MUWCI TIMES N•3

WHAT A LONG DAY MUWCI TIMES

N•3

2 lorem ipsum :: [Dato]

MUWCI TIMES N•3 words Gaurav Thadaney

Christoph Trost

Maria Victoria Moreno

Lamisa Hossain

Fernanda Uriegas-Fabian

Jeppe Ugelvig

Jiya Pandya

Kevin Holiçka

Brenda Wacuka

Juliet Hoornaert

pictures Karanjit Singh

Oscar Åkerberg

layout Cecilia

Jeppe Ugelvig

publishing

& editing Jeppe Ugelvig


The long expected slowdown of the Western Ghats’s extensive monsoon season indicates a new time for the MUWCI student: mid-term stress. Having finished half of the term, both first and second-years seem to be pass the stage of careless everyday-school-life and are now slowly drowning in tests, quizzes and internal assessments. One of the indicators of this would be the massive amount of “please-answer-my-30-second-IA-survey”-mails the last few days. Luckily, the whole community can look forward to a well-deserved Diwali break later this month.

Running simultaneously to IB life, Trivenis are now demanding an increased commitment and participation to all activities – this being commanded by either the coordinators or the Triveni office. Our “reflect-o-phobia” has finally been confronted and dealt with. Updating our CAS system definitely seems beneficial for everyone, however the passion and excitement of the activities must never be lost in unnecessary officialization and institutionalization.

Times are also changing in the MUWCI Times. After a rather chaotic trial-period we now have the complete group of passionate writers and photographers (the best ever, I would say). The school paper has never been more diverse, presenting topics that every student and faculty can relate to. Also, the long-expected layout is finally ready and I am extremely happy to finally present MUWCI Times in the way we want to.

Life is full of compromises, even for us. With a team of over 20 people it would be unfair to restrict ourselves to a maximum of 15 pages. Furthermore, a printed version of MUWCI Times would, in respect to the pictures and the general aesthetics, have to be in good quality, color print. This is not possible financially, so until further notice we keep MUWCI Times in eco-friendly PDF only. I hope all you readers understand and will still follow us passionately. Welcome to our biggest issue ever.

-Jeppe

EDITOR’S NOTE


WHAT A LONG DAY

They throw us into this deep dark hole;

They hit on buttons until we start to role.

They leave us rolling in the dark

And all of a sudden, foamy water falls on us.

They do their own thing as we tumble around the dark

And all of a sudden, the water drains out of us.

They then take us out of this rigid black hole.

They then leave us piled up as a whole.

Hours later they pick us up from a height

And all of a sudden, we are dumped into a dark cylinder.

Minutes later we are sweating from he heat

And all of a sudden, we are dry as paper

They then take us out of this rigid dark hole.

They finally let us free for a while until we are dirty as coal.

by Gaurav


AND IT WAS ALL YELLOW…

The aroma wafts up to your waiting nostrils and you are in ecstasy as you take a deep breath. The smell fills your lungs, and you feel lighter, happier. You feel like there is nothing more you can want from the world, and everything will be all right. As you raise the spoon to your lips, the plethora of tastes tickles your taste buds, and you savor the sensation that is tantalizing your mind. You know that, at the end of the day, there is one thing you can look to. When you’re frustrated with the world, Maggi will pull you through. When you’re tired of your sickening English commentary, and it’s too late to call your teacher, Maggi will soothe your fraying nerves. When the cafeteria food makes you nauseous and you crave the comfort of your bed and a bar of chocolate, Maggi will feed your dying appetite. Maggi. It’s what makes the world at MUWCI go round.

There are often things in life that we take for granted, underestimate when we have them in abundance. I dare you to live a week without these ready-made Indian packets of genius. I dare you. Sure; Wai Wai, Koka, Soupy Noodles and MaMa will act as agreeable substitutes for a week, maybe two. But when you’re on the edge, and you have no Maggi to save you, you will reach tipping point. I tell

you, Maggi is essential to our survival. If you are, even partially, a MUWCI-ite at heart, you will crave Maggi – it will be part of your system. It’s our drug, our nicotine that keeps us relatively sane in this ever crazy world.

Maggi with cheese. Maggi with pesto sauce. Extra Masala Maggi. Maggi with ketchup. Maggi and coffee. It’s your Maggi. Make it what you want to make it. But never, ever, ever underestimate it’s immense power…at the end of the day, when you have made something of yourself, you will look back at your days at MUWCI and see just how much of an effect this little yellow thing has made on your life. I shall end by saying this: there are a few things in life that anchor us to reality, add to our identities and make us who we are. Maggi is one such thing. When you’re feeling homesick and lonely, just cook some and you will be okay. So go on, be a true MUWCI-ite…fish out a pot, bring on that boiling water put in the little white noodles and smile. And remember: you are never alone; especially if you have a few extra forks around.

by Jiya


I always do photos with my eyes and say to

myself -OMG this can

be a good picture!”

COMING UP: MARKO ARSIC

by Kevin Holicka

(fortsat)

Meet Marko Arsic, an architect student turned fashion photographer based in Belgrade, Serbia. It all began on facebook where editorial-hungry-crowds feed themselves on a feast like no other: A spree of photo albums filled with stories that match the glossy pages of today’s sartorial demands. Female beauty, sexuality, and geometry are his jackpots in the inspiration bank. His early 20s has shown a great promise for his career as interests appear not just from the facebook stalkers, but big names in the local fashion industry as well such as: Marta Miljanić and Marko Marosiuk. His work has landed Serbia’s press that includes: Ona, Glam Shopping, and Best Shop. After an internet fashion sensation, the real life is now witnessing the real thing. Dear World, get ready. KEVIN HOLIČKA: Okay, let’s get this straight, how did it all started? MARKO ARSIC: Do you have any idea? HOLIČKA: (Shooking my head, at home in Germany 1,400 km away from Belgrade. God bless skype!) ARSIC: My Facebook page is important because I want to know what people think about my photographs - People that I don’t know. I started everything very little. HOLIČKA: That’s already a very nice motivation for you! But I have seen many of your works which have collaborated with the Serbian fashion press as well. It’s such a good start to have your talent recognized locally. ARSIC: Yes, but it’s not international. The feeling is not the same. I just basically want more people on my fan page (laughs). That one is a joke. HOLIČKA: (laughs) so you want to go international.


ARSIC: I want people to see my photographs, especially people who are not from Serbia. I want them

to think everytime they look at my photographs. They deserve it!

HOLIČKA: Why do you think they deserve that?

ARSIC: (smiling icon appears) Every single photograph that I make has emotions and stories. It’s different

parts of my life from the people I met and the sensibilities…

HOLIČKA: That’s very thoughtful. And do you feel any personal connection to every story that your create in

the photographs?

ARSIC: Fashion has obviously inspired me. Sexuality, female beauty, and geometry, but when I work with

fashion designers for example, I love listening to their stories. I want to know their emotions about the

collections they design and again, their sensibilities.

HOLIČKA: Let’s get a little bit random (smiling icon appears). What was your first camera?

ARSIC: (laughs and another smiling icon emerges) I think it’s Benq with 5 mpx and that was 2 or 3 years

before.

HOLIČKA: Was that the time when you discover your interest in fashion photography?

ARSIC: No, no. I think I was born for fashion! (laughs) And really, I never had money for the camera, but I

would always do photos with my eyes and say to myself: OMG this can be a good picture! Also in fashion, I

always look every details, materials, and attitudes.


Marko Arsic was born in Belgrade in 1989. Check out his latest editorial updates at http://www.markoarsic.com/ or his facebook fan page with the same name. Interview was made in August 2011 Photo Credits: Marko Arsic

HOLIČKA: Aren’t we all born for fashion?! (winking icon appears) Do you have a new camera now or do you still love your Benq? ARSIC: It’s sad to leave Benq, but now I have my Nikon d7000. HOLIČKA: I have seen some of your photographs at the Belgrade Insight and you’re even being featured on blogaporter.rs! ARSIC: I did the campaign of Marta Miljanić (local designer) at Belgrade Fashion Week. Before that I made an editorial for a magazine called “The Best Shop” It was my first 7 pages editorial and I loved it! I still work here and there, but most of my work comes from shooting portofolios for models. This year I’m going to work again with Marta Miljanić and Marko Marosiuk (another local designer) with their campaigns in October for Belgrade Fashion Week. Oh, and I forgot to tell you. My first exhibition is in October at a gallery. HOLIČKA: Wow, I’m so excited for you and all the best for everything then. Tell me about your childhood. ARSIC: (laughs) I love my chilhood. I love my family and I live for them. I’m the last child by the way. HOLIČKA: Then in the past and later in the future, how do you see yourself in five years to come? ARSIC: Uhh, that’s a hard question… I dont see Marko in Serbia. I don’t like to see myself here. I see myself with a lot of happiness (extrawide-smilling-icon pops up) HOLIČKA: That sounds promising. Suprise me, Marko. For example, I’m afraid of frogs. ARSIC: Sometimes I cry… (laughs) HOLIČKA: Who would be your iconic photographer and why? ARSIC: Steven Klein. Energy, aesthetics, great view and colors. HOLIČKA: And if you could photograph anyone on this world, living or dead, who would that be? ARSIC: Great talent, perfect beauty, the attitude, and just the energy. It’s Sophie Ellis-Bextor. HOLIČKA: Now I’m curious. How would you consider a perfect photoshoot? ARSIC: Just positive energy. From nothing I make something. When there’s nothing for the model, I make it happen for them. My shootings have to be fun and… I don’t want enough?


TOUCHING THE STARS

by Lamisa

The scorching sun of the blistering summer day

seared the skin of her bare back as she paused. The

task at hand- carrying an immense pile of bricks

from the truck to the construction site- had been

made particularly difficult by the sweltering heat.

She had barely moved an eighth of the load, and

perspiration was already soaking through her

wretched garb.

Ayesha sighed and lifted the basket to her head; the

backbreaking weight of the bricks was as familiar as

the burden of family that rested on her narrow

shoulders. She never considered it a burden, though.

It had been her decision, after hours of quarrelling

with her husband, to move to the city with him and

pursue her studies. At eighteen, her ambition of

becoming a nurse was still within reach.

In less than two years, however, her dreams had

imploded. Within eight months of the birth of a

daughter, her husband, who had been a rickshaw-

puller, was killed in a road accident. As the only

remaining bread-winner of the household, she had

been forced to abandon her studies and continue her

strenuous job with a construction firm; something

that had merely been a temporary means of earning

money became a full-time occupation that had lasted

almost eighteen years.

Even before we are potty-trained, characters like Wonder Woman, The Powerpuff Girls and locally, Meena, teach us about girl power. In Bangladesh, the predominantly patriarchal society hinders the empowerment of women and leads to their subjugation into an almost subservient state. Most women do not receive sufficient support and encouragement from their families, resulting in a lack of the self-belief and confidence that is required in order to express their own views or desires.

Gender equality involves levelling the playing field and allowing both men and women equal opportunity to expand their horizons and develop their potential as much as possible. Women must understand that they should not stand by as inert recipients of charitable donations from the other sex; it is imperative they identify their own priorities and needs and learn to secure these using their own means, thus ensuring economic parity.

Ayesha shuddered in mingled revulsion and wrath as a pair of her uncouth male co-workers wolf-whistled at a passing schoolgirl; this humbly-dressed girl was a stranger, but it may as well have been her daughter- Ameena. At the tender age of seventeen, Ameena was experiencing all the pleasures and complexities that came with life as a teenager in the city.

Eave-teasing and the objectification of women is a source of immense discomfort and anxiety amongst women as well as their families and wardens; a large percentage of men consider women mere items and judge and comment on them aesthetically and based on outward appearance. This takes away greatly from a woman’s sense of self-confidence and freedom and causes those who have broken free of social barriers to withdraw back into their shells.


For a woman to be equal to a man, she should be able to assert herself; she must build up enough self-reliance to express herself as an individual and make men accept her as such- an entity with emotions, personality and intellect, who is capable of making informed decisions for herself and does not need to be patronized. As Eleanor Roosevelt had said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

Lost in thought, Ayesha had not noticed the sky darkening; thunder rumbled, lightning flashed and rain poured from the ashen clouds. People on the streets hastened for cover, umbrellas, papers and arms thrown over their heads. Ayesha headed steadily back to the truck to retrieve yet another load of bricks- torrential rain was no grounds for stoppage in her line of work.

Every month, she would receive a letter from her mother-in-law; she would read it through before studiously burning it in her stove. Each letter held the same contents- how Ayesha was the reason her mother-in-law’s son had moved to the city and died, and how Ayesha was now committing further sins by keeping Ameena away from a loving family. The letters invoked in her a sense of loathing- loving family who would marry away their teenage granddaughter in exchange for land? It disgusted her how women were treated as commodities back in the villages. She pitied the narrow-minded and thanked her lucky stars for letting her escape such culture. The thought of her witty, independent daughter made her smile inwardly; she was a proud, proud mother.

Women empowerment.

Gender equality.

Girl power.

Sturdy, powerful words- like loaded guns. People often feel like they are fighting a lost battle in the race to achieve these ideals. Governments, unions and committees worldwide hold conferences and forums to discuss elaborate plans and report their progress.

But progress is such a simple thing. Any woman who can stand up for her own rights, who can make her voice heard in a crowd of men is an agent of change. Any woman who clashes horns with those preventing her from developing her skills and wins, any woman who can go on to participate in income-generating or even leisurely activities of her own choice is, little by little, transcending the boundaries set by society to bring forth a new generation of mature, unique, intelligent, autonomous and beautiful women.

Lifting her face towards the leaking sky, Ayesha felt a lingering sense of bliss. It was true that her life had been difficult; it was true that she had not been able to fulfil her dreams. Yet she felt as though she had touched the stars. She had given her daughter a life she would never have imagined possible- a life of endless promise, where the latter may truly reach out and grab the stars.

The rain poured incessantly, thoroughly drenching Ayesha, but it was still better than the blazing sun; she battled on through it, as she had throughout her life, knowing instinctively that it would be worth it in the end.

Do you think you’ve gotten used to MUWCI? No, you haven’t. You’ve just

forgotten the outside world. I don’t blame you, I’ve forgotten it as well.

Wake up after a 5-hours of sleep. Running, being late for first block but

still taking some chai on the way. One triveni after the other, a meeting,

college application, karaoke night, theatre season, un-answered e-mails,

CE’s, Sagar Inn, Deadlines, Gandhi Jayanti, wada concerts.

Your first year can be really tough, all second years know it. Why don’t

we say it more often? Because we’ve forgotten. We feel MUWCI life is

sometimes unmanageable. Why would we remember anything of what we

had before? We have enough new things to think about. Missing it or not,

home becomes a distant and perfect memory. Second years forgot how our

first year was like. And before that, we forgot about our home.

When you first come to MUWCI, you are not more than who you use to be

before coming. It takes some time to get “muwci-sied”. But you

eventually do. The way you talk and move changes, your sense of humour

transforms completely. What humour did you have before? How did you

move and talk before? It is impossible to remember. Colonised

Winter break, summer break, end of MUWCI and is time to go home, or

to go wherever travelling takes you. Away from “MUWCI people” it takes

about 2 seconds (or maybe 3, if you’ve changed a lot) to go back to who

you were before coming. Curiously, you completely forget about who you

were in MUWCI. MUWCI becomes a distant and perfect memory.

It’s really hard to deal with two worlds, because MUWCI and “home” are

really two worlds, even if they seem to appear in the same map.

Before coming you promised yourself to never forget, to never leave

behind the growth your country, your family and your friends had given

you. You remember, of course: as soon as you get out of the airplane on

the way back. You just can’t remember, inside this place, who you were

outside.

There is nothing wrong about it. You still have the power to do it when

you go back. Will this power go away if you are absent more time? I hope

not, because MUWCI is just a part of who you are, you are not MUWCI.

O B L I V I

O N

By Fernanda


3/75000

1. He saw it in the local newspaper, it had to be reliable. Of course he didn’t want to send

her, she was the first wife. I’m second in line so I was sent. I didn’t know why anyone would want to

form part of something like this but it was in the newspaper. It had been legal in India since 2002,

and a good business ever since. People came from all over for this. They told me that since it

wouldn’t look like me, it wouldn’t be hard to give him or her to the other parents. I had to keep it in

me until it was ready. They came from America and all those other places just for this. It wouldn’t

be like when I had my own, this time they would schedule the day – to make things easier and

faster. It wouldn’t be sad either - I didn’t even have to see it. It’s been a year since he read that

article and 8 months since I’ve been here. We can’t leave the building until we’re done, of course,

they don’t want people to talk about us or anything to go wrong. It’s not that bad, every year there

are about 300 of us in this building only; we come and go. We manage to go through it, waiting day

after day to go back home.

2. I wasn’t counting with that call to go back home. I left my own to give one to another woman and

to help mine at the same time. The plan was to leave for 36 weeks – not one less, not one more. I’d

get 2500 Rs each month, 25000 Rs when I gave it to the other woman and then I’d go back. 36

weeks and I could pay for them what I couldn’t have afforded working for 3 years. After some weeks

I heard that this wasn’t the only place in India where this was done, there were other 250 places

where I could have stayed, some of them paid more than here. I didn’t want to think much about it

– it was done so I just had to be patient. They called me because the smallest one was sick – the

smallest one of my own that is. I couldn’t wait for the 36th week even though it was close. I couldn’t

leave with it either. It hurt, as much as they told me it would. They told me I was making a huge

mistake and that it would hurt. But I had to stop it to go back. It was only after they took it from me

that they told me that I had to give all the money back. Each dollar I had been given for each day I

stayed there after so long. I didn’t even get to help her get one like me.

I left at week 30.

by Maria Victoria


3. They decided to send me because my sisters were married and I wasn’t so I had to do

something. They said that after a year I would be able to come back and that it was going to be

good for me, I’d get to study for the first time while I waited and I would get paid. It was in me but

it wasn’t from me –it felt too strange, I don’t think it felt like it was supposed to. I waited, for my

classes but the teacher would come only once a week to talk to us. He would only say how bad the

rest of the city talked about us so I ended up waiting only for it to be done, more than anything

else. I saved the money I got every now and then. It was so much but I knew I still had to wait, they

wouldn’t accept me back when I could be able to get the last payment. I did everything I was told

and I could even feel it getting bigger but I couldn’t make it stay there for more than 20 weeks.

“One more try” is what they keep telling me.

It’s been 3 tries.

The 3 previous voices are fictional but created based on 3 different

women that form part of the Akanksha Clinic in Anand, Gujarat, one

of the 250 official centres for surrogate mothers in India. All the

numbers and dates, although official, are not necessarily accurate.


PEOPLE OF THE HILLS

This story is inspired by Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe which my English class is currently reading. A man from Nigeria, the Ibo tribe, in the 1940s comes to MUWCI 2011. He returns back home and has a conversation with his friend telling him what he saw.

I sat outside my obi looking over the horizon at the surrounding hills and the villages. The Umuezeani village was right across. I sneezed and leaned forward to play my ogene. Ah… what a peaceful day.

‘Ezeulu! Ezeulu! You would not believe what my eyes have seen!’ Obiereka came up running to my hut, panting like a tired dog.

I sighed. What a peaceful day indeed. Obiereka, the village story teller, was always prone to having very strange tales. Perhaps due to his queer curiosity, his feet were always led to places none of the clansmen had ever reached. If we believed these tales is another matter altogether.

I offered him some kola nut but he insisted that I break it. I prayed for it and broke it.

‘Yes, now tell me’ I said as we begun to eat.

‘This time, I decided to go visit extremely distant hills. Ekwefi took me there and we went walking around.’

Ah, yes… Ekwefi. He was just like Obiereka, if not worse.

‘And we discovered a very strange thing!’ He exclaimed with the intention of creating suspense. He beamed foolishly. I simply stared at him.

‘What did you find?’ I asked, feigning interest.

‘A people. A people living in the hills. At first all we saw only hill, but then we saw this road, that went up the hill like a snake. So we walked and walked and walked. ‘And alas! There was a whole village living in the hills!’

I sat up now, mildly interested.

There were other villages, in the valley, then a large clan of people living together, a school they said. Some were dark skinned, like you and me, others brown. Brother, some were even yellow! I have never seen such a clan.

‘Perhaps like the Igbo... they like to paint themselves. ‘

‘No! No paint brother! These people said that they had come from very distant lands and others very near and had sojourned in that place to learn. They lived in houses that were almost hidden by the trees. Wadis, wados or something.’

‘Mhmm... .’ I said.

‘They had many feast and festivals as well!

For example yesterday night I

by Brenda


went for a wado festival. They sang, danced and laughed with one another. We should invite

them over brother! Surely the Feast of the New Yam would be of interest to them?’

‘Oh, yes, yes.’ I agreed.

‘They also like to mingle with the people of the valley! Some eat meat brother and some do not.

Meat, yes, but I could not find the nyama choma that we like so much here.’

‘Akh!’ I sneezed. ‘I would not survive.’ I remarked.

‘They have little groups called trinev,… trivens or something and they meet and learn from each

other, play games, or learn from other people!’

‘They also keep talking about blocks when they have gone to learn.’ He continued.

‘Perhaps they are builders then. Not so different from the Ummoneora. And the groups sound like

the the beadwork, dance and pottery groups we have here.’

‘Ah yes, brother… not so different. They call themselves a family. They are as different as Okperi

and Umuaro, but somehow the same! You should see. A strange family though’

‘Why so, brother?’

‘When I entered, I was told not to leave my things lying around. I almost forgot my ogene in the

place they use to draw. Some among them, in their family, have sticky fingers, they told me.’

I must go now! Ekwefi would like to take me

to a place called Rica coast... costa… hm.

All these names… They say there is another

one there!’

‘Go well Obiereka’

‘Of course! Ulu shall guide me!’

I laughed at his enthusiasm and waved as he

left.

I smiled and waved at him, all the while not

believing a single word that came out of his

mouth. How could people so different co-

exist together? Different lands? Different

customs? Different life! Nonsense I tell you.

Utter nonsense.

I have the privilege that I can hold on to my heavy, old Beauty: Europe.

10000 metres above ground. above the land with the kids without fathers. I feel I would escape from the safe old Beauty, going to the messy, dirty land of huge potential.

I leave something behind, not just family and friends as usual. The Sueddeutsche newspaper says something is happening in Europe.

Already last year a little book was published with tremendous success as a Christmas best seller. Who would have expected that it might inspire someone that deeply?

Stéphane Hessel has to be taken serious: Being a diplomat, fighting against the Nazis, writing the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. But why would claim media that students living in tents in Madrid, the youth in France has been inspired by that little book?

Hessel does not draw a “Spectre haunting Europe” as Marx did. 93 years is his most powerful weapon; Hessel catches the reader with his vast life experience. It follows a bit of shouting against current society, media and education – Something you can read in a mediocre local newspaper.

It is not the call for outrage that has the power to shatter the stable continent fundamentally. Rather it seems to be the phonetic sound of the motivation for resistance in other

By Christoph

Some people feel a lack of constants over here. Everything keeps revolving around you, appears and disappears l ike the sun on a windy day.

JA, JA;

EUROPA ZERFÄLLT OR INDIGNEZ VOUZ

European languages: Indignez Vouz! Indignaos! Empört euch!

So, are rioters just underlying a good choice of words, not to say propaganda?

Hessel names his teachers, Sartre, Hegel, Benjamin. But it still takes him a while to become concrete: The three most challenging problems in our world are: The gap between rich and poor, Human Rights and the environment. Until the end of his essay the basic essence remains and becomes more and more reasonable: One needs something to be indignant and disgusted by. In the same way as the youth in Cairo, London and now in New York became indignant by their nuisances.

Hessel equipped the youth with his universal tool against the cancer of the world: Outrage.

If you know what outrages you then you can be proud. If you don't, you should read Hessel's Indignez Vouz and you might find an outcry as constant.

”Hessel equipped the youth with his universal tool against the cancer of the world: Outrage”

THEN AND NOW N•3

By Oskar

THE END

MUWCI TIMES N•3

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