Karaoke Sabbath

Today is the Sabbath. Timor Leste has population that is 98% Catholic, so Sundays are quite an event. Everyone goes to Mass, even my neighbour who was up singing karaoke until 4am.
I often wonder how they convince so many people go, perhaps it’s the social/community aspect or good old Catholic guilt. I’m not sure but I do plan to go along one Sunday. I was baptised Catholic, however that’s where my religious upbringing ended. If the mosque is open to all surely I can attend Mass with an out of date baptism.

For the time being, Sunday means the streets are quiet and bare. Slow scooter trips along beach road and a long brunch is the perfect way to spend the morning. No school kids playing, little traffic and best of all, no karaoke! Bring on the lazy Sundays!

Religion and Cos

I am not a religious person.

Before we start, if you are, and easily offended, it is probably best that you click “next blog” and read a cooking blog from a Mormon mother of two from America..

Don’t get me wrong, I like the idea of religion – the history, culture and traditions. Experiencing it first hand, whether it be a Mosque in Egypt, a Temple in Cambodia or the Vatican in Rome are all amazing.
But I simply don’t have the faith to believe in a God, several deities or that there is anything at all after my last breath. Apparently “God hath dealt to every man the measure of faith”, so maybe I missed out due to my feminism?


I was baptised Catholic and some of my extended family are Catholic, Buddist or Christian, but my upbringing wasn’t religious by any means. My mother gave me a bible when I was in primary school and I did read it, but I also read the chronicals of Narnia. We went bush walking instead of Church on Sundays and instead of religious writings on the back of the bathroom door, we had a list of endangered frogs.
Charles Darwin was mentioned in our home more often than Jesus and the two don’t get along very well.

I like the idea that we all have a fate that is determined by a higher power, but it sounds like a copout to me. I believe in education, the laws of physics and making your own fate. I am in control of my own destiny as much as anyone else is. Hard work and planning will get you where you want to be, not praying.

So what if I’m wrong? In scripture I was told that I would burn in hell for the rest of eternity if I didn’t accept Jesus into my heart… But I’d have to believe in Hell for that to be a real threat.

Ultimately we are all free to believe what we choose to believe. The real problem comes when people try to force their beliefs on others. My favourite opinion of tolerance to other religious views comes from the Dalai Lama. “It’s like going to a restaurant – we can all sit down at one table and order different dishes, but nobody argues about it.” Tolerance and acceptance, wouldn’t that be nice?

In Delhi the Bahá’í House of Worship or Lotus temple (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lotus_Temple) provides a place for people of all religions to pray, meditate or just contemplate the meaning of life. Muslins next to Buddhists next to Christians next to Hindus, all next to Cos. No one religion is allowed to dominate with sermons and all that is allowed is chanting or singing. And to top it off, it kinda looks like the opera house. Sounds good to me.

29th October 2011

Looking for Jesus

I have trouble understanding why people who read the Bible or those Christian newsletters. The lady next to me was reading her Christian magazine from front to back with a concerning amount of focus. I couldn’t help but analyse. Most people read for entertainment, escape or knowledge but this is different. This is comfort reading, reassurance in text, an explanation of life and a resounding ‘everything will be OK’ as someone will take responsibility for your sins… Each to their own.

I began to think of my own comfort reading. What do I read to reassure myself, to give myself hope when I’m unsure? And then it hit me… Here is my confession, my sins lay bare, my guilty pleasure is romance novels.

Mills and Boon is my religious text, my false hope. In my fantasy it isn’t Jesus who cleanses me of my sins, it’s a tall, handsome man with fantastically strong arms, a passion for romance, a healthy bank account and a desire for long term commitment.
SWOON
Maybe his name is Jesus, it worked for Madonna, but I’m not fussy..

When I analyse my own fantasy it isn’t an actual deep-seated urge to be swept off my feet and void of any responsibility or free thought by this man on a white stallion. I am loving my independence and don’t want it removed by some handsome stranger, or anyone for that matter. To be honest, if I did come across him I would probably find him too needy or not enough of a jerk for my liking. There is every possibility he may leave beard hairs in the sink and may not appreciate me giving him a detailed synopsis of every second newspaper article I read.

In essence, I don’t want my sins resolved, I just want the reassurance that somewhere on an island far away, exists a man like this. That alone is enough for me. Just like the lady next to me, I don’t have to meet Jesus to be reassured, I just need to think he exists.
So as the lady peered through her glasses at an article of what He says about forgiveness, I peered through mine, reading about Fabios great romantic gestures and I’m sure we both felt better.

3rd Feb 2012

A gummy grin wrapped in a Sari

I stood, hands pressed together in front of me, listening to the chanting that was rising up around me. I was in a rural village in India standing amongst a sea of colourful Saris listening to the chanting of a Hindu priest. Our local guide had took us to his temple for prayer and it was fantastic sharing in the local custom.

I looked next to me and caught the eye of a little old lady. She looked close to 100! She turned to me and smiled. She had no teeth and gave me this nice gummy grin. I smiled back and she slowly walked over. Her back was hunched and she leant on her walking stick with every step. She was so tiny and so frail, wrapped up in her lime green, sequined sari. She stopped in front of me, took my hand and just stood smiling at me, holding my hand.

We often talk about “The gap between us” – meaning the gap of wealth/options/education. But there is another gap between us. I have never seen my Nanna smile as genuinely as this old lady smiled at me. She looked content. She did not ask me for anything, she did not seem to want anything except to share the prayer with me. The gap between our societies is vast but not just in wealth. Wealth doesn’t make you happy and this is blatantly apparent standing in this Temple. This old lady was happy, simply happy.

Occasionally she looked from me to the priest at the front praying, still smiling that big gummy grin. As the Priest concluded the ceremony she patted my hand with her free one, said “Namaste” and shuffled back to the group she was originally standing with.

I stood smiling with a similar less gummy grin, yet close to tears, feeling like I had just had a spiritual experience that had nothing to do with Shiva. 

Behind kohl lined eyes

As we wandered into the rural Indian town of Orchha we came across an old man with a little boy on his shoulders. The boy was around three years old and as we walked past him he sheepishly peeked glances at our group of white girls.

He wore nice new clothing from head to toe, including clean sandals and combed hair. In complete contrast his grandfather was wearing rags and had bare feet. His hair was white and his skin looked like dark tanned leather. He was missing most of his teeth.

The boy was shy but when I smiled at him and waved, he outstretched his little hand towards me. I walked over and held it; he started smiling at me and shook my hand as hard as he could, giggling. His grandfather smiled and took the wriggling boy off his shoulders. Immediately he ran around our group of girls smiling for pictures and hurriedly looking at the camera screens to see his reflection. His eyes, that were outlined in kohl for protection against evil spirits, were full of excitement. This was making his day!

Our group had moved on so unfortunately we had to go. The boy started to get upset and in his angst, started asking for something from us – food, money, anything. His grandpa, who has been standing off to the side, ushered some soft words to him. He immediately stopped asking and walked back to his grandpa. And just like every other 3 year old in the world, he started sulking, but only a little. My heart went out to him and not just because these adorable kids are making me clucky, but because he seemed to be such a sweet little boy, with such a caring grandpa, who very obviously gave him everything he could at his own expense. I had a banana in my bag and because giving fruit to children seems a legitimately nice thing to do, I gave it to the little boy. His face lit up, a giant grin complimented his sweet brown eyes smiling out from the black kohl. I couldn’t imagine any western children being happy over a banana. Even his grandpa approved the nutritious gift.
As I walked off to rejoin our group I looked back. He was back on his grandpas shoulders smiling and hastily scoffing his banana.

Hazel eyes

Sweat was making my skirt stick to my legs and my head pounded as another horn pierced through the air. I grabbed the metal bar in front of me to steady myself as I was jolted off the seat of the tuktuk. We were making out way through the crowded streets of Varanasi, the driver utilising his horn as much as possible and often shaking his fist. Trucks. cars, tuktuks, bicycles, kids, cows, dogs, goats and masses of people swarmed the street, each with a different destination, each trying to make their own way through the hoards. I imagined it would look similar to a swirling river from above.

A truck had stopped ahead due to a stubborn bull blocking the road and traffic was cramming through a bottleneck. We stopped and the driver resorted to fist shaking. I looked out at the women passing through the crowds all adorned in colourful saris wrapped elegantly around their slender frames. As I searched through the crowds a set of eyes immediately cause my gaze. They were a creamy deep hazel colour, the same deep as milk chocolate, surrounded by skin of a slightly darker shade. She was dressed in a black burqua complete with a veil that allowed only for a slit for her eyes. She stared directly at me and we held eye contact. It wasn’t meancing, mearly curiosity that extended both ways.

My first thought was “We are from different worlds” and in many ways it is true. You would be hard pressed to find two women of similar ages that have such different lives. She would be lucky to finish high school; her parents would chose her husband and he would choose where they lived, if she worked, when they have children and how many they would have. She would give birth without medical care or pain relief and could expect at least one of her children to die before they reached adulthood. She would sleep on the floor and eat after her family, if there was enough food. Religion would be embedded in every aspect of her life and she would be persecuted by the majority of the Indian population because of it. 

The major difference between us that I saw is choice. I can choose to live how I want, where I want, with whom I want. I have choices, she does not.

But as I stared into those deep eyes I realised I was wrong. We are not from “different worlds,” we are 3 metres apart. This is the same world and we are both young women. She will care for her children the same way I will, she will feel the same pain when she is ill, she will cry the same way and she will have the same hopes, dreams and wishes as I do. When I made a wish into the Ganges I bet it wasn’t too far off what she would have made if she were sitting next to me. After all, we all want to be happy.

The driver had managed to find an alley barely wide enough and he punched the accelerator, lurching the tuktuk forwards. I smiled at the woman in the black burqua and as she slowly disappeared from view and even though our perspectives were from different worlds, I wished her all the happiness in her world and mine.