Why Paris?

Why Paris? Why would IS choose the city of love, kisses, fun and champagne ?

France, like the US has declared to battle IS. France reportedly has over 10,000 troops fighting Islamic extremism in Mali, Libya, Syria and Iraq. A few days back Jihadi John was beheaded by the US and last week France decided to deploy aircrafts to fight ISIL. So one can conclude that the Paris attacks were an act of revenge!? Let's dig a little more deeper. Can there possibly be something more?

Brookings institute recently estimated that over 900 French citizens have travelled to Syria to join the IS, the number being the largest in Europe. Is this surprising? Yes..maybe not!                                                                                                                                                                                 France boasts the highest number of Muslim population in Europe. Statistics suggest that it is around 8%. But not many are represented in politics, business or sports. The banning of the burqa and the rising power of the Front National has also created tensions between communities. Further as reported by The Telegraph, France has been struggling with radicalization in the prisons. While the Muslims make only 8% of the French population, 70% of inmates in French cells are estimated to be Muslims. ( Average by experts. French law forbids counting the number of prisoners by religion) With very few measures taken to get these disillusioned youth back on track, the prison cells have become cozy place to breed extremism.

The 2012 Toulouse attacker who murdered 7 soldiers and Jewish children had his first lessons on extremism behind bars after which he travelled to Pakistan and Afghanistan to  train and return as an hardened Jihadist.  Similar is the story of Kouachi and Amedi Coulibaly, the culprits of Charlie Hebdo and Jewish market strikes. Kouachi met Djamel Beghal, who was serving 10 years for a plot to attack the US embassy, at Fleury-Merogis prison in 2005. Both Kouachi and Coulibaly were influenced by Beghal which only hardened their views on extremism and lead them to Syria for training and to commit heinous crimes. Mehdi Nemmouche who was arrested in connection to the Brussels shooting has previously spent 5 years in prison where he is suspected to have been influenced by Islamic teachings. He travelled to Syria within 3 weeks of his release. The French prisons are providing a platform for the hardened Jihadist prisoners to perforate the minds petty criminals and turn them towards extremism.

There has been an increasing debate if separating hardened Jihadists from the moderate Muslims would solve this problem. Anti-extremist experts believe that increasing the number of imams who visit the prisons should increase. Britain's model of de-radicalising it's cells with over 200 imams visiting regularly for its 14% Muslim prisoners should be emulated by France.

The Telegraph reported that in Fleury - Merogis prison, the largest in Europe there is no place for the Muslim prisoners to pray and many prisoners have met an imam only after 4 or 5 years into their sentence. This dissatisfaction can lead to a feeling of discrimination and inclination towards Jihadists. 

First bite of independence and much more

Part 1

20^th August 2013, a day I will probably never forget. That was the day I took my first ever, long awaited international flight. In September 2013 I was to begin my first year of Masters at Toulouse School of Economics. Wandering alone on the airport, I did not realize what was in store for me. My folks were just a few walls away and I knew I could turn back and return if I wanted. But to live alone, independent in a place where I know no one was something I really wanted to do. So this opportunity was my key to break free and fly away. I was excited to discover a new place, study new things, keen to meet new people and make new friends. The thought that I was going away from home and probably will not be seeing my family and friends for another year or two did cross my mind but the excitement of travelling to France pushed it into the background. I was slightly anxious and could sense butterflies in my stomach but the fact that I was leaving had not really sunk in me.

International flights are something we all middle class Indians long to fly. I was taking an Air France carrier and was highly thrilled to board it.  My fellow passenger was a middle aged French lady who was kind enough to help me with my cabin luggage and seat-belt.  In about thirty minutes my flight was ready to take off. Looking out of the window I remember thinking about my teary eyed mom and masis, unusually quiet dad and my uncle and cousin who were trying hard to cheer them up. I was sure that my girl friends would burst into tears on their way back. I remember thinking that I could even at that moment go back if I wanted to, but I did nothing of that sort. The Captain indicated the priority take off, within minutes the wheels were rolling and I could see the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport left behind. I saw Mumbai from the skies; it is at its best. You can see the hustling traffic on the streets, the skyscrapers and the ghettos, the Bandra- Worli sea link and the shimmering lights across the city.

Air France carrier does not have the best seats; hence I woke up with a bad backache the next morning. My back pain was forgotten only because of the fresh hot croissant served for breakfast. My flight was to land at the Paris airport from where I had to take the next flight to Toulouse. Getting out of the airplane at the Charles de Gaulle I was overwhelmed by the sheer vastitude of the airport. Not only is it enormous in size but the diverse range of people you see there is astounding. On my way to Porte A28, I spotted habitual travelers well versed with the functioning of the airport, noisy Asian tourists probably visiting Europe for the first time, cranky kids bugging their parents for the treats displayed in the eateries and clueless first timers like myself trying to put up a brave front. Here I was supposed to meet another girl from Delhi and we were to travel together to Toulouse. She was to arrive a little later so I treated myself a pain au chocolat and it was fire crackers in my mouth. Dimple arrived and together we boarded our flight to Toulouse. And in about exactly 1 hour 35 minutes I was about to begin my new journey in Toulouse. The Blagnac Airport is much smaller and very different than the Paris CDG. Suddenly I was surrounded by strangers who did not understand my language and did not look like me. Probably now would the feeling sink in, I thought to myself, but no. Getting down with Dimple and seeing Kartika (a PhD student who received us) I still was not out of my comfort zone.

Toulouse at the first glance was not exactly how I had pictured Europe to be but it was no less. This ville rouge is a metropolis in Southwestern France. Known for its wine and sun, I could also spot distinctly the unique architecture and the aesthetic grills and facades of the buildings. After the mouth watering dal and rice lunch, Kartika took us around the city, showed us where we could find food, trains, maps, bars etc etc. The day ended on an exhausting note and I do not remember when I fell asleep. Kartika left for India the next day and now Dimple and I were on our own in this new city.  The first step was accomplished and I was proud of myself.

The second step was to search for a house. Now this was quite an ordeal because my French skills were not really up to the mark and Dimple’s were worse. We made ton of calls for appointments and visits. It was nerve racking. But eventually after our share of kick and blows we managed to get a couple of “rendez-vous”s. I would be lying if I said I wasn't anxious. Growing up in my parent’s house, I had never visited apartments before. I had no clue whatsoever of what I was to check when taking a house. Dimple was equally oblivious. Armed with a map and our French skills, we roamed around the city to get a decent accommodation. It was fun. We discovered that Toulouse has artistic bridges over the river Garonne which flows across the city.  The “trademark” red bricks seemed to change colour as the day passed. Most interestingly, the map of Toulouse and the actual city were surprisingly the same. Now this may sound stupid, but growing up in India I had never used a map before and moreover to find a map of any Indian city with all the roads marked correctly? Eh, not happening! We jumped with excitement seeing the “A Louer” (For Rent) boards on the buildings, we treated ourselves to tempting French delights, we joked about our broken French, grumbled if we didn't get the good offer and were terrified when weird white men hit on us. That sums up my first few days away from home. Finally after about 3 weeks of the arduous house hunt we found accommodation in a student residence near school and on the same floor.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         …..to be continued

That Awful Day...

It began like any other day. The bell rang as usual at 7.15am. Students gathered in the common area. Prayed. Sung the national anthem and went to their classes quietly. All except fourth grade, the Rockstars (Every class has a theme/ name). My class of 46 fourth graders was renowned for being the most unruly and disruptive class in school.

The Rockstars did go to their class, but the chaos they caused was unimaginable.  An inexperienced teacher like me had not but the slightest idea that a bunch of ten year olds can be the reason for this amount of commotion.  Feet were stamped, bags were thrown, backs were hit and pony’s were pulled.  I was terrified. Educated in a convent I could not digest that behavior and hence I decided to teach the kids some basic discipline. My first class which otherwise consisted of welcome games and activities thus transformed into a drill session where the kids had to go down to the common area and come up to class in a straight single line without talking and pushing. This lasted for about 50 minutes till most of them realized that they could not take me for a ride (or rather that was my perception). Seeing them follow the rules, I relaxed a bit and asked them to sit on their benches and open their books.

But standard four was in no mood for study. No sooner than I began the story (We were reading Around the World in 80 days) a few kids began playing “Ops and Bets” in class. I used the team points to get them back to work. Failed miserably. So now I started giving them the consequences. But no avail. I could see my hard thought consequences being trampled upon by these naughty ten year olds. The kids who normally paid attention had now joined this group and my class was in an uproar. A few playing “Ops and Bets” ,others making airplanes and flying it in class, a few playing with the “bohra” or the top, a few dancing and singing and the rest giggling seeing my plight. One of them probably felt bad for me and was asking his friends to be quite and listen to me. All the strategies told and discussed during the training had been ineffective and useless. I was in a soup. I did not know what to do. The din had already started disturbing the neighboring classes. I did not want the noise to reach downstairs. That’s where the Principal sat.

This situation, I thought could only be controlled by a raised voice. And that’s what I did. The class was quite. The kids were most certainly scared because they quietly slid into their benches.  And I began my “bhashanbazi”. I asked them why they came to school and if this is what they were taught during the last three years.I questioned them about their disobedience and asked them if their parents would like them to behave in such a way. Eventually I drifted to “What do you want to do when you grow up?”  I lectured them on how they would end up becoming a rickshaw driver or a house maid if they do not study and how studying will help them get a job in big air conditioned offices.  It was then that it struck me, “WHAT WAS I TEACHING THESE KIDS?” Was I asking them to study just to get a job? Had I forgotten that education was not only about getting a job but about living in a better, conscious and healthier way?  Did I want them to look down upon the job of a house maid or a rickshaw driver which for most of the kids was the means of survival?  What thought was I inadvertently sowing in their minds? Did I want them to survive or did I want them to live? Would I be proud of a student who decides to be a plumber or the student who wants to be an engineer will be given more importance? My head was clogged with these thoughts and I couldn't find the answer. I still haven’t. 

That day wasn't bad because flying airplanes or the ever increasing decibels did not allow me finish my story. It was worse because the teacher of fourth grade had unknowingly instilled seeds of abeyant but harmful thoughts in the minds of her students.

First day in school…Again

18^th June 2012. That was my first day in school…yet again. Confused? In 2012 I decided to work with a NGO called Teach for India. After a month long arduous training I was all set to be a teacher in a municipality school.  I was excited about the year, but was eager for my first day as a teacher.

Choosing to join Teach for India right after my Bachelors was perhaps the most important (and equally difficult) decision I made. The reasons; my parents were completely against it for their good reasons. Being the obedient child I was nervous to go against them but was also obstinate about changing my decision. Finally after a month long arguments and persuasions I struck a deal with my father. I would work with TFI for a year and then go ahead with my Master’s. (This was the glitch) I was proud that I did not hurt or offend them and would also get a chance of exploring something cool and different.  So after all such little big odds I stood there in Pujya Kasturba Gandhi School as a fourth standard teacher. Equipped with charts and games I headed to school on that rainy morning. Excited and anxious. I wished for a perfect first day.

I remember my weird first moments in the classroom, when a student entered the class, I tripped. Thankfully I caught the bench near me which saved me from falling. That was not a start I had hoped for.  Quickly coming back to my senses I welcomed the kid with a smiling face. He obviously wanted to laugh out loud. But seeing my expectant face he repressed him chuckle and only smiled. Without saying a word he kept his bag on the bench and ran out to meet his friends and almost certainly tell them about the comical incidence that happened in class.  This only left me worse off.

How different was this school from the one I had been to.  We had colourful walls and “unbroken doors”. Here the scene was slightly different. I did see colour on the wall but the designs were made by the water seeping from upstairs. My classroom had no electricity but had a 39 inches Sony LED. It contained 24 benches for my unknown 48 students and a broken door which made a cracky noise when pushed.

The school officially was to begin at 7.15 am. It was almost 7.45 am and the bell hadn’t rung. And worse I had only one student in my class. And he too hadn’t returned. Checking with the other teachers in the school, I found out that mine was not the only classroom children hadn’t turned up. How contrasting this was? My “first days” in my school ‘St Felix High School’ were the best days. Filled with excitement; a new bag, new books, a new classroom and teacher and the most important of all a new partner and sitting arrangement.  How was I to make a sitting arrangement without children in my classroom?  My thoughts were interrupted by “Didi may we come in”. Oh what joy! There was a bunch of eight kids waiting at the door asking for permission to enter the classroom. I let them in and asked them to sit on whichever bench they wanted too. Most of them occupied the first two benches in each row. Kids I thought to myself. These two benches were the least occupied benches in my college. And I began.

Sixteen eager eyes and ears looking at me and hearing intently to what I was saying. I almost forgot the “dialogues/speech” I had prepared for my first day. Startled in the beginning, I managed to pull it through finally. Just out of college I was now  on the other side of the classroom and this was definitely not easy.

With that thought in mind I started my day in school. Telling the kids about me, getting to know them, games and fun followed.  Eventually as the day progressed the kids began to get comfortable with me. The kids liked one of the games I planned and disliked two. This was followed by an art session which turned out to be decent. They told me about the movies they saw, the actors and cartoons they liked and the places they visited in the summer. That’s when I saw the similarity through the difference. Was the kid any different from “the ten year old me” mimicking Madhuri Dixit? Does the place where you are born make that big a difference? It definitely makes you the person you are, improves or deteriorates your value system, decides your social and economics standard. But does it change your desire to be loved and to love, to have fun, to laugh with your friends or to cry? Will a black skinned person feel hurt differently from a white skinned one when his( her) trust is broken? Or will the pain of losing a loved one for a Muslim be any different from a Hindu or a Parsi or a Sikh? On my first day in PKGEMS I understood wherever you are, whatever social and economic standing you have in the society your desires and aspirations will always be the same. That is what makes us humans.

A few hours later at 10.30am the bell rang (this one exactly on time). And my imperfectly perfect first day at school was over.