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The Biased Observer

Spring 2004

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The Biased

Observer

Spring 2004

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Table of Contents

buttons * anne m. palaia 6

insight * daryl lorick 8

neck lace * bamini jayabalasingham 9

identity * monika dutt 10

the day i became concerned about human rights 12 * gilbert burnham

preciosa * yasmin kaderali 15

praying with eyes open * steve koh 16

dominican landscape no. 8 * ben herbstman 19

untitled * kitty c. mph 20

anatomy of a biostats hat * laura pacha 21

a 45 year revolution * omsi laicos 22

tsukiji fish market * hoon byun 24

the cannibal * julie mair 25

on a first name basis * ashwin ananthakrishnan 26

film introduction* bethany cole 28

dvd nights in hariaun * joanne katz 30

perpetual climb * bamini jayabalasingham 31

sadness from humor * les roberts 32

motorbike * anne m. palaia 35

carpe diem * anonymous 36

waiting for fall * camille immanuel 38

autumn * andrew shannon 39

preparing for market * daryl lorick 40

about the contributors 41

a guajiro tending the export crop in Viñales 43*anonymous

river wound * lisa folda 44

COVER:Nippostrongylus brasiliensis: The Hygiene Hypothesis & Public Health- A little dirt might be good for you.Joshua Reece, PhD student in MMI

The major premise of the “hygiene hypothesis” is that early exposure to antigens stimulates the immune response, priming it and resulting in decreased allergic reactions later in life. Antigens in question can be of environmental origin (dirt, pet dander) or they can be infectious agents (such as helminths like Nippostrongylus as pictured here). My research focuses on how this worm affects the immune response in the lungs, potentially priming an infected rodent for future protection against allergen challenge. This is highly applicable to world populations and public health, as billions of people are infected with various types of nematodes that use a similar migratory pathway.

FRONT INSIDE COVER:“Come and Get It!”Oil on Canvas, 40”x40”Catherine Styles, 2004

This work references issues regarding mod-ern farming practices in the First World; where almost all the world’s arable lands, providing humanity’s three primary suste-nance crops (wheat, rice and corn), can be found. Approximately 1% of these lands remain in its natural state; the rest has been over farmed for tens and hundreds of years. This should be recognized as a possible source of world tensions in the same way

oil and water are at the present time

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Biased Observer Staff

Editor

Questions/Comments/Suggestions? Email: sabiased@jhsph.edu

Funded through the support of the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health Student Assembly

Table of Contents

buttons * anne m. palaia 6

insight * daryl lorick 8

neck lace * bamini jayabalasingham 9

identity * monika dutt 10

the day i became concerned about human rights 12 * gilbert burnham

preciosa * yasmin kaderali 15

praying with eyes open * steve koh 16

dominican landscape no. 8 * ben herbstman 19

untitled * kitty c. mph 20

anatomy of a biostats hat * laura pacha 21

a 45 year revolution * omsi laicos 22

tsukiji fish market * hoon byun 24

the cannibal * julie mair 25

on a first name basis * ashwin ananthakrishnan 26

film introduction* bethany cole 28

dvd nights in hariaun * joanne katz 30

perpetual climb * bamini jayabalasingham 31

sadness from humor * les roberts 32

motorbike * anne m. palaia 35

carpe diem * anonymous 36

waiting for fall * camille immanuel 38

autumn * andrew shannon 39

preparing for market * daryl lorick 40

about the contributors 41

a guajiro tending the export crop in Viñales 43*anonymous

river wound * lisa folda 44

Name: ruwan ratnayakeCitizenship: british/canadianOccupation: student traveling one wayCan be found: in the special line, shoeless

Name: monika duttCitizenship: canadianOccupation: aspiring iron(wo)manLesson learned in the U.S.: anything can be made with a flag on it

Name: steve kohCitizenship: dual citizenship in south korea and u.s. (?), who knows...Occupation: continuing and perpetual studentPurpose of visit: to get in more debt

Name: bamini jayabalasinghamCitizenship: canadianResident status given when asked at the US border: resident alien...i mean, non-resident alien...i mean, tax-paying non-citizen...i mean...well, what do you want me to be?

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This is a story of how I loved you even before you came to be. How I loved you when you were nothing. And how I loved you in pieces as you grew. This is a story about loneliness. It is a story about living and dying. It is about women and men. This story is a love story. This is the story of you. I won’t tell you much about my mother, but that she gathered buttons. I will tell you about the jars, those great big green glass jars filled with them. Hundreds of thousands. Mother of pearl, plastic and wood. She collected them, she said, one at a time. And each was just as it should be. I won’t tell you about how she died. This is what happens. You should know about my father. The way he cared for us both. How he had a dimple in his chin and that my mother used to set her buttons in it, right there on his face. One after another until she found a piece that fit. And they would laugh together. You should know about my father, and that in the end, or in the beginning, he brought you to me. I knew what you would be even before we met. I hunted the very corners of this place, and when you came, it was as a thought unfolding in the hills of Chang Rai. I would wake early then, to watch the lotus uncurl. That morning, there was a man among them who had risen early, too. As we whispered into the damp, an eyelash fell off his face onto me. The hair appeared black at first, but when

I held it to the moon, I could see the brown of it. Soft. Long. Thick at the bottom. This was how you began. As time went on there were many men like this one, and the way was always the same. When he drifted into sleep, I would take his eyelashes and slip them into my purse beside the bed. And pieces of his tongue, small ones, so he wouldn’t notice they were gone. A bone from the wrist, the pink tip of a finger, a heartbeat. And when he had tucked himself in neatly in front of me, because he could feel the wrinkles of heat left from my body before him. When we were so close that I could see the small hairs on his earlobes that made them appear even softer – like the downy underside of something young, I almost loved him. I loved him in parts. Things happened. Years passed. A thousand nights of stealing beautiful moments. Tangible moments. A plan unfolding. A father aging. A pile of missing pieces collecting moths and dust. Things happened until the end or the beginning. The place where I was when my father passed. Lying under a piano, tracing patterns on the carpet with my fingers. Remembering the way I would rest, as a child, on his stomach. Rising and falling with his breath until I fell into sleep. Damp eyes. Coarse skin. How warm everything was. And just before they took him away, I

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told him that I had found someone else to take care of me. Then I leaned down to where he lay, scooped up the finger spot in his chin, and tucked it into my sleeve. Back in my room I let the dimple roll from my cuff onto the floor. A ceiling fan breathed through the tiny hairs of my back, as I moved over to the pile in the corner. I collected the fingertips and cheekbones. And the wrinkle from a forehead. I carried the soft tip of the nose that bent when it was kissed. Skin and teeth. The color for your eyes. I pulled out all of the pieces and my needle and thread. I stitched you together. Gently, so it wouldn’t hurt. Carefully, so as not to leave any scars. The night made you whole and when there was nothing left, it seemed, I took my own rib and lifted it out. It was softer than I imagined. Whiter. Quickly, quietly, I set it into you. When you didn’t breathe at first, I worried the way only a woman knows. I worried like a mother, a daughter, a sister, a wife. I rested your head on my lap and bent down. I touched you with my wet face until I could see the rise and fall of your chest. Until I felt the steady, calm rhythm under your skin.

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insighta close-up of the photographer’s wife’s eye

daryl lorick

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He kept giving me things that I could don around my neckand I kept accepting gleefully, blindlyso what could I do but accept the noose he gave me in the same fashion

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identity

I have a piece of paper that says that I exist. It contains my picture (neutral expression, no glasses allowed). It verifies my name, assigns me a number, and has a symbol on the front that signifies that I am from section of land that is contained within arbitrarily constructed borders. Without it, all that I have is my own claim that I am me. A very difficult thing to prove.

My legs turned rhythmically as I propelled my bicycle along the empty dusty road that followed the Pacific coast of western Mexico. I could barely see the red shirt of the rider behind me, and there was no one ahead of me. I revelled in knowing that every kilometre I travelled was possible only because of my straining muscles, dripping sweat, and laboured breathing. The sun was shining, children (and men amazed at seeing a woman flying by on a bike) would try to race me, and young girls would wave from the roadside fruit stands. It was at one of these fruit stands that I realised I had left something behind. My identity. I searched frantically through my panniers for the small bag that contained my passport, money, bank card, visa, housekey, driver’s licence, health insurance…but it was gone. Left at the last rest stop? Dropped along the way? Stolen? Impossible to know. We had

covered over one hundred kilometres that day, and finding a lone beige bag in the distance was an impossible task. I realised with quickly mounting horror that I no longer had any official, stamped, laminated, decorated documents labelling me as a Canadian, a student, a person in this world. And I had just left a country which was on “orange alert,” a country where brown skin was often regarded with suspicion, a country where large pictures of George Bush and the World Trade Centre (with the caption “We Will Never Forget”) welcomed immigrants at the border. I had taken it for granted that I would be allowed to cross international boundaries and military checkpoints by virtue of being from a country considered “safe” in a world of “rogue” states. That I could walk up to any ATM machine with a card imprinted with my name and obtain money for food and hostels through a complex computerized system that had all of my personal information recorded. That I could hand my passport to security personnel at the airport, have it stamped, and walk onto a plane and return home. All assumptions were now invalidated as I found myself in Tomatlan, Mexico, population 3000, with no money, no paperwork, and no idea what to do. So I did the first thing I do whenever I panic. I called my parents. Collect.

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They quickly found the toll-free, collect-call accepting Canadian government number for lost/confused/jailed/ill travellers. The words “Welcome to Canada; Bienvenue au Canada,” never sounded so wonderful. The operator reassured me and informed me of my options. As he cancelled my lost passport, I felt a momentary twinge, as if a physical connection had been broken and I was suddenly floating. As if I could disappear at that moment and there would be nothing left to identify me except for a lonely bike lying at the side of the road.

After several hectic bus-rides, I returned to the nearest city with a Canadian embassy and walked into a local photo shop. The woman who took my picture casually handed me the two small rectangles, unaware that she held part of my personhood in her hands.

I then spent many frustrating hours at the Mexican Immigration Office, struggling to explain in broken Spanish to people from whom I was trying to get a new tourist card that I had no I.D. to show them, that they would simply have to believe that I was who I said I was. All of the random items I collected from various locations were compiled with yet other papers in the calm haven of the embassy office. Phonecalls were made to contacts in Canada to corroborate that I was not making myself up. Finally, after days of bus-rides, email money transfers, and a large parental phone bill, I

was given a new piece of paper with a name, picture, number, and symbol. I wondered if the outcome would have been different if I was not from Canada, if English was not my first language, if I did not have a government that accepted collect calls. Even with all of these supposed advantages, it seemed that being me was not only a function of my own certainty, it also required multiple stages of confirmation. I unconsciously clutched my new passport tightly in my hands as I would a security blanket as I boarded the plane to go home.

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amthe day i became concerned about human rights

When I arrived in Malawi in 1977, I was vaguely aware of the country’s poor human rights reputation. But I didn’t pay too much attention to those things. Malawi was a country where things worked. There was little financial corruption, the mail was delivered and the busses ran. My focus was entirely on the survival of a venerable rural hospital (situated in a wonderful David Livingston-camped-here location) which was just having the latest in a series of near death experiences. Beyond the hospital there was crushing rural poverty, and an appalling infant mortality rates to be concerned about. There were medical assistants students to train, interesting diseases to study, villages which needed wells, millions of trees to plant, leprosy to control, and on and on. This was now my life, and it was flank speed ahead. True, one heard rumors of political prisoners and mysterious disappearances. Every so often we heard that Mr.Catchpole, the third-generation hangman from London’s East End, had come to Malawi for a short stay. His professional pride of “never having duffed a job” was well known. While life at the hospital went on, Jehovah’s Witnesses vanished, cabinet ministers mysteriously died in auto accidents, and dissidents disappeared. His Excellency the Life President, Ngwazi Dr H. Kamuzu Banda ran the county with no ambiguity. But at the hospital there was cerebral malaria to treat, onchocerciasis to

investigate, and new hospital wards to build. The daily noise of a busy hospital drowned out the disquieting background sounds. You got used to being spied on, knowing your telephone was tapped, having letters opened, and getting your weekly TIME magazine with rectangles of black ink and missing pages from the censor. The all-powerful Malawi Congress Party may have been causing suffering and grief for many, but it left my colleagues and me alone to get on with our work.

This complacency about human rights abuses changed suddenly one day. Ishmael Mazunda, my most able tutor in the hospital’s Medical Assistant’s school was arrested on orders from the Party. There were no charges specified, but being from a minority tribe in the North didn’t help his case. What to do? I felt I should do something, but what? His family, fearing for themselves scattered; his wife going to Lesotho, and his children to his mother in Tanzania. From time to time we had reports about Ishmael, so we knew he had not yet been fed to the crocodiles, a common fate of those falling from favor.

While I was still uncertain about what could or might be done to get him out , I received an urgent telephone call on a Thursday night from the Life President’s companion, Miss Kadzamira. “Come to the palace immediately she said.” As in the middle ages a summons to the palace in the night in Malawi was not

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the day i became concerned about human rights

auspicious. I was uneasy. Making it to the palace in a record 45 minutes, I was quickly waved through successive ranks of the armed palace guards. Entering the palace proper, I was escorted directly into the presidential bedroom where the Life President in gasping in acute pulmonary edema. Within a few hours he was breathing comfortably, but well before then the Thugs had began arriving to be on hand for any eventuality. The Thugs were an elite gang who did presidential bidding a n d a r r a n g i n g disappearances as required. In essence, they controlled the state. I stayed with the patient through the night. The next morning the Thugs and I were served breakfast by the palace chef in an anteroom. Before starting to eat, the Thug-in-Chief, a man who had sent countless people to their fate, turned to me and very politely asked if I would pray for a blessing on the food. For just a moment I thought of asking for fire from heaven to consume them all. For the next

months I visited the Life President regularly to monitor his cardiac function, and continued as his doctor until I came to Johns Hopkins..

All this time my mind was in turmoil. My friend Ishmael was being held in dangerous circumstances, and I was now responsible for the life of the country’s Chief Warder. What

to do? My usual ethics consultant was Father Paddy at Molere, an Irish mission station some 10km down the road from the hospital. I laid out my quandary to Paddy asking him if he though this was the time to confront the Life President about Ishmael’s case. “Gilbert, are you ready for martyrdom?” was

his response. We both agreed that I was not. “Then think of something else,” was Paddy’s helpful reply.

While trying to think of that something else, a letter amazingly arrived at the hospital from the Basel chapter of Amnesty International. At that time in Malawi, just

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having a letter addressed to you by an human rights organization would be rewarded by instant imprisonment or deportation, even if the letter were unopened, and the contents unknown. But the letter reached me, somehow evading the censors and the paid spies at the hospital. Was there anything the Basel chapter could do to help? A friend was leaving the country soon, and he smuggled out a reply under an alias and with addresses of Ishamael’s wife Tabitha who had started nursing in Lesotho, and his widowed mother caring for the children in Tanzania. Later I was to learn that the Basel AI chapter had generously and consistently financially supported both Tabitha and the children. I determined then that whenever I could do so, without risk to the hospital and my colleagues, I would become a supporter of AI.

“Something else” to help Ishmael developed from a routine visit to the American Embassy in Lilongwe. There was little reliable information in Malawi so the country was always awash in rumor. In talking with my patients I had a good a cross sectional sample of rumors going around. The Ambassador and the Deputy Chief of Mission were always eager to know what the street talk was, so a trip to the capital included a debrief with them. I brought up Ishmael’s circumstances at our next meeting. Then I learned that the German Embassy was upset about a Malawian

neurosurgeon, trained in Germany with German government funding, who had been arrested on nebulous accusations. Together a plan was made. Soon a US cabinet member was coming for high-level meetings, and there were similar meetings with the Malawi government scheduled by the Germans and others. Together the Ambassadors created a joint demand for release of political prisoners as a condition for further aid.

On a happy day, a short while later, Ishmael, along with 92 other political prisoners was released to a rejoicing crowd of family and well-wishers. Ishaemel, Tabitha and the children settled in a quiet place on the Zambia border and established a not-for-profit clinic and maternity unit to help the dirt-poor people in this area. And Gilbert has been a member of AI since the day he left Malawi 12 years ago.

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the day i became concerned about human rights

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I sat there with my eyes open. I kept my head down but peered around at all the bowed heads and closed eyes. Everyone, from my brother to my uncle to my father. All with their eyes closed and heads down. My brother who never went to church except to scam on the innocent girls, who in fact were not so innocent, but expected to be hit on and be hooked to the most out of bounds kid they can find at church. They would always justify it by saying that they felt sorry for the hoodlums and the like. It would be a cause worth achieving if I, mere girl, can change the lost boy’s mind and life by bringing it back to Christ. How wonderful would it be to take that edge off of the man? Even if they never did want to. Where is the joy and excitement in having a boy just like every other kid at church who does what everyone tells him to do? The interest lay in the fact that he was the way he was and that intrigued them. This was an easy way to trap them and so he did. He had mastered the method of getting a “good” church girl and making them realize that they are in fact a “bad” girl. They just did not know it yet. He had his head down and had his eyes closed. My father. Never went to church until my brother got so bad that he needed some crutch to lean on. He did not even believe in the Bible word for word. Admitted it as much. How can you believe that couple loaf of bread could feed

the masses? Rise from dead? Who the hell knew what happens when you die? The point is son, when you need that extra push and that extra energy to keep going in life, there is nothing better than religion. It will give you what they call the Alpha’s strength or energy. I think it is more psychological than anything else. It works and so why not use it? Prayer doesn’t give miracles. It is a way to express oneself and to be closer to that extra lift. The book even says that you should not expect God to do everything for you, but that He helps those who help himself. Dad never believed that prayer alone would solve everything but thought that it was a good way to be close to that unknown part of himself. Now, I see him with his head bowed, no doubt searching for that extra energy within himself. Now, uncle was a different story. He actually truly believed. I have no idea what happened, but almost overnight, about five years ago, he became a soldier of Christ. He championed everyone in the family to attend church on a regular basis and he would take an active role at his church. It was not enough that his girls knew the Bible in English but in Korean as well. More of God’s words to live by. He went to church almost four times a week: Wednesday night Bible study, Friday night choir practice, Sunday early service and Sunday regular service. Then there was the weekly house visits where different families got together to sing and talk amongst one another. I understand that his events were a big deal. When he would pray, the words just came out like a fountain and it was an attempt at grandiose sermon to wow his audience. I never understood why it

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was so necessary to pray like that. Regular speech and normal way of talking were not enough for God. He required a special way of speaking to. Imagery, analogies, allusions, etc were all a part of how one was to pray to the Man. That was not needed to talk to one’s kids or nephews because they were not divine enough for him to talk up to. Did this mean that a little kid who was praying to God in choppy, almost non-sensical way was not being heard by the Almighty? I sat and looked over at these three men, all with their eyes closed. Then I looked over at Grandpa who was so far gone that he could not possibly understand what was being said about him or who was even present around him. His hair was plastered on his head like wet strands of concrete ready to solidify at any moment. Eyes were almost closed but not really. It would not have mattered. He probably could not see much now. Lips and tongue were constantly dry even with the frequent wet sponge treatment he would get. A thin slick of lip balm covered his lips and it made him look like hungry leech ready to suck anything this life had to offer so to make it his own. His throat was cut so to place a tube down and force air down his lungs. A thin tube went into his left side, attached to a bottle and a bag, pushing their nourishment down his intestines while a round bag attached to his right side collected the undigested remnants. His wrists and feet were tied to the bed corners so he would not pull out his tubes and bags. In many ways he was tied down like Christ himself. All limbs tied down, mind going soft due to pain or rapture, punctured sides with water and other junk dripping out, mouth dry to the point of cracking,

external forces allowing him to take breath after breath… I suppose the only thing that was missing was the crown. The prayer went on and on…Heavenly Father, Oh You who sit upon High May You look down upon Your childBless him who is crying out for You For You do we bow our heads Humbly do we ask for Your blessingFather, God Your Touch and Your Grace Give him peaceAs You have given to all the elders A peace one cannot imagine On Ear th where pain and sufferingRule and You are our only ally Take him oh Lord! Away from this place and giveHim peace and bless him As this life might end So that another, ever-lasting… As I looked down at Grandpa and listened to the words, I began to scream within my head for the foolishness to end and let us start living in peace. Here on Earth.Oh You who sit on high Can You see and can You feel The pain my loved one is in?His cries do not call for You We bow our heads in his memory not Yours

steve koh

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Humbly do we seek end to thisYou, a taker Your Touch and Your Grace Gave him painAs You will give to his children A torment we cannot even imagine At the end of our daysWhen time of Your choosing Take us from our loved ones Away from our lifeEverything we know and cherish For the unknown’s start So to make room for another… Tears in my eyes. My fingers clenched so tight that nails dug into my palms. Cheeks flushed with anger and my eyes blazed in anger and indignation. Body moving this way and that, contorting to my emotions. My legs struggling to stand in place and allowing the prayer to go on and on. Mocking me and us at this place in front of he who will pass on despite the wishes and the power of those he had loved and who had loved him. Then with an Amen, the prayer came to a close and just like that, he opened his eyes a little more and looked up at me. He smiled with his parched and lip balm glossed lips. At that moment, his hair was slicked back, dignified like, just as he used to do it. Eyes wide open with those piercing gaze with a little sparkle of laughter behind them. His chest taking in the air from the machine, moving up and down in vigorous rhythm, not missing a beat. Not caring about the attachments he had on him, his hands and feet lay motionless and at peace. He looked up at me with an air of someone who was thankful. Startled, I looked up

at my brother who came over to stand at Grandpa’s side and held his hand. Locking his eyes with his Grandpa, my brother held his hand. No more of that bravado and the attitude, but a moment of silence with his Granddad. My father was sitting on a chair looking off into space with a hint of tear in his eyes but also with a smile on his lips. His mind somewhere in the past, I am sure, thinking about a moment in time when he laughed with his father. My uncle, meanwhile, was talking to the minister and voicing his thanks, on behalf of the family. I noticed that his body shook with emotion shaking the minister’s hand. Now I knew. The prayer wasn’t for the dying only but also for the living. It wasn’t just for the believers but also for those who did not or could not. It was the only thing left at the end to which we can put all of our hopes and fears and dreams in and allow it to take us away from the pain and the suffering. Bowing and closing my eyes now, I still remember the way Granddad looked over at me, transformed with the prayer and resurrected with what can only be called peace beyond pain and suffering.

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dominican landscape no. 8ben herbstman

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“The haiku, a more recent development, contains 17 syllables, in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables.”

Flat cat on highwayoozing life from either end

all nine gone at once

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laura pacha

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a 45 year revolutiono

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de la Catedral was closed off, $40 to enter. Tourists everywhere, barely a local in sight. All part of the plan. El comandante and his plan. A couple of Cuba libres and mojitos and we called it a night. Perhaps we would have better luck on the first. It was, I must say, quite anticlimactic for the First New Year’s Day. Indeed, the Cuban papers had advertised live music in every neighborhood of la Habana for the First. That’s the way things are in Cuba: tourists live in one world, celebrating New Year’s Eve, and Cubans in another, celebrating the 45th anniversary of La Revolución, the first of January. We headed to the Malecón to see Los Van Van and, suddenly, in the middle of thousands of Cubans, we had arrived at a place we had not been able to find before - the Cuban Cuba. This was what I had been looking for, Habaneros in their element. And how were they? Healthy and happy, drinking cheap rum from small boxes and dancing with their friends.

The Cuba I wanted to experience was

elusive. Just as there are local buses, local cabs, and local hotels (which a tourist is not supposed to use), there are tourist buses, tourist cabs, and tourist hotels. For the tourist, things are a little nicer, a little faster, and, more often than not, 26 times more expensive. A careful observer could not deny the cleverness with which Fidel has ruled the island throughout his Revolución – the revolution

of the people and for the people as it were. In order to keep the Cuban economy alive, he has established t h i s s e c o n d economy, and the interplay works, with surprisingly l i t t le overlap. Before tourism, he played games

with the Soviets, capitalizing on Cuba’s proximity to and enmity towards the US. He has always found a way to keep the perpetually listing country afloat.

After visiting Cuba, I give Fidel even more credit. Having lived in many other parts of the world (but mostly the US), I have something to compare Cuba to, or rather, I don’t. Out of every country I’ve been too, Cuba is the one where I have seen

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the least poverty. As public health students, we are concerned about nutrition, stable living conditions, education, and healthcare. Cubans have these. All of them. Some houses are in disrepair, some have too many people under one roof, but every one of them has a roof. Does it come as a surprise that many Baltimore residents would be better off under Castro than Bush? It’s true that only a very small number of Cubans could obtain the quality of healthcare that I can, but what percentage of people in Baltimore can?

So, I’m a Fidel supporter, a naïve, over-educated, platter receiving, American who doesn’t know trouble when he sees it? Not quite. The expense of Fidel’s actions has been freedom, his original “long-term objective.” In order to enforce his ideals, he has forsaken simple freedoms that every impoverished Baltimore resident can enjoy; the freedom to voice your opinion and to vote for your leaders. I am not condoning this. While socialism can be remarkably successful (producing marvels such as the incredibly efficient Scandinavian healthcare systems with which we are all familiar), success at the expense of political freedom puts those accomplishments in jeopardy. La Revolución cannot perpetually resist the freedoms that Cubans seek. One way or another, change is coming. If the US opens travel and trade to Cuba, Fidel would

get more headaches than support, and many argue that he has played a major role in maintaining the embargo. Luckily for him, we are mired in antiquated animosity and a little voting block in Florida, where every vote counts. Alternatively, it may be his death that brings change. Regardless of why, I wonder how Cuba will change. What will happen when the inevitably huge influx of foreign capital comes? Will Cubans be deer caught in the headlights, returning to the servitude and poverty of the 1940’s American playground? Even though El comandante took a wrong turn with civil liberties and we will all watch the fall, its due time to take note of his many impressive positive accomplishments and reflect on what we can learn from them.

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Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyohoon byun

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A warm breeze passes over me announcing spring Its sweetness briefly lingers in the stale airBut the sound of children’s laugher brings little joyI am like an old woman Tired and weakFragile bones barely support my listless frameThe pain travels, but never leaves my side

For years they said it was all in my mindTo ignore the rings of fire burning my wrists and ankles the tender muscles recoiling at the softest touch the sharp pains sprinting across small tracks in my face like hot piercing needles and the fifty other symptoms marking different periods of my life No they assured meThe sun does not steal my breath nor do the rays mask my smileBut although my thoughts were immersed in a fog of confusionI knew my body did not lie

I remember long hikes unnaturally tainted by images of bears waiting behind each curve in the trailThe constant watching for the lurking shadow in the green blue wavesI dreamt of wild dogs attacking and wondered if I succumbed to lions in times past My fears so misplaced, but the wolf is realFor I am both predator and preyDevouring myself one cell at a time

I peek out the window hoping their innocent laughter will torment me no longerReminding myself that the worst will eventually passAnd once again I will enjoy the scents carried by the wind and take pleasure in small walks along the water’s edgeBut today the feast continues and my gluttony appears to have no end

For the millions of lupus patients worldwide

the cannibalju

lie mair

26

on a first name basis...as

hw

in a

nan

thak

rish

nan

Sometime at the end of June last year, I landed in New York city and took my first step onto US soil. Armed with a couple of big suitcases (one of which had cracked because somewhere during the transit, someone had flung it right to the bottom of the luggage pile), a desi accent, and a 31-character-long name. I knew that would be a problem when my five minutes with the customs officer was spent in teaching her how to pronounce it, instead of explaining the pickles or curry powder in my bag.

The first was promptly stashed away in my cupboard.

The second masked by exclamations of “Cool!” and “Dude!” and “Wassup?”.

And the third firmly emblazoned onto my student ID card in small letters, so that my entire name could fit onto it. As a result, one needs to squint real close to make out the individual letters. It seems a little funny to me, coming from a land of Sivaramakrishnans and Venkatasubramaniams (yes, these are real, and not so uncommon names in India!), in this country of Pauls, Mikes, and Kathys, Ananthakrishnan is proving to be too much of a mouthful to pronounce. In spite of it being said exactly as it’s written. No silent letters waiting to trip you up. No hidden syllables. Unlike Nikolaievna. Or Juan, which is written with a ‘J’ but pronounced with an ‘H’. Or Jan,

which is also written with a ‘J’ but pronounced with a ‘Y’.

A long name has its own advantages, no doubt. I’ve had people exclaim “Wow!” when I introduce myself by my name. Or they see my name in print. That’s the closest one can get to being a celebrity, I guess, without having to do anything. “Kennedy? – Wow!” “Ananthakrishnan? – Wow!”

And it’s gotten me out of a couple of presentations. I mean, given a choice between Ananthakrishnan, and John, who is the instructor going to pick? As I sit there nervously waiting to see if I would be called up to present a paper I had neglected to read till the hour before, I can see confusion in the instructors eyes as she tries to keep the 15 letters of my last name straight. A couple of aborted attempts later, John is called on to present the paper. I sit back and smile to myself. My name has done its duty. John didn’t even have a fair chance.

However, it’s not without its drawbacks. Especially when I have to spell it out over the telephone. I call up the airlines to confirm my flight reservation that I had booked the week before.

She asks me for my last name. I hesitate. Do you want the confirmation

number, I ask her. No, just give me your name, she tells

27

on a first name basis...ash

win

anan

thakrish

nan

me, wanting to spare me from reading out the 10-digit alphanumeric confirmation number.

Are you sure? I ask her. You don’t know my name, I think silently.

Yes, just give me your last name, she replies confidently.

Okay, here goes. Ananthakrishnan. I can imagine her confusion at the other

end as she tried to figure out what hit her. Ten seconds of pregnant silence.

Can you spell that out for me? She asks tentatively.

I feel like giving her the option of taking the confirmation number again. I decide not to. She asked for it.

Sure, I say. A-N-A-N-T-H-A-K-R-I-S-H-N-A-N.

A couple of minutes of spelling out ‘N like in Nancy’ and ‘T as in Thomas’, checking, respelling out, and rechecking later, my flight is confirmed.

As we thank each other politely, she remarks. You’ve got a nice long name. I’m not sure if the nice applied to ‘name’ or to ‘long’. “How did you manage it when you were growing up?” As if one were asking about a particularly difficult adolescent hurdle. Embarrassing hairdos. Acne. Long name.

I debate if I should introduce her to some more of the South Indian culture by telling her about a few more names that would

make mine sound like a nickname. I decide not. She’s had enough. Earned her hours pay. I hang up.

From now on, I think I’ll just be on a first name basis with everyone. “What big eyes you have, granny!”“All the better to see you with my dear”“What big ears you have granny!”“All the better to hear you my dear” — Little Red Riding Hood, Grimm’s fairy tales

“What a big name you have Ashwin!”All the better to confuse you, my dear!

28

bet

han

y co

lefilm introduction

“What does that have to do with health?!” I and the other organizers of the 2004 Heath and Human Rights Film Festival were asked that question enough times by fellow students that I considered making it the theme of the film festival. My short answer to the question is everything has to do with health. Give me Power Point and a blank distal and proximate determinants model, and I can show you the connection between any two things- no matter how seemingly disparate they may be. But the real answer to the question is of course more complex. When people ask “What does that have to do with health?” are they not really attempting to denude health of political connotation and social context? Does health take place in some vacuum of the universe not touched by environmental influences or social factors? Epidemiologic principles and sophisticated statistical maneuvering (both of which I have become a great devotee of over this year) have played a vital role in ending some of humankind’s miseries, without doubt. But this limiting and compartmentalizing view of health is what allows short-gain policies to jeopardize people’s health and result in wider inequalities. How can I have well-being if I live in a war zone? How can I have well-being if I am expected to have nine children in my lifetime? Where does health take place? In the doctor’s office? Certainly, but it is by no means limited to this space. If I spend 20 minutes and $2,000 at a clinic and then return to my home next to an industrial waste site, what have I accomplished? Health is economics. Health is political. Health is power. And health concerns resources. One cannot take these elements out of health just as one cannot take them out of a presidential election or trading stock. Film provides an opportunity to connect in real time with events and people around the world. It is provocative and stimulating. It bridges a gap I sometimes feel as a student of public health- that gap between the statistic in the book and the life the statistic represents. Film allows the viewer to relieve the tension between generalizing the aggregate population and the suffering and hardships experienced by the individual- a recovering crack addict in New York City, a woman seeking sex selective abortion in Tajikistan or a young man living with HIV in Sub-Saharan Africa. Film is a mechanism to give a voice to the marginalized, dispossessed and those without power. Film is perhaps most powerful when used to document human rights abuses and create awareness about fighting for livable wage, the absurdity of war or female genital mutilation. I encourage you to view the films selected for this year’s Health and Human Rights Film Festival and other media about human rights and discover what that has to do with health.

29

A Closer WalkThe Global AIDS Epidemic

Ventre LivreSterilization and abortion in Brazil

Donka: X-Ray of an African HospitalA day in a hospital in Guinea

Live ContainersHeroin trafficking in Tajikistan

Wishing for 7 Sons and 1 DaughterSex-selective abortion in Azerbaijan

The Desired Number Nigerian conflict between family planning and traditional values

A Day’s Work, A Day’s PayWelfare-to-Work in NYC

Warrior MarksFemale genital mutilation

Gaza StripPalestinian life in Gaza

Silk PatternsThe fate of girls in Mongolia

No Man’s LandThe Bosnian-Serb conflict

About BaghdadLife in post-war, occupied Iraq

Death Threats in ColombiaVictims’ perspectives on facing death

Silent VictimsGender-based violence in the Kurdistan Province of Iran

Tina Machinda in ZimbabweAn activist fights for gay rights

Love and Diane The marginalized in NYC

JHSPH Health and Human Rights Festival,January 28th, 2004

30

joan

ne

katz

DVD nights in hariaun

The light flickers on the white-washed wall. A group of women in brightly colored burkas float before us. We are watching the movie, Kandahar, a story of a Canadian-Afghan journalist who goes back to Afghanistan to save her sister. It is November 2003, and our ability to watch this in a rural backwater of Nepal is a measure of how far technology has come since I first started working in this Himalayan Kingdom in 1988. When we first set up office in Kathmandu, we had no telephone and used a telex to communicate with the United States. Our field site for our research study on the health effects of vitamin A supplements for pre-school children was based in Hariaun, a small town in Sarlahi district that borders on the Gangetic flood plains of northern India. There was no electricity in the district. We had no telephones or computers in our field office. There was one television in Hariaun, run off a string of truck batteries from a local tea shop. It was an 8 to 11 hour drive from Kathmandu to Hariaun, depending on the state of the road that varied with the severity of the monsoon season. We have continued to work in that same district, and many changes in technology have occurred. In Kathmandu, we obtained a telephone, later a fax machine, and then email, which has made the fax machine almost obsolete. We now have powerful desktop computers for entering our data and they are linked by a local area network. In Sarlahi, the district was electrified in 1997. We were able to obtain landline telephones. We used these to call Kathmandu and access email and the internet. Satellite dishes started to appear on the roofs of village houses. We bought a television set for our living quarters and have watched World Cup soccer and cricket matches from an Indian television station. But our final coup was to bring a laptop computer and attach it to a projector and portable speakers so as to watch DVD’s in Hariaun. Some things have moved backward. The landline telephones no longer work in Sarlahi. Due to the Maoist insurgency, the lines were damaged several months ago and have not yet been repaired. Cell phones are now ubiquitous in Kathmandu, but they do not work in Hariaun because parts from the communications tower in the nearby district were stolen. The journey from Kathmandu to Hariaun is longer because of the checkpoints set up by the army to deter Maoist activity. Is life better for village people now than 15 years ago? Much of this technology is not accessible to the poor. They are caught in the crossfire of a guerrilla conflict, as so many ordinary people tend to be in such situations. Yet the rice grows, the fields of mustard turn yellow in the sunlight, babies are born, and perhaps through some simple technologies like vitamin A, more of them will live to adulthood, and perhaps some of these new technologies will also help bring them and their children a better life in the future.

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perpetual climbb

amin

i jayabalasin

gh

amDVD nights in hariaun

32

A very funny thing happened in Bosnia back in 1993. I was arrested for espionage. I realize that this is not how tales of humor are supposed to begin. But, in times of war, things are rarely as they are supposed to be.

In the fall of 1993, the UNHCR had been unable to bring supplies into central Bosnia from the Belgrade side. The chance arose for vehicles to pass from Belgrade into central Bosnia and UNHCR did not dare let the opportunity pass. When they looked in their warehouses, all they had was salt. So, they filled a couple of trucks, and sent a convoy of cars and two trucks on its way, hoping to get the checkpoints accustomed to seeing UN vehicles pass and to open a new supply route. The convoy eventually made it to the city of Tuzla. In Bosnian, the word Tuzla means salt. In the former Yugoslavia, Tuzla had been the main supplier of salt for the entire republic. Thus, the UNHCR effort was seen by Bosnians as the proverbial example of bringing coals to Newcastle.

Shortly thereafter, I was in Tuzla doing an assessment for the State Department. As I walked in front of the salt factory, with its huge 6-8 meter high piles of bagged salt, I could not help but to take a photograph. A little guard who must’ve been less than 5’2” and more than 60 years old came pedaling up like mad on his bicycle. I’m sure he had sat out the whole war lamenting that he was not given his chance to be a hero and he was not going to let this one pass. He jumped off of his bike before it even stopped moving. He pointed to the gun on his hip, he pointed

back to the gate of the plant, and without words communicated that I was destined to have a tour of the salt factory. He marched back behind me with his hand on his gun the whole way.

When we arrived at the main office of the plant, the manager was so embarrassed and apologetic. Unfortunately, another guard at the front gate had already called the police with the report of a spy and he was going to have to file a report. He assured me that this was not a problem and he would explain everything to the police when they arrived. When the policemen arrived, they were so embarrassed. But, espionage was a serious accusation, and they were required to bring me to the police station. En route, I drove by my CDC colleague while hanging out of the police car and yelled that I would be back shortly. He had a slightly worried look on his face. When we arrived at the police station, the chief of police was so embarrassed and apologetic. But, given the accusation of espionage, he was going to have to hold me for a while until he checked out my credentials. Everyone involved, including me, was quite entertained and lighthearted about the whole affair. As he spoke English well and saw Americans so rarely, the time passed quite pleasantly in the unlocked cell with his inquiries about why Americans did not care about Bosnia and if Michael Jackson really was a human.

All of this good-natured banter came to an end when the UNHCR civil affairs officer arrived. She was a short tempered little American who I suspect was very effective at her job. She asked if he was holding Dr. Roberts and why,

les

rob

erts

sadness from humor

33

and listened impatiently as he explained about a camera and the factory and the seriousness of the accusation of espionage. It was clear that the two of them had met many times before. It was also clear that they didn’t like each other. Then the civil affairs officer said something quite extraordinary. She said,” Under the Geneva Conventions, humanitarian aid workers have the right to access……” The police Chief responded, “Yes, I know.” Up until that time, I had always seen the Geneva Conventions and international law as some abstract notions valued more by lawyers and historians than by the people whom they most affected. But here in Bosnia, two people with kind hearts and good intent, who found themselves on the opposite sides of a conflict, were using the Geneva Conventions as a foundation or template on which to speak and resolve issues. However comical and trivial this particular crisis might have been, it gave me a tiny, shallow glimpse into what international law could be.

Last year I was working for a NGO that was approached by the US Government to provide humanitarian services in Iraq. At the time, there was no crisis in Iraq, only the expectation that the Americans would invade. As signatories to the Red Cross Code of Conduct, this NGO was obligated to: not be a tool of any government’s foreign-policy, remain neutral in all conflicts, prioritize their activities in order to address the most acute needs first, and involve the local community in the planning and implementation of any relief efforts. Instead, the NGO took $4

million to work in a place where none of them had ever set foot, where there was an internationally recognized government that didn’t want them assisting the Americans, and they did so without any involvement or discussion with the supposed beneficiaries.

For me, the most disturbing part was that all of the NGO’s who took money from the invaders operated on the assumption that the US occupying forces would not be capable of fulfilling their obligations under the Geneva Conventions. Under the Geneva Conventions, occupying armies are required to provide for the well-being of the civilians they control: both physical well-being in terms of food and water and medicine, and security. In recent crises involving non-protracted war scenarios, such as East Timor and Kosovo, the number of civilian deaths from violence far outnumbered deaths from malnutrition or infectious diseases. In fact, in the Gulf War in 1991 about 3500 Iraqi civilians died from US bombs, perhaps 16,000, mostly Kurds in the North, died of infectious diseases; but 50,000 died from revenge killings at the hands of other Iraqis. There was no reason to think things would be different in 2003. It seems to me that for an NGO’s to say that the US Army cannot be expected to provide water or medical services in spite of their obligations under the Geneva Conventions, was in some way also letting them off the hook with regard to their obligations to provide security. Thus, in my mind, there was not even room for debate. I had no choice but to resign. A year later, it appears likely that not one

les rob

ertssadness from humorsadness from humor

34

life was saved with that $4 million. Among all of the machinations during

and after my resignation, by far the most disturbing aspect was the distance that became visible between me and a couple of my closest colleagues. In particular, I heard repeatedly that they were espousing that I resigned for personal reasons and that the war in Iraq was just an excuse to add punctuation to my departure. It was true that over the 2 1/2 years I was with this NGO I was away from my wife on average four nights a week, with three of those nights being overseas. I was also somewhat exhausted from the never-ending onslaught of work in an under-funded relief agency. But, I was very attached to my programs and coworkers and I was only half a year away from being vested in the retirement program (of which I have no other). It was somewhat excruciating, not only to be unable to imagine why they were willing to take part in this US invasion, but also to see that they had no clue as to the depth of my disgust with the NGO’s position. As time has passed, some of the reasons for the distance between me and my former colleagues have become clearer. For example, many of them have had their formative experiences in African war zones where talk of human rights and international law is moot. Others can’t envision a world more orderly and accountable than the one we presently live in, and think it cruelly idealistic to let one person suffer in order to lend support to existing international laws. But I can see now that I am also a product of my

experiences. I know that the in the year 2000, for example, about half as many people died of the secondary effects of war in the Congo as died of AIDS in all of Africa. That war probably could have been prevented by one timely phone call from Bill Clinton. In spite of having reasonably good data about the mortality induced by the war, I am scarred by the inability of my data to bring about a more timely end to that war. This may make me irrationally war-adverse. But, of all the experiences that make me recoil at the prospect of taking the Geneva Conventions lightly, I think that it was the gut-busting encounter with the Bosnian police that has been most formative. When I first got back to Atlanta after my Bosnian espionage foray, for quite awhile when I was invited to dinner, people would ask me to tell the story of being arrested in Bosnia. It never failed to induce a good laugh. It therefore seems strange that the experience which induced such humor initially could, in the final analysis, create such distance between me and others. Given that this entire NGO thing did not work out so well, I have been contemplating a new career as a standup comic. But, then again, if I did that, I would probably wind-up with no friends at all.

sadness from humorle

s ro

ber

ts

motorbikekathmandu valley, nepal

anne m. palaia

35

sadness from humor

motorbikekathmandu valley, nepal

anne m. palaia

36

carpe dieman

on

ymo

us “Carpe diem...you only live once!”

were the words that rang through my head as I shook my new Mexican friend’s hand agreeing to carry 30 kilos of something in a suitcase for him to Cuba in exchange for a free ticket. Sounds crazy… sketchy actually and it was but thankfully, it wasn’t illegal and I ended up with 4 days in Cuba and an experience I will remember for all my life.

Here is how it all began...Shortly after arriving in beautiful Playa

Del Carmen in Mexico, I decided to travel up north to the Isla de Mujeres. I had to catch a bus up to Cancun , then a boat to the island. As I boarded the local 30 peso ‘collectivo’ bus, I ran into some other random travelers. They seemed pretty cool, and as solo travelers sometimes do, we stuck together on the bus. I sat next to Chris, whom I soon found out was a Southern Californian Phish-head/financial analyst, so we got along quite well. I asked if he was also heading to the Isla, but he said, “no, i am going to Cuba for free. I just have to carry a suitcase for this guy and he pays for my ticket”. I must have given him the ‘are you fu#@*ing crazy’ look because his explanation immediately followed. He told me that it was part of a Mexican program to help Cuban families receive food, clothes, toys, gifts, etc, because they can’t really get any so called ‘luxury’ items and because a visitor is only allowed to bring gifts once a year, foreign

travelers were often needed to help take things over. Soon, Chris had convinced me it was worth investigating. I had no idea me and my little jansport pack would soon be slurping down mojitos and dancing to Cuban salsa.

To shorten the story, I got off the bus with him in Cancun, investigated this deal, met all people involved, inspected the bags fully, and suddenly was handing over my passport . Mom and Dad did not need to about this for a while! My new Mexican amigos, Moises and Joaquin, were more than friendly and reassured us that once we were in Cuba and saw the situation we would understand. It was an undercover form of human rights activism, and being an American I knew I could never understand the side I was fighting for, but at least I could help so, I swallowed the risk and trusted my intuition. After a confessing phone call to my brother, I boarded a more than viejo(old) Cubana airlines plane that was fumigated with foggy chemicals while in the air and everything was written in Russian. Yes, drinks were included, and two Cristal cervezas did well in easing my nerves. Carpe Diem!

We landed, thank god. Then the flashbacks of that movie with Claire Danes and how she ‘unknowingly’ smuggles drugs into Thailand hit me. AHHHHH! Breathe. And Action: our script, all details of what we were to say, went through fine with customs. Heads nodded. Cha chink - visas were stamped. We

37

carpe dieman

on

ymo

us

carpe diem

made it! We met our ‘friend’ outside the airport and drove to a run down house on the outskirts of Havana. The air was grey but it only made the turquoise houses and blowing pink sheets even brighter. Children were playing in the streets and women rocked on their porch. Our bags were received with smiles. The children would have vitamins, the women could use a soap that smelled nice, and items had their ‘Made in USA’ logos camouflaged. The irony startled me and still does.

Being in Havana is like going back in time: old cars, beautiful colonial buildings grey and run down, huge signs praising Fidel Castro and the Revolution, CHE, Jose Marti. The nightlife was unbelievable - live Cuban Salsa and Son music everywhere, mojitos were always flowing, as well as the ‘puros’, cigars. We explored the area and talked to so many Cubans who were friendly and very open to sharing what they thought of their communist country, Fidel and the Cuba-USA conflicts, more than I had expected. In many ways my experience was unique as I spoke Spanish and was not always assumed to be American. It was amazing for me to learn so much about politics, and have such directinteraction with Cubans. It was so real. I understood what Moises and Joaquin meant. Stores nor supermarkets exist, not to mention money! Resources for anything are scarce. But hunger and crime were not visible either. But was it just being

hidden? Nobody complained about health care. Hmmm.…We stayed with a woman named Elvia, who had wrinkles from smiling so much. She could not have been any sweeter, and we were welcomed into her house, her life. Where did the lack of freedom and choice fit into her smile? I knew I couldn’t understand her life, and thus I couldn’t make any justifications or sense of the situation. Who was I to make a judgement? So instead, I shared the simple moments of just being with Elvia. Being in Cuba. In the end, I wasn’t sure who was doing the human rights activism.

Carpe Diem!

38

waiting for fallcamille immanuel

39

You have the air of an early fall morning,Streaming sun on chameleon leaves.

RadiantRusset

Revelation.

Autumn holding fast to the warmth of the summer.A suffused beauty,

A promise of home.

Perhaps a sudden, auburn afternoon,when the wind wishes through kaleidoscope trees.

autumnan

drew

shan

no

n

40

preparing for marketindian women in mathura roast sweet potatoes to sell at market

daryl lorick

41

About the Contributors...Ashwin N. Ananthakrishnan is a physician from Pondicherry, India; a little coastal town which was previously a french colony. He enjoys reading and writing, music, movies and meeting people.

Gilbert Burnham is Director of the Center for International Emergency, Disaster and Refugee Studies (CIEDRS). He holds a MD from Loma Linda University in California, is board-certified in Internal Medicine, and holds an MSc and PhD from the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. He has been on the faculty of JHSPH since 1991.

Hoon Byun is an analyst at HSRDC.

Bethany Cole is an MPH student working towards a certificate in Health and Human Rights and a concentration in Women and Reproductive Health. Before attending BSPH she worked on health projects in Cameroon, Kenya, Ghana, Dominican Republic and India. After school she hopes to get back to New York City where she will continue her upward trajectory.

Lisa Folda is a first year PFHS MHS student.

Ben Herbstman is completing an MHS in Mental Health. When not learning about the world’s many mental disorders, he nurses an interest in photography.

Camille Immanuel is finishing her Masters in Biochemisty and Molecular Biology and is waiting to hear about an internship from Children International Health Services for next year. She will be entering the upcoming application cycle for Medical School. She paints and writes poetry in her free time, which most oft exemplifies her thoughts on the “human condition”.

Joanne Katz is a Professor in the Department of International Health. She received her B.Sc. in Statistics and Economics from Cape Town University, South Africa in 1978, an M.Sc. in Statistics from Princeton University in 1981, and an Sc.D. in International Health from Hopkins in 1992. Current research include a survey of pediatric eye disease in Baltimore, and randomized community trials in Bangladesh and Nepal.

42

joshua reece

Omsi Laicos is a student who goes by another name when there are not people ready to fine him $7,000 for visiting another country.

Darryl Lorick has been an amateur photographer since serving as his unit’s photographer while deployed overseas four years ago in the USMC. He resides in Cockeysville with his wife, who is in the JHSPH Preventive Medicine Residency. He is currently a Lab Technician at Aberdeen Proving Ground.

Julie Samia Mair is an Assistant Scientist at the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health focusing on violence prevention. In addition to poetry, Ms. Mair has written short stories and two novels which she is currently trying to publish.

Laura Pacha is a 30-something doctor from, well, mostly Texas she supposes, who learned to knit around age 7. She is now caught in the vicious cycle of needing to work to afford yarn and needles, and needing to knit to relax from work.......aaacckk!

Anne M. Palaia is 27 and is a Doctoral student in the Department of International Health, Social and Behavioral Interventions. MPH, 2003, JHSPH. Undergraduate studies in Writing and Psychology.

Les Roberts has a Ph.D. in environmental engineering from Johns Hopkins and did a post-doc-torate fellowship in epidemiology at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention where he worked for 4 years. In 1994, he worked as an epidemiologist for the World Health Organiza-tion in Rwanda during their civil war. Les was Director of Health Policy at the International Rescue Committee from Dec. 2000 through March of 2003. He has taught at JHU each fall for the past nine years.

Originally from West Virginia, Andrew Shannon was a writer in a former life, before heading to medical school and the MPH program at Johns Hopkins University. Hopefully, both sides of his brain will continue to work well into the future.

43a guajiro tending the export crop in Viñalesanonymous

44 river woundlisa folda