, chye sim (a spinach/mustard green) soup; orange

Day 7: Andijvie stamppot: potatoes, tomatoes, escarole, hard-boiled eggs mashed together and mixed with soy-protein "sausage"; yellow and orange capsicum stew; cherries, grapes

As it turns out, we inadvertently became vegetarian! (The lacto-ovo-pisco kind at least.) Not eating meat speeds up digestion and makes for lighter sleeping -- really important because it seems we are always sleeping soon after eating (think 10.30pm and 3.30am) so that we won't be too tired or feel nauseated (my main challenge) during the next working day.

We've also tried to keep our physical activity as normal as possible. The Dutchman played squash and went for a run (business as usual, this man!), and we took extra walks in these long summer evenings to feed the birds.

We also tried to eat food grown in Holland or as close to it as possible (I know, I know, those Asian vegetables failed the test). Having made these vegetarian efforts for the first week, we took a break this weekend and ate some good meat as guests at the iftars of the generous Indonesian restaurant Salero Minang, and our lovely friends in Leiden today.

Ayam pop and rendang. Yum!

The good news is the weather is warm with cool winds, which shouldn't make running too difficult. On to the next resolution: running right before iftar in this second week, since now I'm adjusting quite well to the length of the fast. I know that if I can do some light exercise in Ramadan, it'll be harder to convince myself to not to so after Ramadan!

P/S: It might seem like an excuse to post pictures of food, but I promise I had good intentions with this post! :)

The benefit of a traditional religious education.

Some people think I'm against traditional religious education -- that's not true! It's a lot like learning how to dance.

I learnt this from my wonderful dance instructor in Grenoble, who gifted me my first experience of contemporary dance. He taught us that to be able to move freely, you first have to learn the classics -- only then can you depart from form. We had to learn classical ballet, not necessarily for us to all become ballerinas, but so that we would not move in preconceived ideas of dance rooted in ballet.

Traditional religious education is not to be discounted, because it is a good grounding in hegemonic discourse. It is important to know what most Muslims around the world know, because it helps to create a shared cultural history with others. It also helps to create a point of departure for other kinds of religious education.

I'll give some examples of how I experienced a shared referential consciousness with Muslim women from different parts of the world.

Meknes

A few months ago I was talking to a friend from Central Eastern Africa about how the Muslims in her country adapt their traditional dress to the requirements of hijab, and we had a great discussion about social norms and sensibilities about how much flesh non-hijabi women could show without everyone freaking out about it.

She mentioned an acquaintance in school who wears the headscarf, and commented that it was strange that she wore a 'bump' at the back of her head -- because that was haram.

I was taken aback, this was a bump from her natural hair, how else was she supposed to wear it? I rather thought that if you were going to take a hair-bump that as a sign of the inhabitants of hell, you had to pick on a more "camel-hump" looking bump.

But actually that isn't my point. My point is that we came from different regions, countries, and cultural backgrounds, but I knew why had made such a judgment on our friend's headscarf. We had both been taught a lesson on morality and how to dress, by religious teachers or elders in our communities, based on this hadith. (Although I only heard about this in the last three years or so, I seem to have heard about it in time!)

Another incident happened about six years ago. I was studying in France and was extremely pleased to have met a girl from West Africa. We were talking about dogs and she said that at home, if she touched a dog, she was taught that she should wash her hands with earth and water. When I told her that yes, that is a religious requirement (this was me six years ago!). She marveled at how we had learnt the same things, even though she didn't know whether this was a cultural or religious practice in her country.

Granada

Indeed, even now I still marvel at how we learn the same things, even though we don't know if it is a cultural or religious practice.

Coconut milk vs. peanut butter?

I love all my colleagues. I love how, because we come from different backgrounds, we can constantly poke fun at each other and at ourselves.

Here's something written by an extremely talented Dutch-West Papua-economist-islander and all-around funny girl, Olga. (I don't know why she doesn't give up economics for comic writing.)

Coconut milk vs. Peanut butter

As a true economist I would say it depends. There are a number of factors one should consider when choosing between coconut milk and peanut butter. Both have benefits (enjoyment to say the least) and disadvantages (saturated fat). There are also a number of questions that arise from the initial question:

“If you had to choose between coconut milk and peanut butter, which would you choose?” For example, ‘Why would you choose between the two?’ ‘When would you choose between the two?’ and ‘What planet are you from thinking that I could possibly choose between the two?’

I feel that the only way for me to figure out which I would choose is to make a cost-benefit analysis. The cost-benefit analysis that I shall conduct is not in the strict sense a cost-benefit analysis. I will specifically look at a few situational factors, and then draw an overall conclusion from this debate. I must say that there is no evidence to suggest that the two can be looked at in isolation, as they are part of a greater system- the islander system.

The two are not substitutable; choosing between the two is a pickle. Coconut milk is not consumed as is (unless you want to have a heart attack)- it’s always cooked with something. However, coconut water (only from the young coconut mind you) is a refreshing drink. Peanut butter, on the other hand, is a ready when you are type of thing. You can just dip carrot/ celery sticks into the peanut butter and hey presto a snack. For minimum input-maximum output dilemma I would say that peanut butter wins hands down.

I can hear you banter,

“If you think the two are not substitutes; do you consider them complements?”

Well, the two are not strict complements as you can have one without the other. You can have coconut rice and you can have peanut butter on bread. However the two do work well together when you make sate sauce (even if you have to add extra things, like sambal and lime leaves/juice etc). I suggest that the two are weak complements rather than substitutes as they are more often associated with edible awesomeness rather than strictly separate entities.

But why restrict this debate to consumption….
If the two were super heroes though, then it would be different. If I think about it- Coconut Milk would have the power of blinding people with shaves of coconut (as coconut milk is made from straining coconut shaves). Peanut butter would have the power of stickiness- stopping people dead in their tracks with peanut butter. If coconut milk and peanut butter met in battle I think coconut milk would win by default. Blinding someone is more effective way to destroy them then just making them sticky.

In their natural state
I must say in their natural state both are brown, one is hairy and the other is pale slightly bumpy; one a nut the other a legume. With a coconut you see it grow then you watch it fall (hopefully not on your head) a peanut on the other hand grows underground- so the end result is a surprise. Thus making the peanut slightly more intriguing, well at least to me.

If I think about it, it takes more effort to get coconut milk then it does peanut butter. Peanuts just need to be crushed, whereas a coconut needs to be husked, cracked open, scrapped and then strained. The energy taken to make coconut milk makes it more worthwhile. This means that although peanut butter wins when it comes to efficiency, coconut milk trumps peanut butter when it boils down to the desirability of the end result.

To fuel the fire
Both are quite oily so they make for a good source of fuel. The more important question is however, how much energy one can extract from burning the coconut compared to the peanut. An important implication here is that you should have the same weight in each substance prior to burning. Not only is the fuel important, but the carbon imprint. The trade-off here is between the amount of energy produced compared to the carbon imprint. As the coconut is oilier than the peanut it will produce more fuel. More smoke is produced when burning a coconut- thereby making it less environmentally friendly than the peanut. Given that I appreciate the environment more than energy (islander mentality); I would sway the way of the peanut.

Rejuvenation
Looking at the coconut and the peanut you realize that the peanut rejuvenates the soil. It’s used quite often to re-add nutrients to the soil in tropical countries. The process is as such that after growing a crop (and yielding set crop) the soil becomes less nutritious. By default this means that the next crop that is grown in the field will not be as good as the last. So to re-use the field rather than watching it reduce its nutritious value, peanuts are grown in between. This rejuvenates the soil and allows the following season’s crops to do as well as the last. Peanuts win hands down.

Conclusion
The conclusion drawn from this little intriguing question is that it depends per circumstance whether I prefer coconut milk or peanut butter. Looking at all the evidence supplied above peanut butter wins hands down. Its more efficient and effective snack, its more environmentally friendly and its more intriguing as it grows as you have to dig it out. I do however feel that more research needs to be done to statistically prove that peanut butter is actually preferred over coconut milk.

Cheers to ethnicity.

Here's an example of how my own assumptions about ethnicity created an extremely embarrassing situation.

I was talking to an Indonesian friend on Facebook, asking if he wanted to write something for a new site I'm setting up for Muslims in Southeast Asia, going on and on about what he could write about. He then asked me if it was only for Muslims.

"If yes, then I'm so sorry... I'm not Muslim. I'm Protestant."

Gulp!

The thing is, I know that although the majority of Indonesians are Muslim, not all are. I've travelled there and seen Hindu temples, heard Buddhist chants, and personally know several Catholics at my university. I can't blame my mistake on ignorance. I knew it, so why did I immediately assume that this guy was Muslim?

I guess some (or many!) things are drilled into us from such a young age, it becomes almost like fact and terribly hard to disentangle. Like this advertisement for example, which originally appeared in a booklet of the Annual General Meeting of the Association of Malay Teachers in West Malaysia (KGMMB) in 1968. Apparently someone found it in Ohio University and sent it along to this guy, but also picked up by him, who says it was apparently first posted on Facebook by a Ben Golimbi.

"Good for us!"

I couldn't help smiling as I read this, yet I can't put my finger on why. Maybe it's because I associate such simple Malay with the Malay books and stories of my childhood. Maybe it's because the poster uses an old type of Malay full of hyphens and the number '2' to signify plurals. Maybe because the models look so happy and unaware of the controversy they would spark 40 years later. The text reads:

"Sa-tegok Guinness Stout membuka selera. Sa-gelas Guinness Stout memuleh tenaga. Kerana tiap2 sa-gelas Guinness Stout mengandongi khasiat. Ia memberi tenaga di-waktu badan berasa leteh dan lesu. Ini-lah minuman yang menambahkan khasiat kepada sa-barang santapan. Ya, sa-lepas bekerja, apabila berasa penat dan di-kala tiada selera, maka tidak ada-lah yang lebeh sempurna daripada sa-gelas Guinness Stout."

which roughly translates to:

"A sip of Guinness Stout whets your appetite. A glass of Guinness Stout replenishes your energy. Because every glass of Guinness Stout contains nourishment. It gives energy when your body feels tired and fatigued. This is the drink that adds nutrients to any meal. Yes, after work, when you feel tired and lack appetite, then there is nothing better than a glass of Guinness Stout."

I found some vintage beer ads that frame it as a medicinal product for mothers and babies, or something to be enjoyed with food. It's certainly very different from the highly sexualised imagery found in beer ads today (although there were plenty of chauvinistic beer ads!).

There's even the recent creation of halal beer -- a case of trying to Islamise too much?

Anyway, back to the poster. There are reams of comments on the Facebook post, mostly centering around:

1. Ethnicity is not equivalent to religion. 
2. These Malay-looking models as bad/lost/not strict enough Muslims.
3. Judging, respect, and tolerance.

1. Ethnicity is not equivalent to religion. 

The models in this ad look Malay. Sure, I've been told by Indonesians that I have extremely typical Javanese facial features (thanks to which, I could be an undercover researcher on domestic workers!), but I have also been mistaken for Thai, Burmese, Malaysian, Cambodian, Filipino, French and Dutch. 

Take for instance, this blog. It is maintained by a Singaporean Malay Christian. He remains anonymous because of the enormous social consequences of being taken for having 'left' Islam. This is because Malay culture and Islam have intermingled to such a high degree that it is rare to find Malay Christians and it is easy to forget about Chinese Muslims.

Additionally, there are many Malays in Singapore who may not identify as Muslim, although they may have grown up as Muslims (or even then, not). This is why a campaign to reduce pre-marital sex (and consequently, unwanted teenage pregnancies) which used Islamic principles did not touch all the Malay youth. 

There are also Malays who identify as Muslim, but do things that the majority of Muslims would not consider very Muslim, like identifying as homosexual, drinking alcohol, dancing in clubs, eating pork, and having pre-marital sex (I know, sorry to clump it all together like that!)

2. These Malay-looking models are bad/lost/not strict enough Muslims.

Some respondents call out to this being a time of ignorance or zaman jahiliyah (as my mother likes to say), when Malays did not know all the rules about being Muslim. Because religion mostly consisted of learning how to recite the Qur'an melodiously (without necessarily knowing the meaning), listening to elder male religious figures of authorities known as kyai, tok sheikh, ustaz (oops, that's still in use today), and memorising a list of 25 prophets and 99 names/characteristics of Allah.

3. Judging, respect, and tolerance.

A couple of Malay commenters who drink alcohol justified their decisions. Others called them out for being sinners, cowards, and so on. Thankfully, many also called for others to stop judging, because only God alone can judge. But well, there is a strong discourse in Islam about giving advice (or use the Arabic term naseehah  if you like) to people with one's hand, mouth, and prayer -- based on many ahadith such as this one.

I believe this is also why some countries choose to include restrictive shari'a laws that cover the moral sphere, in addition to the usual women-related areas of marriage, divorce, and inheritance. For example, in 2009, there was a controversy on whether an Indonesian woman caught drinking beer in Malaysia would be caned. The Malaysian religious authorities threatened to cane her, but then they decided not to after all. Even though she asked for it to be over with, she still wasn't caned. It led instead to an intense debate about the Islamisation of Malaysia.

In any case, all the poster says is one glass for appetite or replenishing energy. It sounds just like an ad for tonic drinks like Yomeishu! 

Yomeishu: Baik untok kita!

Ability and opportunity.

Baby Mario Kart

A few weeks ago, I played Mario Kart on a Nintendo Gamecube, for the first time. Both for Mario Kart and the Gamecube (yes, don't judge me!). I played with another friend, C, who had also never played hand-held video games before. What was interesting was how the Dutchman, who witnessed our feeble attempts at racing Mario around the different tracks, remarked that I played better than C.

It would be easy to pin it down to ability, but opportunity should also be taken into account. For example, I had access to computers and all kinds of technological gizmos since I was five, while C only encountered and started regularly using a computer in her workplace, at the age of 23 or so.

The level of hand-eye coordination or whatever other psychomotor skills I have must be in part due to having been exposed to years of computers, online games, Tamagotchis, and electronic diaries, calendars, dictionaries, etc. I had the opportunity of being able to use all these things. I also had the opportunity to take computer lessons in school at the age of 10, where we experimented with typing games.

Take oil painting and sports for example. In high school I had a friend who was really good at oil painting. But that was because his parents were both artists and so he had the opportunity to experiment and gain experience in using oils, which is an expensive painting medium!

In the ISS, the students play sports every Sunday. For soccer especially, more women get the opportunity to play in an all-women's team, and so they get better. It would be fallacious to say that girls can't play soccer well when they may have never had the opportunity to play, train, and develop skills before.

Likewise, during my short stint as a sports assistant in Boccia, it was clear how good equipment was particularly crucial to the success of the training and performance of athletes in the BC3 category. Even in the Olympics, where athletes try to shave off milliseconds from their time, a special streamlined outfit that costs thousands of dollars can help.

Therefore, opportunity comes with money, and what we often mistake as ability can often be the result of life chances that are linked to one's class.

Putting up with it.

Two days ago we attended a session to evaluate our MA course, and one issue we had to address was sexual harassment -- if any of us had encountered it, and if there had been enough action against it.

It's no secret, we all hear from each other about a guy who hugs girls a tad too tight and long, another who passes off kissing girls on the cheek as 'part of his culture' (happily there are many other decent men from 'conservative' cultures who are offended by this blatant lie), and another who accosted a girl on her way back from the bathroom in these gender-mixed hostels of ISS.

A friend recounted her experience in an elevator with a male student who gave her this look, but you can't exactly report that as harassment. She brought up a great point -- that sometimes a look, word or a stance can be intimidating, but then because it's so subtle, you wonder if you as a woman are just being paranoid or if you should trust your gut feeling?

This made me think to the years of incidents, which I now call harassment. I remember being as young as 14, visiting my aunt in Kuala Lumpur, taking a walk in the early morning with my mother in my (what I considered) normal decent clothes -- long cotton pants, a long-sleeved tshirt and a headscarf worn in the simplest, most unfashionable way imaginable. We walked past a man in his twenties standing at the side of the road leading our from my aunt's residence, and he whistled at us.

During long morning and evening rides in the car pool to and from secondary school (I went to a secondary school 30 minutes away by car), Bangladeshi migrant workers would make faces at me as they sat in the back of lorries. I still don't walk by construction sites without thinking about men staring, but this is quite the worldwide phenomenon.

The most intriguing experience I had was in a food stall tucked away on the fourth floor of Far East Plaza, an old-ish shopping mall near Orchard Road, the shopping centre of Singapore. I was 19 and had come from a language class nearby to have dinner with a friend. I wore pretty much the same things as I do today -- Indian tunic, long trousers, headscarf. Nothing fancy or striking.

There were a group of young men who were leaving and whom we had to walk past to get to our tables. As we passed, one of them said:

"Assalamualaikum..."

I wasn't looking at him and I didn't reply.

"Sombongnye, kenapa tak balas??"

(Why don't you reply, you're so arrogant!)

Really? I was being arrogant because I didn't give him the attention that he felt entitled to? I don't greet random men in the street, perhaps only if I pass them in a mosque, and in Singapore (and many other countries) greeting a stranger of the opposite sex in the mosque is not even the norm. And if I do, I don't expect a greeting in return, let alone insult the person for not doing so.

For years I wondered what this incident meant, why I felt so uncomfortable by it even though there was a perfectly good Quranic justification for it: to reply if someone greets you with a similar or even better greeting (4:86).

Then I read this article about why 'hello' can make some of us so uncomfortable. It's about the attention that these men want, it's not about the greeting or the sincerity of the greeting. (You could perhaps gauge the young man's sincerity by his expectation of a greeting from me, and his reaction when there was none!)

I don't think it would be a stretch to conclude that this young man was saying 'hello' in a way to get attention, and not to greet me as a fellow Muslim. It's like the countless other men who mutter 'hello' under their breath as they pass (they're not even waiting for a reply!) you in the street, except this guy used a 'religious' greeting.

Here's another article on how harassment can be in the form of compliments. What I liked in this article was a comment by a reader at the end:

"...the worst problems with street harassment often don’t come from the men on the street harassing you – but rather from the prevailing attitudes among society/other men that it’s something you should welcome."

This is nicely illustrated by something that happened last year when I was in a supermarket in Johor. Another young man said 'hello' in Malay as he walked past me in the aisle. When I told my father what happened, he said:

" Well he just wants to be friends."

Men, don't feel left out. I know some men also experience this, especially those who do not fit the heterosexual, macho-looking norm. I kept short hair for 5 years and was constantly mistaken for a boy in Singapore and in Morocco (this was good though, prevented a lot of harassment!). The one incident I'll never forget -- I was sitting in Starbucks with a male friend and this rather old Indian man said this gem in passing:

"Handsome virgin boy..."

My friend and I fought over who he was directing his comment to. Hah!

What about you? What do you consider harassment? Do you do anything about it? Share your experiences.